Absolute Spider-Man

Arsenal597 · 2025-12-03T18:14:43+0000

Hey guys. So this is my first time posting on here. It was at the behest of a few friends to post here. This was a project that I started back in June due to an injury that caused me to break my wrist and be off of work for nearly two months. My friend had been writing SI fics in recent months leading up to this story, and I developed the bug from him.
Spider-Man being my favorite superhero was a logical choice, and frankly there is a lot that I can do with this with relative ease.

I know not everyone will enjoy this, but this is really me and my thoughts as this unfold. So my personality, humor, and everything will be on display.

I do not claim to be out here to please everyone. This is meant to be a fun project that will last for some time.

This world is meant to be a bit more dangerous and fortuitous than normal Spidey continuities. It's going to pull elements from things like TASM, obviously, a little bit of MCU, comics, Noir, Insomniac, the new Ultimate comics and Raimi to just name a few.
Yes, this is inspired a tad bit by the DC Absolute comics with how they've twisted the mythos. This is a slow-burn. I have 26 chapters posted on the other sites, and I will work to get the other 25 chapters posted today and tomorrow. I do not have any romantic pairings figured out yet, but I am letting it develop naturally so that way it doesn't come out of left field. As you know, stories take on a life of their own at times.
Hope you enjoy.

Chapter 1: Awakening

Is it normal to think about dying?

Not in a suicidal way—just… in general. Like, is it weird that death crosses my mind more often than I'd care to admit?

I get that it's not something you're supposed to dwell on, not unless something's wrong. But I'm not spiraling, and I'm not planning anything. It's more of a what if than a when.

What happens after? Does anything happen?

I know how that probably sounds, but no—I'm not religious. Parts of my family are, though… the hardcore kid. Christians who bring up the afterlife like it's a weather forecast. Heaven, hell, angels, fire, and brimstone. Wash, rinse, repeat.

Look, I'm not against believing in a higher power. If it gives someone peace, great. But when a person builds their entire personality around what comes after death, it makes you wonder if they're even paying attention to the life they're actually living.

Then, on the complete opposite end of the spectrum, you've got my alcoholic relatives—the ones who wish they would die. Not because of anything noble or dramatic, but because they've pushed everyone else away and would rather blame the world than take a long, sober look in the mirror.

I get the whole "have a beer after work to relax" thing. I do. But when it turns into double shots of Fireball and screaming threats at your spouse every night—there's gotta be a point where even you realize you're the problem. Right?

Right?

Anyway…

I think about death. More than most people, probably. Not out of fear. Just... curiosity. Is it like a video game where we respawn? Is that why we get déjà vu—leftover save files from a past life? Or is it more like falling asleep—one blink, and then nothing but the dark?

Maybe it's just the way my brain's wired. I've always had an imagination. Since the moment I could hold a pencil, I've been telling stories. It's how I deal—with stress, with life, with everything. Some people meditate. I build worlds.

And maybe, deep down, I always wondered what would happen if I suddenly woke up in one of them.

I didn't grow up like most kids. I was poor, and I was fragile. I don't remember the full name of what I had—juvenile osteo-something. All I know is that I could fall down a single step and break a foot. Not even exaggerating. I was three when it first happened. One stair. Crack. Tiny cast. Congratulations, kid—you're breakable.

So, no sports. No roughhousing. No tag, no football, no wrestling on the trampoline with cousins. I sat on the sidelines with my Game Boy while everyone else played. It's why I fell into stories—video games, books, comic books. Worlds where I could be more than what my bones would let me be.

I was the odd kid. The weird one. Hell, go ahead and call me the quiet kid. It's not like it'd be the first time. I've literally had a false gun threat made against me before. Yeah. That kind of "quiet."

When I hit a growth spurt, my body didn't mess around. Thirty pounds. Every time. Boom—new stretch marks, new t-shirts that didn't fit. I'm not ashamed of my weight, not really, but I do wish I would've moved more as a kid. Maybe it would've softened the bullying. Maybe not. Either way, I would've killed to just walk into a store and find a 2X shirt that fit right.

Do you have any idea how hard it is to find a shirt in my size most days?

I shouldn't have to go to Amazon just to find a damn shirt.

My point is—I spent most of my life leaning away from the world I was in, and burying myself in ones that weren't real. Alternate worlds. Safer worlds. And now I'm twenty-four, and most days I can barely hold a life together outside of work.

I want to write. I want to spend time with my family. But I'm always tired. Doesn't matter if I'm clocked in or on the couch—I never really feel rested.

Mom says I should take a break from my hobbies and just... relax. But it's hard to break old habits, especially the ones that helped keep you sane. Harder still when the thing that exhausts you most is the part you can't walk away from.

Case in point: the drive to work.

I'm crossing the bridge on the interstate, and on paper it all seems simple enough. Just another ten-hour shift. Just another round of dealing with an asshole manager who probably couldn't run a toaster without supervision. Compared to that, going home sounds like a vacation in Bali.

The radio's on, but nothing sounds good. 103.7's blaring country music again, and of course it's that one song. "We're all in the same boat," or whatever the hell it's called. Too chipper. Too fake. I hate every damn second of it.

I flip between 99.7 and 101.3, hoping for something—anything—but it's just more recycled noise. Olivia Rodrigo again. The fifth time this week. I swear the next teenage heartbreak anthem I hear might be the one that breaks me.

Finally, I give up and open Spotify. The second 'Afterlife' by Evanescence kicks in, my brain hits autopilot. Amy Lee's voice drowns the rest of the world out, and for a moment, the weight eases off my shoulders.

The road curves ahead. I lean into it without thinking.

And then the sun disappears—just for a split second—as something massive pulls into the lane ahead.

A semi-truck. Close. Closer than it should be.

I react—foot slamming toward the brake, hands jerking the wheel—but it's like trying to move underwater. I'm too slow. The trailer clips the front of my car, and suddenly I'm not driving anymore—I'm spinning.

The world goes sideways. Colors smear. For a heartbeat, I'm weightless, floating in a tilt-a-whirl of sound and steel.

Then everything hits.

Pain erupts across my chest as the seatbelt tightens like a fist. Tires shriek against asphalt. Metal groans and screams and folds. I'm dimly aware of my own voice, raw and rising in a sound I didn't know I could make.

The car lurches, twists—once, twice—and then something gives.

And then it stops.

I hang there, still strapped in, the world sideways. Blood's in my mouth. The radio's still playing, softly now, as if nothing just happened.

I'm dangling from my seat like a marionette with its strings half-cut.

I can't breathe.

Each inhale feels like trying to pull air through broken glass—sharp, shallow, and wrong. My chest tightens, ribs screaming with every twitch. There's a catch, deep and jagged, like something inside me shifted out of place.

Panic kicks in before logic can. I try again—short breath, sharper pain. Again—worse. My fingers scrabble at the seatbelt like that'll help, like I can claw the pressure off my chest. The strap's digging into my shoulder, holding me like a vise.

Why can't I breathe?

The windshield's a spider web of cracks. Sunlight filters through fractured beams. There's smoke—or maybe steam—rising from somewhere. It smells like metal and engine oil and something burnt.

I think I hear voices. Or maybe it's the ringing in my ears.

Everything's fuzzy. Distant. Like my brain's buffering.

I blink. Once. Twice. But the world stays sideways.

"J-Jonny…" I barely gasp out my brother's name. I promised to take him to a movie this weekend. Another superhero movie that probably wouldn't live up to the hype, but it didn't matter for him. He enjoyed those, and I liked seeing him happy.

I was supposed to take him…

But I can't hear anything now. Not the road. Not the sirens I hope are coming. There's just this high, static hum in my ears, like the world is muting itself.

My hands won't move. My legs feel like they're somewhere else.

And my eyes—God, my eyes—everything's getting dim. Like someone's pulling the curtain down, inch by inch. The light's there, but it's fading, fuzzed at the edges.

It's cold, no… I'm cold.

Shit, am—am I dying?

No, no, no… I don't want to die, not like this.

No matter how much I want to change the fact, the dark was still coming, and I don't know how to stop it.

By the time I see anyone coming down the hill toward me, it's too late. Everything went black.

I should be dead.

That's my first thought—slow and heavy, like my brain's still booting up and fumbling for a keyboard that isn't there. I should be dead. I felt it.

I shouldn't be able to hear anything… but I do.

It's not music, screeching tires, or even screaming. It's… beeping. A steady, rhythmic blip somewhere close by—not frantic or panicked. It's just there, like a metronome refusing to stop, oblivious to the fact that time should have. The sound is practically pounding in my ear drums now, sharp and mechanical—utterly maddening in its steadiness.

I can't open my eyes. It hurts to even try. My eyelids feel like they've been sewn shut with wire, stitched down tight by someone in a hurry, who didn't care about pain.

So, I focus on what I can hear for the moment. There's machinery around me, that's for sure. That damn beeping, the slow, insistent ticking of a clock, and a fluorescent hum buzzing over my head, droning like a fly trapped in a light fixture for days.

None of this makes sense.

I remember the crash. I remember the glass shattering, the seat belt tightening around my ribs like a fist made of steel. The airbag exploding with a deafening thump I felt in my teeth. I remember the sound of my own voice clawing its way out of my throat. I remember not being able to breathe, my chest caving in, my lungs folding like paper. Most of all, I remember everything going dark.

That should have been it.

But this… this isn't the end.

It doesn't feel like the end.

Wherever or whatever this is, it's not dark and certainly not quiet.

I suck in a breath, and my nose wrinkles on instinct. There's chemicals in the air, sharp and synthetic, the kind that cling to your throat. It stings, if I breathe too deep. It's like the aftermath of a deep clean on a Saturday morning.

Everything about it screams sterile, but underneath it… there's something else.

Perfume. Way too much perfume. I recognize it well enough, the kind of overpowering floral cloud that older women weaponize on a daily basis, thick and sweet enough to choke a horse. It cuts through the antiseptic air like it owns the place.

Someone's here.

I force my eyes open. It's slow. They feel crusted over, like I slept for a week with sand packed under my eyelids. The light hits hard—too sharp and white, and for a second, I regret trying to do so. As much as I'd like to close my eyes, the perfume is too much to ignore.

The ceiling, as I blink everything into focus, is covered in plain tiles and flickering fluorescent lights—just like I figured. There's a hairline crack running through the plaster like a half-finished thought, and I can't help but let out a dry, half-laugh. It kind of looks how I feel—barely holding together.

It's only now, really looking around, that it clicks.

I'm in a hospital.

So, I guess I'm not dead. If I am, then the afterlife's got budget issues.

There's movement out of the corner of my eye, just to my left. I barely turn my head and see someone sitting there. Not facing me. Just hunched over, elbows on knees, like they've been camping out for days, waiting.

It's a woman. She's staring down at a table on her lap, eyes flicking between the monitors around me.

I try to speak. My throat fights me on it. Feels like I swallowed a fistful of gravel. I get one sound out—more of a croak than a word.

That's all it takes.

She jerks up, looking at me. Her voice is softer than I expected. She's in her late thirties, maybe? I haven't been good at telling people's ages in a few years—not since twelve year olds suddenly started looking like twenty-four year olds.

"Peter?"

She sounds relieved, but my eyes narrow at the name.

Who the hell is Peter?

I don't say that. I can't. My mouth still isn't playing ball, and my head's spinning too fast to catch up.

She leans in, and I catch a better look. From the white coat, she's definitely a doctor. I've never seen her before, but she's looking at me like she knows me. Poor lady looks wiped. Dark circles, tired eyes, that kind of worry that comes from running on empty. And here I am, taking up her time. Because of course I am. Even lying in a hospital bed, half-dead, I still feel bad for being an inconvenience. I fucking hate being the center of attention.

I shouldn't cuss, it's not like I mean to. It's become a part of who I am, really. Anyway, I don't like the look she's giving me. It's too warm, too familiar.

My chest tightens. I feel my heart begin to race, and sure enough, the monitor beside me starts beeping faster, like it's snitching.

Everything feels wrong, not like a nightmare, or even a dream. It just, it just feels off.

"Wh-who are you?" I ask.

The words scrape out rough, like they had to claw their way up from the bottom of my lungs. My voice doesn't sound right. It's too light, too young.

The woman blinks. Apparently, whatever she expected me to say, it wasn't that.

Her lips part, then press into a thin line like she's choosing her next words with tweezers.

"I'm Dr. Halperin," she says finally. "You're in Queens Medical. Peter, do you remember what happened?"

I open my mouth to answer, but nothing comes out. At least, not at first.

Because yeah, I remember the crash, but Queens Medical? That doesn't make sense… I wasn't even in New York. I was just entering…

Oh god, my head.

My heart's still hammering and the monitor's ratting me out with every beat.

She leans in a little closer.

"Peter… it's okay. You're safe."

There it is again.

Peter.

I swallow hard.

Something's wrong. Really, really wrong.

"C-can I…" I start, then stop. My mouth feels like it's full of cotton and static. "Can I use the bathr—bathroom?"

The words scrape out, brittle and too high-pitched. I sound like I'm trying to sneak out of class, not figure out if I've lost my damn mind.

Dr. Halperin tilts her head, that same sad-eyed concern still plastered across her face like she's trying to keep me calm without showing just how worried she actually is.

"I'm not sure that's a good idea," she says gently. "You've been out of it for a while."

"A while?"

My voice is thinner now. My chest's tightening up like a vise, like someone's pouring cement into my lungs.

"H-how long?"

She hesitates. I catch the flick of her eyes toward the machines—maybe hoping one of them will answer for her. Then she sighs, like the truth tastes bitter in her mouth.

"Three weeks, kiddo."

Suddenly it feels like the crash all over again, unforgiving and heavy.

Three weeks?

That can't be right. That doesn't make any sense.

My head spins again. The hospital room's suddenly colder. Too cold. I glance down at the blanket over me like I just now remembered I have a body. My hands—smaller than they should be. Narrower wrists. Arms that don't feel like mine.

I flex my fingers under the sheet. Slowly. Like I'm checking if they'll obey.

They do. But they still don't look right.

She's watching me now, but not like I'm crazy—more like she's waiting. Like there's some answer I'm supposed to give her. Some reaction she already has a script for.

I don't give it.

Instead, I whisper, "You're sure?"

Her expression softens, but it's not reassuring. It's more like pity dressed in scrubs.

"I wouldn't lie to you, Peter."

I flinch… actually flinch, because there it is again.

Peter.

Whoever that is… it's not me.

I don't mean to move, it just… happens. Somewhere between the buzzing in my ears and the pressure in my chest, my legs twitch under the blanket, and then I'm shifting, swinging one over the edge of the bed like it's the most natural thing in the world—even though nothing about this feels natural.

Dr. Halperin is up in a flash, fast enough to make the chair behind her rattle against the wall.

"Peter—wait. Stop," she says, but I'm not listening. "You shouldn't—"

I don't stop. I can't. I don't even know if my legs will hold me, but I've got to try. I can't just lie here and pretend this is fine. I can't pretend like this is real. I don't know why she's calling me Peter, but I need to move.

The floor tilts the second my foot touches down, like stepping onto a boat that's already sinking. My knees buckle, and everything aches in a way that's somehow deep and shallow at the same time. It's like my muscles have forgotten everything.

She reaches for me, hands gentle but firm, trying not to spook me. Unfortunately, it's not working.

"Hey–hey," she looks into my eyes, bending down enough to block my path. "You've been in a coma. You can't just—"

"I need to," I whisper.

It comes out cracked and desperate. It hurts my throat, but I barely managed to get it out. I don't know if it was loud enough that she heard me.

But I look at her—really look—and hope that something in my face tells her what my voice can't. I'm not trying to be brave, stupid, or dramatic. I just… I can't lay down anymore.

For a second, she just holds my arm.

Then her grip softens. Her lips press into that same thin line from earlier—calculating, weighing something behind her eyes.

"Okay," she says quietly. "We'll go slow."

She doesn't believe I'm ready, and frankly… she's right.

But she's also not stopping me.

I grip the side of the bed like a lifeline, grounding myself as the room spins just enough to make my stomach threaten mutiny. It's like the whole place just took a lazy tilt to the left, and my insides weren't invited to brace for it.

But I breathe through it—short, shaky pulls of air—jaw clenched, blinking hard to clear the static fuzzing around the edges of my vision.

My hand finds hers—Dr. Halperin's—mostly for balance, partly because letting go of anything feels like a bad idea right now. She tenses under my grip, probably worried I'll eat pavement right here in front of her, but she doesn't pull away.

I reach out with my other hand and grab onto the IV cart I'm still tethered to. The whole thing wobbles under my weight with a nervous squeak. Tubes tug gently at my arm like they're not used to this kind of rebellion, like they'd rather I just laid down and behaved.

Not today. One step, that's all I need.

I just need one step to prove that I'm not dreaming, or if I am… it's the kind of dream that wakes you up when you fall.

I shift my foot forward. The tile's cold under my toes, real in a way nothing else has been since I woke up. My knees shake like they're made of wet cardboard, but I don't drop. Not yet. Not when I'm this close.

Dr. Halperin is right there, her free hand hovering near my back, ready to catch me—or drag me back if I go down.

But I don't go down.

Not yet.

Just one step.

It lands shakily, but solid enough that I'm okay with it. I want to laugh, because it feels and looks like a newborn deer who swears they've got it under control. My legs feel like they're running on thirty-second delays—every muscle answering late, like they forgot the assignment.

Dr. Halperin moves in closer. She doesn't say anything—just slips her arm under mine and takes some of the weight like this is something she's done before. Like she knows better than to argue with someone dangling off the edge of what the hell is happening. I don't thank her. I don't have the breath for it. But I don't shake her off either. Fair trade.

We shuffle forward together, her leading the way like a chaperone for someone who forgot how to human. The IV cart stutters beside me, plastic wheels clicking over the tile in nervous little bursts, like it knows it's not supposed to be part of this trip.

My head feels like it's underwater now. Every step makes the pressure tighten—like there's a balloon inflating behind my eyes and it's just itching to pop. The hallway tilts. I blink, trying to get my bearings, but the walls feel farther away than they should be.

There's pain—but it's not from moving. It's not in my ribs or my limbs or even from the tight pull of the IV. No, it's that heavy, sleep-deprived, bone-deep ache I get when everything's too loud and too bright and my brain's starting to sound like radio static in a fish tank.

Don't tell me I'm getting a migraine.

Seriously.

That's the last damn thing I need.

I grip tighter onto the IV pole, white-knuckled, like that's going to do anything but make my joints pop. I'm breathing through my teeth now—trying to make it slow, trying to not let her know just how close I am to going limp in her arms.

"You're doing okay," she murmurs. She's trying to be reassuring, but it's just one more thing for my brain to process, and right now that feels like asking a busted computer to run Photoshop on dial-up.

I don't respond. I can't.

But my feet keep moving. Somehow.

We make it to the bathroom, and she pushes the door open with her hip, guiding me inside like I'm some glass figurine she's terrified of dropping. The tiles in here are somehow colder than the hallway, and the lighting? Too damn white. Everything's buzzing, humming, pressing in like the walls are one inch too close to my shoulders.

I stop just inside, gripping the sink to keep from slumping down the wall.

"I'll be right outside," she says softly, letting go of my arm.

I nod. Maybe. Or at least I think I do.

The door clicks shut behind her, and for the first time since I woke up, I'm alone.

Sort of.

The second the door clicks shut, I grip the sink like it's gonna anchor me to something real. Cold porcelain, metal edges, the faint stink of disinfectant and too many panicked hands—it all comes rushing in, too fast and too sharp.

I finally look down at myself. Really look.

My arms are… slender. That's the only word I can think of.

My hands are thinner. Fingers a little longer than I remember.

My sight's still fuzzy, like I've got sleep stuck in the corners of my eyes. I blink a few times, hard, trying to will it away. Nothing clears.

I'm hallucinating. I have to be.

Three weeks in a hospital bed and my arms got this skinny? No. That's not how this works. That's not how any of this works.

My heart's beating faster now. I feel it, thumping hard against my ribs like it's looking for an exit. I glance down again—and that's when it really starts to hit me.

The hospital gown? It's hanging on me like it was made for someone else. Someone smaller.

There's no looseness, no sag like my body's trying to catch up from weight loss. It's just gone. The softness I carried around like a second skin? Gone. No stretch marks folding in on themselves. No leftover proof of three hundred pounds.

And my legs. Jesus. My legs are the kind of skinny I used to give Griffin shit for. Even on leg day, the man had NBA player legs—wiry and unfairly functional. There was a reason I called him 'chicken legs' after all.

My legs are shaking, but no longer from fatigue. It's panic now… pure adrenaline.

I look down at the little plastic ID bracelet, somehow knowing what I'm going to see. Despite the fact I know, my stomach still clenches like a fist as I read it:

Parker, Peter B.

Wh-what the hell?

No. No, no, no. That's not my name.

I whip my head up toward the mirror, and just like that—my heart drops out of my throat and swan dives into my stomach, taking every last ounce of oxygen with it.

It's not my face staring back.

The reflection blinking at me looks like he just stepped out of a movie trailer.

Brown hair, tousled and messy but somehow looks good. Big eyes. High cheekbones. A jawline that could make razors jealous.

Holy shit.

It's like I'm looking at Andrew Garfield's face. No, wait… it's not exactly him, it's like I'm looking at a comic book come to life

This can't be real. I'm… I'm in Spider-Man's body. Not as a cosplay, not as a fan film, or even a dream… because I know when I'm dreaming.

I am literally standing in the bathroom of a real-life hospital inside the goddamn body of Peter freaking Parker.

I grab the sink harder. My fingers dig into the ceramic like maybe I can squeeze sanity out of it if I just hold tight enough. I don't know if I'm about to pass out or scream or laugh until I puke all over the tile.

Then it creeps in, the darkness.

I blink hard. Once. Twice. I shake my head, hoping it'll help. It doesn't. The buzzing's back too—high-pitched and buried somewhere deep in my ears, like tinnitus from a concert I don't remember going to.

"C'mon," I whisper to myself, like I've got any say in the matter.

I brace my weight harder into the sink. Try to breathe. But my chest's too tight, and the room won't stop gently tilting like I'm on a ferry and the sea hates me.

I squeeze my eyes shut and open them again, willing the blur to sharpen, but the mirror's already swimming.

My knees buckle, and my hands slip. Whatever grip I had on the sink is gone. The last thing I feel is the floor rushing up to meet me.

That is the end of chapter 1! As mentioned before, I will be posting the following chapters throughout today and tomorrow.
This story is cross-posted on FF and Ao3.
If you would like to join the discord server for all of my stories (they will be posted here eventually):

Arsenalverse: https://discord.gg/dQkeJPkxdD
If you would like to support my writing and get up to 5 chapters early, you can do so here:

Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/c/Arsenal597

Next chapter should be up in about two-three hours once I get back from my physical therapy!

Nicohals J Westerberg · 2025-12-03T20:50:27+0000

Nice start! Im going to go over to A03 to read the rest lol

Arsenal597 · 2025-12-03T20:52:00+0000

Nicohals J Westerberg said:
Nice start! Im going to go over to A03 to read the rest lol

Glad you liked it. I'm working on posting more chapters here right now lol

Arsenal597 · 2025-12-03T20:54:54+0000

When I finally come to, I'm back in the hospital bed—but this time, the world isn't spinning like a roulette wheel. My head still feels like it's swimming, but at least I feel like I have a life vest on. I have to double-check the wristband again, just to make sure I'm not dreaming. It still says Peter Parker on the tag.

It wasn't a dream. I'm really in the body of my favorite superhero. I've dreamt about being Spider-Man so many nights, but I never thought I'd wake up as him one day. My thoughts are clearer, and accepting this reality feels possible now, even if I don't want to. For all the times I joked about trading lives, I was actually good with mine. Flawed? Yeah. But it was mine. I was tired, occasionally got angry, but that's just par for the course.

This… this body, being so light in comparison to the ME I'm used to, it's weird. I don't even know how to describe it other than I feel weightless. I move easier. I can actually lie on my back without my spine yelling at me. That alone is throwing me. In school, I used to hunch over my desk like a turtle, like maybe shrinking myself would make me disappear. All that did was give me a hunchback and extra back problems. I'd almost gotten that sorted out by the time I hit twenty-four, but this is surreal. No pain, no knots… nothing.

Yes, I feel stiff, but I imagine anyone would after what, a three week coma? That's what Dr…. ugh, what's her name? Halperin? That sounds right. Dr. Halperin said I was out for three weeks, or rather Peter was.

My left hand was bandaged, and based on what I knew about Spider-Man meant only one thing…

The spider bite…

It happened.

And that's the weirdest part. I've seen every version of Peter getting his powers—movies, comics, fan art, you name it.

Sometimes he passes out overnight and wakes up shredded. Sometimes it hits instantly, like flipping a switch. Sometimes it creeps in over a couple days. But a three-week coma? That's new.

And now a darker thought creeps in. One I really don't want to think about.

What if this isn't regular Spider-Man? What if this is one of the horror versions? You know the ones—Peter starts off fine, but the powers warp him. Turn him into something monstrous…

Man-Spider.

In the version of that scenario I've seen, he kills Aunt May and Uncle Ben.

Please tell me that's not where this is going.

Please.

I could spiral into the infinite ways this could go bad, since that's one of the few things I can do while confined to a hospital bed. I don't think I've had a good experience in hospitals. I doubt anyone really has, unless there was a birth involved.

Because of how fragile I was as a kid, I was in and out of the ER more than I'd care to admit. Broken foot, ankle, wrist… ankle again… it was a vicious cycle that lasted up until I was about fourteen.

I even wrinkled a bone in my wrist once. Yeah—wrinkled. The doctor looked at the x-ray and said I'd basically turned the bone into an accordion. Still not sure how that's medically possible, but given my track record, it felt on-brand.

My bones were basically Play-Doh with a grudge.

Only difference? Play-Doh doesn't scream when you move it.

On top of that, I lost my grandma to lung cancer the day before my ninth birthday.

There's nothing to make light of there.

When you watch someone fade away in real time—tubes down her throat just so she can eat, no strength left to even write you a note—it changes something in you.

She couldn't talk. She couldn't even smile near the end.

And when you're that young, you don't fully understand what's happening. But you feel it. You feel the silence. The helplessness. The way grief swallows the room before anyone even says the word.

I was a lot more aware than other kids my age. Because of the fact that I couldn't be as physically active as everyone else could, I absorbed whatever media I could get my hands on. Death came up a lot, even at that age. I'd lost a couple of dogs before, so I knew what it was like to lose someone you cared about. Despite what anyone might say, they were family.

Losing Grandma, though? It hit different.

I don't remember her voice, and that haunts me every day. There's not a day I didn't want her back. When she was there, things were easier. Not financially—we still struggled—but emotionally? She made the hard stuff feel survivable. Nothing seemed impossible when she was there.

So, maybe that's why I hate hospitals. Because the last memory I have of my grandma is her fading away in one.

Self-wallowing won't do any good, though. I need to figure things out. If I really am in some version of the Marvel Universe, then please—please—let it be one with all the players on the field.
I don't want to be stuck in one of those Sony-brand hellscapes where Spidey's the only guy in tights and the biggest threat is a goo monster with emotional issues.
Give me Avengers. Give me X-Men. Give me options.

Because if I'm in a real Marvel world…
Maybe—maybe—there's a way back.
If I'm not officially dead, maybe I can find some universe-hopping wizard, tech genius, or multiversal GPS to get me home.

Even if I can't go back… I just want to make sure everyone is okay.

It's weird to think that, for once, those impossible escapes from reality—those comic book "what ifs" and multiverse plot twists—might actually be possible.

I used to read those stories to escape the feeling of being stuck. Now I'm in one, and somehow, I still feel it. I still feel stuck, though now it's between two worlds. It honestly feels like a dream I can't wake from. I should be terrified, worried, or even possibly just a tad bit cautious about this. Right now, though… despite all the darker possibilities running through my head, I'm in a world of superheroes. Superpowers are real… and if I really am Peter Parker now, then I should be getting powers of my own.

It's wishful thinking, but if I don't try to think about the possibility of going home right now, I might just lose it.

By the time I finally come out of my thoughts, Dr. Halperin is back and knocking on the door. I feel bad for making her help me to the bathroom. I shouldn't have been up so quickly, not right after coming out of a coma.

New body or not, it was a bad decision on my part. I'm just glad I'm a lot lighter than I used to be, because I can't imagine she would have been able to help by herself if it'd been my original body.

She's got two people with her. An older man with salt and peppered hair— Uncle Ben I assume—and an older woman with faded reddish-brown hair wearing glasses— Aunt May.

That's going to be weird to get used to, but it's not like I've got much of a choice in the matter. They're Peter's relatives, or I guess they're now mine. It's going to be weird, calling them Uncle Ben and Aunt May. Weirder still, thinking of them as family.

This isn't a game. I can't just treat them like NPCs in a well-scripted cutscene. They've got lives, emotions, and a history of their own. I can't just pull up a codex and see their biographies.

They look tired. I recognize the look well enough. It's the kind of the tired where sleep doesn't help, because it's not a physical thing. They're emotionally drained.

"Hey Peter," Dr. Halperin smiles softly, stepping aside so I can properly see them. "Your aunt and uncle are here."

Uncle Ben gives a cautious smile, walking around to my right. He places a hand on my shoulder, squeezing softly. Even through the hospital gown fabric, I can feel the callous on his hand as it wraps around my shoulder. Despite the fact I know this is someone else, I can't help but see my grandfather in him. I've always seen my grandpa in Ben.

"You gave us quite the scare, Pete." Ben says, and despite the fact he's trying to put on a brave face, I can hear the shake in his voice. This terrified him…

From the moment I watched the first Spider-Man with Tobey Maguire, Uncle Ben always reminded me of my grandpa. He played a similar role to my grandpa… I didn't have my dad around. I was lucky that he was even there for my conception, but beyond that… the closest thing I had to a dad was my grandpa. For Peter, Ben acted as his father figure.

Despite the fact this wasn't my grandpa, I can't lie and say that I didn't feel a bit better with Ben here. It made it a little easier for me to pretend that everything was okay.

"I-I'm sorry," I croak out, my voice straining as I try to answer. It's an awful combination of cottonmouth and this scratchy, burning sensation that even bothers me when I try to swallow. "I didn't mean to sc-scare you."

Ben's hand gives my shoulder one more reassuring squeeze before pulling back. There's something quiet about the way he moves—like he doesn't want to risk startling me, or worse, hurting me.

It's the way you approach someone fragile.

"I know you didn't, kiddo," he says, smile softening just a little. "But when the hospital calls and says your nephew collapsed during a school trip… and he doesn't wake up for weeks, it comes with the territory."

Aunt May steps forward next. She doesn't say anything at first. She just looks at me, like she's trying to memorize every line of my face before I can disappear again. Her eyes are puffy, like she's cried more than once recently, and her lips tremble just a bit before she bites them together.

I'm so busy taking in her appearance that I didn't realize she was leaning down to hug me.

It's awkward with the wires and the IV in my hand and the god-awful stiffness in my back, but I don't move. I just let her hug me, because something about the way she was holding me—tight, but cautiously as though I might crack—hit me way harder than I expected.

Her voice is muffled in my shoulder, but I can hear her clearly.

"Don't ever do that again, Peter. Please."

I don't know what to say.

I'm not him, but… I am.

So I do the only thing I can: I hug her back.

It's a shaky gesture. Weak. But it's enough.

"I'll try," I whisper, because anything more would be a lie.

May pulls back slowly, brushing at her eyes like she's blaming the hospital lights for the tears. She forces a small laugh, and it's brittle around the edges.

"You must be starving. Dr. Halperin said you might be able to start on solid food today. Should I run and grab you something? Or do you still hate hospital pudding?"

The question catches me off-guard.

Does Peter hate hospital pudding? What if I say the wrong thing?

I stall with a smile.

"I think I could eat just about anything right now. Even the pudding."

She laughs again—genuinely this time, though still fragile.

"Well, we'll take that as a sign you're on the mend."

Ben chuckles too, but I catch that flicker in his eyes again. The worry hasn't left, and I don't think it will for a long time.

I nod, playing along like I'm just another kid trying to reassure his family. Inside though, I'm spinning. If I'm going to stay in this world… if I'm going to be Peter now… I have to do more than remember my own past.

I'm going to have to learn his.

Dr. Halperin checks her tablet again but doesn't interrupt, giving us a moment. Her eyes flick from me to May, then to Ben, like she's silently measuring something less clinical than vitals—grief levels, maybe. Shock. Emotional strain.

"Well," she finally says, "if you're up for food, we'll start slow. Pudding first, then real solids if that sits okay. I'll go put in the request."

May looks like she's about to offer to grab something from the cafeteria anyway, but Ben gently tugs at her sleeve.

"Let them do their job, hon. Why don't we take a second to breathe?"

May hesitates, then nods, pressing her lips into a tight line. She brushes her fingers through my hair—just a little—before turning toward the door with Dr. Halperin.

And just like that, it's just me and Ben.

The silence stretches for a beat. It's not uncomfortable, exactly. Just… heavy.

Ben stays by my side, but his hand drifts from my shoulder to the rail of the hospital bed. He runs his thumb along it, absentmindedly. Like he needs to keep touching something—maybe just to prove to both of us that I'm still here.

"How are you feeling?" he asks after a moment, voice low but steady.

"Tired." I reply, managing a dry chuckle that sounds more like sandpaper on cement. "I k-know I shouldn't, but…"

I trail off, because honestly? I don't even know how to finish that sentence. I shouldn't feel tired after three weeks of unconsciousness? I shouldn't still feel like a stranger in this skin? I shouldn't be here?

I bite back the spiral, because it doesn't matter. I can't say any of that out loud without sounding insane.

From Peter's perspective, he's been asleep for weeks. But from mine? It feels like I just got here. Like I blinked and the world changed—like dying hit pause on my life and someone else's hit play.

And yet… all things considered, I feel good for a dead man. Not great advertising for reincarnation, but hey—no flaming pits of torment, so I'll take that as a win.

"It's to be expected." Ben says with that calm reassurance that he seems to carry in his back pocket. Even as he offers the words, I can tell he doesn't believe them, not fully. "Lord knows hospitals'll do that to you."

He smiles, soft and crooked, like he's trying to sell the idea that all of this is just a really bad nap in a really uncomfortable bed. I almost want to believe him. It's easier than trying to unpack the existential hell I've fallen into.

I look at him—really look at him—and see the lines around his eyes, the gray creeping into his beard, the tired kindness he wears like armor. I remember this version of Uncle Ben. From movies. Comics. Stories. But this one's different, somehow. Realer. He breathes. He worries. His hand's still resting on the bed rail like it might anchor both of us.

"I'm glad you're okay," he says quietly, like he's afraid to jinx it.

And I almost tell him the truth—that I'm not okay, not really. That I don't even know what "okay" means anymore. But instead, I just nod. Because sometimes, pretending is all you've got.

And right now? I need the pretend to hold a little longer.

"Me too," I chuff lowly, unsure whether he can hear me.

When May and Dr. Halperin returned with the pudding, I learned something very quickly. I don't like hospital pudding.

In fact, I might fucking hate it.

The first spoonful hits my tongue with all the appeal of chalk paste pretending to be chocolate. There's this weird, slimy texture that clings to my mouth like it's trying to stake a claim, and the taste? Somehow both bland and bitter, like someone tried to simulate flavor using only despair and expired cocoa powder.

But I already committed. So, I swallow it.

Barely.

My face twists immediately. Eyebrows pulling together, nose scrunching like I just licked a tire iron, and my jaw sort of seizes like it's staging a protest. I look like someone just told me Jar Jar Binks is canonically a Sith Lord and I have to accept it.

May doesn't say anything at first. Just watches. Her lips twitch. Then she lets out this breathy little laugh—not quite surprised, not quite smug. Just quietly delighted.

"So… I'm taking that as a no?"

I blink at her, still trying to scrape the taste out of my mouth with nothing but willpower and betrayal.

"It tastes like sadness," I croak, reaching for the little plastic cup of water like it's holy. "Was this supposed to be chocolate? Because I think chocolate should sue."

I haven't been this disturbed since I drank that one "space" flavored Coca-Cola. I shiver at the memory, but the worst part is I can't decide which tasted worse.

May grins, trying—and failing—to look sympathetic.

"I'm sorry," she giggles, and I don't hide my displeasure.

Dr. Halperin hides a smile behind her tablet, clearly enjoying the show.

"You're not the first patient to say that. Unfortunately, the pudding stays until we're sure your stomach can handle more than IV fluids and sarcasm."

"I'd rather eat the sarcasm," I mutter, swishing the water around like it might exorcise the taste.

Ben chuckles softly from his corner.

"He hasn't lost his sense of humor."

May pats my arm gently, trying not to laugh harder.

"Alright, smartmouth. I'll see what I can do about sneaking in something edible."

"If you smuggle in a Cherry Pop-Tart, I'll love you forever," I say without hesitation.

May raises an eyebrow like she's filing that away.

"Noted."

I lean back against the pillow, relieved the taste is fading and hoping I won't end up dying again from the pudding. I swear, if this is how Peter went out, I'm gonna be pissed.

I need to get a decent meal in me. Something real. Something with weight and grease and seasoning that doesn't taste like it was filtered through medical-grade regret. I'm a fat kid at heart. Always have been. I don't care what this new body looks like—I can feel the craving in my soul. I need a good, home-cooked meal. Or hell, just a halfway decent burger. Something sloppy. Messy. Dripping with cheese and bad decisions.

Maybe it's the stress. Maybe it's the trauma. Or maybe dying really does reset your metabolism. But right now? Right now, I'd punch God in the throat for a Five Guys double with bacon and Cajun fries.

Dr. Halperin's still tapping something into her tablet, probably noting that I'm lucid enough to complain but not lucid enough to avoid swearing at pudding. "We'll keep it light for now," she says. "Maybe broth later, and if that sits okay, we'll try something more substantial tomorrow."

Broth.

Because nothing says "welcome back to life" like hot, salty water pretending it used to be food.

I close my eyes, breathing out through my nose, trying not to get cranky about it. I know they're just doing their jobs. But it's hard to focus on recovery when your taste buds are filing a class-action lawsuit.

Still, May's watching me with that warm, tired smile that moms have when they're trying to be strong for you, and Ben hasn't moved from his spot—still resting a hand on the rail like he's afraid if he lets go, I'll vanish.

So I bite back the snark. Just for a second. I give them the smile they need to see.

Even if all I'm thinking is: Please, someone get me a burger before I lose my damn mind.

"Peter, I'd like to ask you some questions." Dr. Halperin says, breaking me out of my thoughts. May and Ben take seats, their expressions changing to something more serious.

Dr. Halperin says it like she's asking if I've got a minute to talk about my car's extended warranty—calm, rehearsed, but not entirely without compassion. It's the tone doctors use when they're about to gently unpack the part where your life stopped making sense.

May straightens in her chair. Ben shifts forward, fingers lacing together between his knees. Both of them suddenly look like they're bracing for turbulence.

I nod slowly, propping myself up a little higher against the pillows, the cheap plastic rustling like it's protesting the movement.

"Shoot."

Dr. Halperin glances at her tablet, then looks me in the eye.

"What's your name?"

I almost say my real name, but catch myself at the last second. This is going to be a problem, I can already tell.

"Peter… Peter Parker."

"What's your middle name?"

"Benjamin." I say, looking at Ben.

"Good," Dr. Halperin smiles. "How old are you?"

I hadn't considered that to be honest. If it was like most of Spidey's origins, I'd probably be fourteen, fifteen at most. My voice is light enough that I'm willing to bet fourteen.

"F-fourteen?" I ask, the hesitation in my voice more apparent than I intended. Doc looks at me with a raised brow, scanning over me as though I gave the wrong answer. My heart's pounding in my ears as she glares at me. Hell, I half expect to catch on fire based off of how warm my face just became.

"Where do you live?" she continues, not telling me whether I was right or wrong. That's concerning…

"Queens."

That's easy enough to know… especially since she told me that I'm in Queens Medical.

Dr. Halperin nods, jotting something down with a practiced flick of her stylus. The tap-tap against the tablet screen feels way too official for a question that simple. My palms are sweating again.

Ben shifts beside the bed like he wants to say something, but doesn't. May's watching me like I might float away if she blinks too long.

"What's your street address?"

My heart drops into my stomach… FUCK. I don't know Peter's home address.

I freeze.

"What's your street address?" Dr. Halperin repeats, like it's just another checkbox on her clipboard and not the exact question that could blow everything up.

My brain goes into full DEFCON 1 panic. C'mon, man, THINK. You've read Spider-Man comics since you were a kid. You've seen the movies. The cartoons. The memes. Just remember—what street does Aunt May live on? Come on, come on, COME ON—

Nothing.

Blank slate.

The only address floating to the top of my brain is my old one. The one with the bad paint job and the creaky AC unit that sounded like a dying goat every summer.

My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth.

"Uh…"

I can't lie… there's no easy way out of this. Shit… here goes nothing.

"I'm sorry, I don't remember."

"Peter?" May asks, her voice swimming with worry.

"That's okay, how about this… what's your phone number?"

has officially stopped responding.

My face probably looks like someone just asked me to recite the periodic table backwards in Swahili. My brain is spinning its wheels in wet cement, and Dr. Halperin is just watching. Calm. Collected. Ruthless.

She asks again, gentle but unwavering. "Your phone number?"

May leans forward a little, her hand brushing my arm. "Sweetheart, it's okay. Just try."

I want to scream. Not because she's being pushy—she isn't. But because I can't. I have no idea what Peter Parker's phone number is. I never needed to know. What kind of nerd memorizes the fictional cell number of a comic book character?

Okay, actually, probably a few of my friends. But not me.

"I—I don't remember that either," I mutter, and this time, I don't even bother trying to fake a headache. I just look at the ceiling like it might give me divine intervention and a data plan.

Dr. Halperin nods slowly, jotting something down again. That stylus sounds louder than it should. Every tap feels like a judgment.

"Memory loss is common in trauma cases," she says calmly, but her eyes flick toward May and Ben like she's already doing mental calculus. "Especially with a head injury. We'll run some additional scans, just to be safe."

May's face crumples slightly. Not panicked—just worried. That quiet, aching sort of worry that moms wear when they're trying to be a wall but feel like a window.

Ben rubs the back of his neck. "He's been through hell, Doc. Isn't this kind of thing… normal?"

"It can be," Dr. Halperin says. She offers a smile, but it doesn't quite reach her eyes. "But the inconsistencies are something I want to keep an eye on."

My stomach twists. Inconsistencies. That's a word that sounds way too close to liar for comfort.

She rises from her seat.

"I'm going to give you a little more time to rest. We'll talk again soon."

She walks out, her steps annoyingly soft.

May doesn't say anything right away. Neither does Ben. The silence stretches long enough that I feel like I need to say something before the air pressure in the room crushes me.

"Sorry," I mumble.

May shakes her head gently. "You don't need to be sorry for being hurt."

I nod like that makes sense, but it doesn't. Because I'm not just hurt. I'm an intruder in Peter Parker's life, trying to wear it like a hand-me-down hoodie that's two sizes too tight and smells like someone else's detergent.

Ben finally speaks, voice low.

"We'll figure it out, kiddo. Just rest for now."

I let my head fall back against the pillow and try not to pass out from stress. But, there's one thing I have to know, even if it makes them more uncomfortable.

"Hey May…" I call her name, her eyes meeting mine. "Was I right? Am I fourteen?"

She laughs so softly that it's barely noticeable.

"Yes, dear… you were right."

"Sweet," I chuckle. "I'm disappointed in myself, though… fifty percent on a test?"

Ben pats my shoulder, and I close my eyes, the dark taking me once more.

The next time I come to, the light slanting through the blinds looks different—sharper, more golden. Afternoon, maybe. My body feels a little less like it's been scraped off a New York sidewalk and a little more like… well, like I might survive this mess.

That illusion dies the second Dr. Halperin walks back in with a clipboard and a face that says she's about to serve up another helping of bad news.

More scans. More questions. A memory test where I forget which president is current and answer with Obama.

Spoiler: It wasn't Obama.

By the time she wraps it up, I feel like someone's shaken my brain like a Magic 8-Ball and the only thing floating to the top is try again later.

Dr. Halperin sits down beside my bed.

"Peter… based on the results, I believe you're suffering from retrograde amnesia. That means your brain is having trouble accessing memories from before the accident."

"Great," I mutter, "so I've got Swiss cheese for a brain."

Ben, sitting nearby with a book he hasn't turned a page in for the last twenty minutes, leans forward. "How long does that kind of thing last?"

"It varies," she says gently. "Some patients regain everything within days. For others, it's a slower process. Sometimes memories return in pieces. Other times… not at all."

May's gone still again. She's got that same statue-stillness she had earlier, the one where you know she's screaming inside but refuses to let it show on her face.

Dr. Halperin offers a reassuring smile, but I can see the caution in it. She's hopeful, not confident.

"I'll monitor you closely. For now, just focus on healing. Stress won't help your memory, but rest might."

"So… until further notice, I'm just a soft-reboot Peter Parker." I try for a joke, because what else do you do when someone tells you your brain's rolled a natural one?

May finally lets out a breath, like she'd been holding it for hours.

"You're still you, sweetheart."

"Let's just focus on the bright side. You remember your name, your town, and your age. You recognize your aunt and uncle… that's a good sign."

Dr. Halperin stands.

"I'll let the two of you stay a bit longer. Just don't wear him out too much."

As she leaves, I exhale and stare up at the ceiling tiles like they might hold the answers. They don't give me any. All they provide is dust, fluorescent buzz, and the faint feeling I'm in the worst game of charades ever, and the clue is my entire life.

Still, as weird as it sounds, this retrograde amnesia thing might be the best-case scenario. Well, not for them, obviously. May looks like she's aged a decade in a day, and Ben's pretending that book's got more going on than a blank journal. For me, it works in my favor.

If they think the scrambled mess in my head is just trauma? Then every time I screw up a memory, hesitate on a name, don't know Peter's locker combo or favorite cereal—it all gets swept under the rug. I don't need to pretend to be Peter, I just have to try and remember all the versions of him I grew up with.

I mean, yeah… I am Peter, but I'm also not. I don't need to match his walk, his talk, or nerdy charm like it's some high-stakes impression contest. There's no pressure to suddenly become Midtown High's golden science boy overnight. I get to be a kid with a blank slate.

Which—if I'm being honest—is still better than waking up in a ditch, or y'know… dead.

I let my eyes drift back toward May and Ben. She's smoothing the wrinkles out of her purse strap like she's trying to iron out the chaos. Ben's watching me with this quiet, grounding calm, like he's ready to catch me if I fall again.

They're strangers, technically. But they don't look at me like one. They look at me like they'd carry the weight of the whole damn city if it meant I'd be okay.

So yeah, I might not remember Peter's street address or favorite pizza toppings. But I know this much already: I'm not alone.

The dreams don't come all at once. They drift in like fog—soft and shapeless, full of voices I should know but can't quite place. There's warmth there. Laughter. The scent of something homemade wafting through a kitchen I'll never see again. But when I wake up, it's gone. And in its place is that hollowness. That quiet ache in my chest like someone pressed a thumb into my sternum and never took it away.

I sit up slowly. The room is quiet—too quiet—and empty. May and Ben are gone, probably grabbing coffee or trying not to hover too much. Good. I need a minute to myself.

My eyes land on the bandage wrapped around my left hand. It doesn't itch, but I need to see what the damage is. If this really was from the spider bite, then I want, no, need to see it for myself. It feels like this is somehow going to make it all real for me, but even I know that's not how that works.

It's not going to be a situation where I see a blotchy red spot on my hand, and all my problems are going to get solved. It'd just be nice to know what the hell to expect. Halperin would probably chastise me for removing the bandages, but I don't really care.

Once I get it removed, I pause. I don't know what I was really expecting. Three weeks is plenty of time for a spider bite to disappear, especially a genetically altered spider that grants super powers.

There's nothing dramatic beneath it. No glowing veins or alien mandibles sprouting from my palm. It's just skin—smooth, clean, maybe a little pale, but it's skin. There's a faint, barely-there mark, like a freckle that lost its way. There's nothing else there.

"...Huh," I click my tongue.

Three weeks. That's what she said. That's plenty of time for bruises and a spider bite to vanish.

Despite that, my gut doesn't buy it.

Do I even have powers? Peter should've felt them in the first few days. The wall-crawling, the strength, the danger-sense. That was the lore. But if that's true, then where the hell does that leave me? What if I'm just… some guy in Peter's skin, minus the package deal?

And more importantly—why the hell am I worrying about that now?

I'm still in a hospital bed. Still in someone else's life. Whether or not I can stick to walls or bench-press a Buick doesn't matter if I can't even walk out the front door yet.

I sigh, shake my head, and start wrapping the hand again. This time it's looser, uneven—definitely not up to medical standards. But unless someone's grading my gauze technique, it'll do.

I lean back into the pillows, closing my eyes, trying to let go of the weight in my chest.

I didn't sleep well in my old life, and even if it's just one time, I'd like to have a good night's sleep.

It takes a few more days before they finally clear me for release, and I honestly can't tell if that's good news or just the universe flipping a coin and shrugging. You'd think I'd be excited—getting out of the hospital, moving forward, being able to see something other than bland walls and over-enthusiastic motivational posters. But instead, there's this weird pit in my stomach, like I'm stepping off the edge of something I can't see the bottom of.

The hospital bed sucked—too firm, too sterile, like it was designed to punish spines—but it gave me this illusion that I was just visiting someone else's life. That I could just wake up, watch the story unfold, and pretend I was behind the glass instead of in the frame. Just some weird little interactive drama where I could poke the glass and watch the plot thicken.

But now? Now I'm being fitted back into Peter Parker's life like a replacement bulb. Slipping into a loose gray sweatshirt that still smells faintly of a detergent I don't remember buying, followed by a polo shirt that's seen better, brighter days—probably back when mall kiosks were still selling "Keep Calm" merch unironically. May insisted I stay warm. She kept handing me layers like I was made of glass and this walk to the car was the Iditarod. I didn't argue. Partly because I'm not dumb, and partly because I think it comforts her to fuss.

And honestly… I'm not sure what's worse: pretending to be Peter, or the fact that pretending's starting to feel like less of a stretch.

I could joke. I want to joke. Say it's all just a bad dream. That I'll wake up any second and find out I'm still in my apartment, still behind on bills, still arguing with my reflection. But the truth is, I'm walking out of this hospital not as me, but as Peter Parker.

And I can't tell if that's a blessing, a curse… or just the start of something I'm not ready for.

Maybe all of the above.

There's a knock on the door as I pick up the glasses. I don't turn—I'm too busy debating whether I should put them on. Peter Parker wore glasses before the bite, and afterward, he didn't need them anymore.

Me? I wore glasses. They were mostly reading glasses to help fix an astigmatism, but I could see without them just fine. There were days I needed to wear them to stave off a migraine, but hopefully I won't need to worry about that anymore.

Still, though… this version of Peter wore glasses. So I put them on. A little costume piece to keep the illusion going. My vision doesn't warp, sharpen, or suddenly become HD. If anything, things look a bit clearer—but only in the most disappointing way possible.

Nothing about the spider has been as I expected it to be. No powers, no dramatic awakening, not even a proper scar to brood over. Just silence. Like the universe forgot to finish the job. The doctors said I was lucky, as the spider that bit me was poisonous. They're attributing the amnesia to a combination of the spider's venom and hitting my head on the way down. I was, ugh… Peter was thrown into a seizure, foaming at the mouth, the full nine yards.

I feel bad for Peter's classmates. That kind of thing sticks with you. One second a kid's sitting beside you, the next he's foaming at the mouth like something out of a horror flick. Hard to forget. Harder to explain.

"Hey, Peter… are you okay?" May's voice breaks me out of my thoughts, and I turn to face her. I had almost forgotten she was knocking on the door when I grabbed the glasses.

"Y-yeah." The smile comes easier than it should. "Where's Uncle Ben?"

Did I mention it was weird calling them Aunt May and Uncle Ben? Because it is.

"He's grabbing the car. Are you ready to go home?"

I didn't answer immediately.

Go home? That's a loaded question, May. I want to go home—to my life. The one before the car accident. But the only home I've got now? It belongs to someone else. Someone I used to look up to. Which, yeah… sounds cool on paper. So what am I even complaining about?

Who gets to say that they got a second chance at life as their favorite superhero?

So, am I ready to go home?

Fuck it.

"Yeah, I am."

Arsenal597 · 2025-12-03T20:57:53+0000

The ride from the hospital to what was apparently "home" held my attention more than you'd expect.

Before the accident—before all this—I'd only ever been to two states. Never made it to New York. Never saw the skyline in person or felt the weight of the city pressing in from every direction. My life wasn't tragic or anything, but let's be real: growing up broke meant vacations were never part of the plan. We lived comfortably enough to survive—not explore.

Now here I was, riding through Queens like a tourist trapped in someone else's skin.

May was talking. I caught the cadence of her voice more than the words—soft, warm, the kind of tone people use when they're trying to make someone feel safe. I think she said something about picking up soup, or maybe stopping by the pharmacy. Possibly both. I wasn't really listening.

It was hard to focus on anything but the city outside the window. Brick buildings, tangled fire escapes, rows of parked cars lined up like metallic dominoes. I'd seen Queens before—in movies, in games—but this was different. This was real. And it was my hometown now, apparently.

Whether I wanted it or not.

"You alright, Pete? You're awfully quiet back there," Ben called out, his voice cutting through the silence. It jolted me a little—like being pulled up from underwater. It's a sensation I'm unfortunately starting to get used to.

Getting used to responding to that name is going to be difficult.

"Hmm?" I blinked, dragging my eyes away from a row of corner shops we'd just passed. For a second, I wasn't even sure I'd heard him right.

May glanced over her shoulder with a warmth I wasn't sure I deserved.

"You're quiet, dear."

"Yeah—sorry. Just… tired," I said, defaulting to the universal excuse for emotional weirdness. It came out easy enough. And it wasn't exactly a lie, either.

Ben gave a small nod in the rearview mirror, eyes flicking back to the road.

"That's fair. You've certainly earned the right to be."

That was one way to put it. You've earned the right to be tired by nearly dying, Pete.

Yeah. Calling myself that still feels weird. The name buzzed through my nerves like static—familiar, but wrong. It's hard to describe, other than this: the name fits like a jacket left behind on a hook—your size, maybe even your color, but someone else wore it first. Someone who had a life. Friends. Memories. A future… and now it was mine.

I think Ben noticed how stiff I'd gone, because after a pause, he cleared his throat gently and said, "We'll be home shortly. Then you can get some rest in your own bed."

Your own bed.

Right. That somehow made it weirder.

From the little interaction I'd had so far with Ben, May, and even Dr. Halperin, one thing was already crystal clear:

Peter still had the Parker luck.

The kind that wasn't just bad—it was cosmic. Stubborn. The universe-on-hard-mode kind of luck.

He'd been in and out of hospitals more times than anyone could probably count. Scrapes, broken bones, sickness—maybe worse. I didn't have the full picture, but it didn't take much to start connecting dots. The way May's voice had trembled just a bit when she mentioned rest. The way Ben kept glancing at me like he was checking to make sure I was still breathing.

And then there was Dr. Halperin—Peter's family doctor, apparently. That explained the familiarity in her voice, the concern that felt a little too practiced. Not the kind of worry you give a stranger.

No. That was the kind of worry that only came from watching a kid get hurt too often.

What concerned me most was the conversation I'd accidentally eavesdropped on between Ben and May.

Even in a different body, my uncanny ability to overhear stuff I was never supposed to hear had apparently made the jump with me. Which is hilarious, considering half the time if I'm trying to pay attention, I can't tell what the hell people are saying.

But that night in the hospital, their voices carried. Quiet, but clear. May had mentioned an illness Peter had when he was younger—something serious enough that it still haunted her. And now, she was worried the coma might be connected to it.

That's the part that's been gnawing at me.

Dr. Halperin brought up the spider's venom as a possible factor in my amnesia, (how the hell they came up with that, I don't know, but I'm not complaining) but they keep talking like it hadn't happened.

I hate being treated like I'm not in the room, and it's worse now that I'm in Peter's shoes, because I feel like a spectator. I sigh under my breath, looking back to the street. I need to relax some.

Ben and May are just worried about their nephew, and I'm playing catch up. Right now, I just need to get my bearings and settle in until I can figure out what the hell is going on. I do have a plan, but it's not as ambitious as some of my friends would be. Some would be planning on attaining godhood, but that's not me.

No, I'm going for a simpler route to start things off.

Step One: I need to learn more about Peter.

If I'm taking over his life, I need to know more about him. Ben thinks I'm going to get rest when I go in my room, but I'm going to be digging into Peter's… my past.

Step Two: Figure out who Peter's friend group is.

From the versions of Peter Parker I am familiar with, I'm looking at about four to five names being on the list: Harry Osborn, Mary Jane Watson, Gwen Stacy, Ned Leeds, and Flash Thompson. Flash is generally more frenemy than friend, especially in high school, but I'm not removing the possibility of this world playing out different

Step Three: Figure out what kind of Marvel universe I'm in.

That's going to tell me how bad things could potentially get. Is this a grounded one, or do the Celestials show up on Tuesdays? The stakes depend entirely on what kind of cosmic circus I've landed in.

Step Four—arguably the most important if I want to survive whatever's coming: I need to figure out how to make web shooters.

I'm willing to bet I don't have organic webbing in the cards, so if I do start developing powers, I'll need gear. That means I need to figure out the web fluid formula and create the web shooters from scratch.

Peter might be a science nerd, but I'm not. I wasn't a great student, so unless I'm lucky enough to inherit his brains, I've got some catching up to do. Thankfully, when it's important and something that catches my attention, I'm a quick learner.

And let's be honest: figuring out how to swing between buildings like a human bungee cord? Yeah. That's got my full attention.

The car slowed as we turned off the main road, slipping into a quiet, tree-lined neighborhood that looked like it hadn't changed since the seventies—maybe even earlier. Every house had its own flavor of wear and tear, like they were aging gracefully into the background of someone else's story.

And then we pulled up to the house.

It was a two-story place with faded yellow siding and white trim that had long since surrendered to a kind of soft gray grime. The front porch sagged ever so slightly at the left corner, like it had a bum knee, and the roof tiles looked like they'd seen one too many Northeastern winters. But the big bay window out front still had a charm to it, framed with old lace curtains that swayed gently in the breeze coming off the street.

It looked… lived-in. The kind of house that felt real. No pre-fab cookie-cutter suburbia facade.

The front yard was modest but kept—patchy grass that had clearly been fought for and won, a narrow path of cracked concrete leading up to the steps. A weather-worn bike leaned against the porch railing, rust nipping at the frame. A wind chime made from old silverware clinked quietly near the screen door, dancing lazily in the breeze. For some reason, that detail stuck with me. It felt like something May made.

It wasn't the kind of house you'd stop to admire. But looking at it from the backseat, heart still weirdly rattling in my chest, it felt like a place someone could heal in.

"Home sweet home," Ben said as he put the car in park, the engine ticking gently as it cooled.

May turned back to me, offering a soft smile that didn't quite reach her eyes—but not for lack of trying.

"You remember it, Peter?" she asked carefully, like the answer might either make her day or break her heart.

I swallowed, glancing back at the house.

Lie or truth?

"…It looks familiar," I said, and technically that wasn't false. I'd seen versions of it in comics, movies—hell, I knew what this was supposed to be. But standing here, seeing it with a real sky above and the scent of cut grass in the air?

That was new.

May's smile softened, and Ben opened his door with a grunt. The moment shattered as the cool air outside rushed in, and I climbed out onto the cement.

I'm looking up at the house a bit too long when Ben places a hand on my shoulder, smiling brightly.

"Come on, slugger. I bet you're hungry."

Right on cue, my stomach let out a low, gurgling betrayal that echoed just enough in the quiet street to be embarrassing.

"…Traitor," I muttered under my breath.

It's only now that I realize… I still haven't gotten that damn burger I wanted. May, ever the MVP, had managed to sneak me a Pop-Tart in her purse—bless her—but that was more emotional support than nutritional sustenance.

Ben chuckled at the sound and gave my shoulder a squeeze.

"We've got leftovers inside, or I can whip something up. Nothing fancy, but better than hospital food."

He started up the walkway, and I followed, my legs suddenly aware of just how not okay today had been. My joints ached like I'd run a marathon, and everything inside me felt like it was running on fumes and adrenaline. The worst part of all of this was that I hadn't done much today beyond getting discharged.

Still... stepping up toward that weathered porch made something click. The creak of the boards underfoot, the way the house seemed to exhale in the breeze—it grounded me. Like a glitch in the simulation finally corrected itself. For the first time since I woke up as Peter, I felt like myself again.

"Can you cook a couple burgers?" I asked, my voice scratchy but hopeful.

Ben looked over his shoulder with an easy grin.

"I'll start the grill."

The front door shut behind us with a soft click, and I caught the low rustle of Ben slipping off his jacket. He tossed it casually over the back of a kitchen chair like it belonged there. The air inside was warm, with a coziness that you couldn't fake with scented candles and throw pillows. It smelled faintly like lemon cleaner and something sweet from earlier—maybe the remnants of a pie May had made, or cookies from a neighbor. I didn't know. Either way it was nice.

May's hand gently touched my elbow.

"Let's get you upstairs, sweetheart."

I nod, but I'm barely paying attention again. My eyes were already drifting around the space as she started to lead me toward the stairs.

The living room was sunlit and soft, the furniture worn but in good condition. There was a quilt tossed over the arm of the couch, and an old lamp beside it with a crack in the base that someone had carefully glued back together.

Then there were the photos that caught my attention.

They were everywhere. Lining the hallway, clustered on the wall of the staircase—each one, a snapshot of a life I was supposed to remember.

One frame caught my attention—a young Peter, probably five or six, cheeks puffed out as he blew into a birthday cake, frosting smeared at the corner of his mouth. Ben was leaned in over his shoulder in the background, caught mid-laugh, eyes crinkled with joy. His hair was darker, lacking any sign of gray then.

Next to it, a picture of Peter riding a bicycle, arms wobbling, teeth clenched in determination. The background was slightly blurred, but I could make out May cheering from the porch. He must've just learned to ride. I felt something hitch in my chest as I remembered my first time on a bike. I remember falling, skinning my knee, and crying like a baby. I was lucky I didn't break a bone with how fragile I was back then. I think that was one of the reasons I never actually learned to ride a bike, and my lack of a center of balance. The picture though, felt like it could have actually been my first time riding… in that regard, Peter was luckier than me.

I glanced toward the kitchen, where Ben was rustling through a drawer, probably looking for a long lighter to fire up the grill.

May was already halfway up the stairs, motioning for me to follow.

"Come on, honey. I want to make sure your room's just the way you remember."

As I followed, more pictures met me on the way up. A younger May and Ben stood together on a bridge in one—arms looped around each other, faces glowing with the kind of love you don't see much anymore. I paused for a moment in front of it, taking it in. I hoped someday I could have something like that. It reminded me of the photo of my grandparents when they went to New York one summer. They'd stopped in front of a waterfall and took a photo. It was the one I got etched onto a necklace. Always and forever…

Ben and May reminded me of them so much that it physically hurt.

Further up, a larger frame hung above the landing. It was a family portrait—Peter, May, and Ben all standing together in matching sweaters, the kind people wear just for the photo and regret immediately afterward. Peter was maybe ten or eleven, skinny with a big smile. He looked… happy.

The one thing I notice more than anything else is what wasn't on the walls. There were no photos of Richard and Mary Parker. No baby photos with them. No framed vacations or goofy Christmas cards. That was the running theme in Peter's life across every version I knew: the people who brought him into the world were never the ones who raised him.

I suppose I know what that feels like, after all. I didn't know my father until I was eleven, and even then, he was a stranger. That's part of the reason I stand by the belief that family isn't just whose blood runs in your veins, it's the ones who are willing to stand with you when nobody else would.

Ben and May were there when it mattered. They were there when Peter cried himself to sleep at five years old, confused about why his parents weren't coming back. It hits me as I reach the door to Peter's room. Why do I know Peter was only five when they left? I shouldn't know that.

Not unless I was there, but I wasn't.

So why do I remember it like I was there?

I can feel the weight of the silence in that bedroom. The way the nightlight cast soft shadows on the ceiling. The muffled sobs he tried to bury in his pillow, too young to understand why the world was falling apart.

I remember the pajama pants with dinosaurs on them. The way he hugged that worn-out teddy bear, missing half an ear. The way May's hand smoothed over his hair, slow and calming. The way Ben stood in the doorway, helpless, one hand clutching the frame like it was the only thing keeping him from falling in, too.

I shouldn't remember any of that.

That scares the hell out of me.

It's not just empathy. It's not imagination or educated guesses… it's an actual piece of Peter's life.

As May opened the door for me, I stepped into Peter's room like I was crossing a line I wasn't sure I had the right to cross. Not because it was off-limits—May had waved me in without hesitation—but because this space felt private in a way that made me instinctively tread lighter.

It was small. That was the first thing I noticed. Not cramped, but definitely modest. A single window faced the street, half-covered by blinds tilted just enough to let in the overcast morning light.

A desk sat under it, cluttered with notebooks and paperbacks and a mess of pens—some with caps, some chewed down at the ends. A laptop rested in the middle, lid closed, the corners dinged up from years of use. There were a few stickers on the casing, most of them curling at the edges: NASA, a faded Mets logo, a couple of scuffed science puns only a high schooler would think were clever.

The bed was unmade, in the way that only a teenager's bed can be—blanket half-pulled up, pillow pushed against the wall like it had been used to prop up a back during a long night of reading or scrolling or thinking too hard. The sheets were plain—pale blue and softened by time, with a frayed edge visible near the foot. No cartoon characters, no brand names. Just fabric that looked like it had been through a lot of nights both good and bad.

A tall, leaning bookshelf took up the opposite wall, stuffed tight with paperbacks that ran the gamut from science fiction to nonfiction to the occasional weathered classic. A copy of Fahrenheit 451 had clearly been read more than once—its spine was warped and its corners curled like old toast. Right beside it, The Martian leaned on a thick high school chemistry textbook, bookmarked with a train ticket. On the bottom shelf, a stack of yellowing National Geographics towered over a binder full of loose-leaf notes, corners sticking out at odd angles.

Above the shelf, taped with peeling Scotch tape, were a few small drawings—nothing polished, just scraps of printer paper with sketches in graphite and pen. A rocketship, messy and a little lopsided. A doodle of the New York skyline with tiny stick figures and arrows labeled things like "bagel cart" and "rush hour."

The closet door was cracked open, and inside I spotted a few stacked shoeboxes, one labeled School Stuff in Sharpie, another Wires & Junk, and one with just a smiley face drawn on the lid. A pair of beat-up Converse sat askew next to them—one untied, one without a lace. Nearby, a dark green hoodie was slumped over a rolling chair, the fabric bunched and sleeves tangled like it had been shrugged off mid-thought.

There weren't many decorations. Nothing that looked like it was meant for show. No trophies, no ribbons, no posters of bands or celebrities or sports stars. No selfies taped to mirrors. No lights strung up to make it aesthetic.

It felt like my room, believe it or not. Minus the comic and anime posters I had littered around my room, the photos of my cousins, me and my mom, my childhood dog that I lost when I was seven or eight, and the collection of funko pops I'd bought over the course of four years.

On the nightstand, a small alarm clock blinked the wrong time. A copy of Of Mice and Men rested beneath it, dog-eared halfway through. Beside that, a photo frame faced the bed. It held an image of Peter with Ben and May—Peter still young, maybe eight, grinning with a missing front tooth while Ben stood behind him with one hand on his shoulder and the other holding up two ice cream cones. May leaned in from the side, her hair windblown, her eyes half-closed from laughing. It wasn't a posed photo. Someone had snapped it while they were in motion, and that made it better somehow.

I wondered who took the photo, but I figured it wasn't important.

I looked around again, slower this time.

There were things here that told you who Peter was, like the way the books had been read and re-read. The frayed sleeves of the hoodie. The crooked stack of school notebooks with bent covers. It scared me how quickly I wanted this to feel like mine. Like maybe if I stayed quiet long enough, the room would forget Peter and just become mine instead. A few tweaks to make this place my own, but overall… I liked it here.

May had been standing there in the doorway for a minute, watching me intently as I examined everything. By the time I turned around, I could tell she knew I didn't remember the room and its contents. I gave her a soft smile, barely enough to curl the corners of my lips. I wasn't sure what to say.

"Dr. Halperin said it might take a while for everything to start coming back…" She said it softly, like someone whispering to a ghost they weren't sure was still listening.

"May…" I call her name softly. She raises her eyes to meet mine, and for a brief moment, I can't help but hesitate. I want to ask a question, but I'm not sure how to ask it without making her feel worse. That memory of Peter reeling from his parents leaving… it's itching at the back of my head. "Are my parents alive?"

She doesn't answer right away. The silence stretches—thick, uncomfortable. Like we're both waiting for the same elevator that just refuses to show up. May's eyes flicked to a photo on the dresser—Peter on Ben's shoulders at Coney Island, cotton candy in hand, wind in his hair. She didn't cry, but her throat bobbed once like she was swallowing a wave. Her gaze drops to the floor, and I can see her thumb rubbing at her palm, slow and nervous.

"They…" She finally replied, her voice uneven. "They died. A long time ago. Plane crash, down in South America. Your dad was on assignment for Oscorp. Your mom went with him."

She says it gently, like she's trying not to crush something fragile.

And here's the weird part—I feel something. Not like my grief. Not the grief of the guy who died in a Cadillac a few days ago. This is something else–like a ripple in the back of my skull. A sensation that shouldn't be mine, but clings anyway. A boy reeling from abandonment. A door closing. A pair of silhouettes walking away and never coming back. It's not a memory I own… but it still stings like one.

"I don't remember them," I say before I can stop myself. It's true. I mean, I remember that feeling—Peter's—but not their faces. Not their voices. Not the way they laughed or fought or how it felt to be their kid.

May's eyes soften like she gets it. Like she's seen that fog in someone else before.

"They loved you. I want you to know that." Her voice wavers, but she powers through. "They were good people. Brilliant. Brave. They would've been so proud."

I nod, but it feels like I'm nodding for someone else. I feel like a trespasser at a funeral, mourning ghosts I never got to meet.

"Thanks," I smile. "Can you let me know when the food's ready? I want to get into something a little more comfortable."

May hesitated at the doorway, eyes flicking once more around the room before settling back on me. Whatever she saw on my face—grief, confusion, that aching loss that wasn't mine but lived in me now—she didn't try to explain it away. She just gave a small, gentle nod and stepped back.

"I'll call you when it's ready," she said. "Take your time, sweetheart."

The door clicked shut behind her, and I was alone.

For the first time since waking up in that hospital bed, I didn't feel like someone was watching. No nurse with a clipboard. No kind-eyed doctor prodding gently at the edges of my identity. No Ben, trying to act casual but clearly watching me like a hawk for signs of recognition. No May, tiptoeing around my confusion like she might scare it into hiding.

Just me…

I walked over to the desk and slipped off the glasses. The world didn't blur so much as soften—like the lens I'd been looking through had vanished, leaving everything just slightly less sharp, less clinical. I set the glasses down carefully beside the laptop, next to a pen with its cap long gone and a scrawled sticky note that read Chem Quiz Thursday — ugh.

Then I peeled off the clothes.

They felt like someone else's skin—too stiff, too clean, like a costume for a role I hadn't auditioned for. That's something I'd need to change too, if I could get the money to do so. Peter's clothes were never fancy. A lot of what he had were hand-me-downs and Good Will purchases.

I don't mind seeing Peter wear geeky outfits, as long as it's actually him wearing them. It's not my personal taste. The moment I get a chance, I'm going to get something more personalized. Nothing 'dark and edgy' by any means, but I do like darker clothing.

I dropped them into a small hamper tucked between the closet and the desk, then turned to the wardrobe.

The doors creaked as I opened them. I smile as my point is proven more by its contents. Inside was a modest row of clothes: T-shirts in every shade of faded; button-downs for school presentations, probably; a couple of hoodies worn thin at the cuffs. Pants, mostly jeans, some with knees blown out.

I dug around a little until I found a pair of sweatpants—dark gray, soft to the touch, drawstring a bit frayed at the end. I pulled them on and found a T-shirt to go with it—a heather blue one with a slightly stretched collar and the word "PHYSICS" printed in cracked white lettering across the chest. It was a little loose, like Peter had either outgrown it or liked the oversized feel. Either way, it draped over my frame with a weird comfort I didn't expect.

Though, I would have opted for a tank top.

Once I shut the door and turned around, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror above the dresser.

It was Peter, of course. His face. His angles. His messy hair that needed a cut but somehow made sense the way it was. But without the glasses, in the casual clothes, barefoot on the wooden floor… he looked more like a blank slate.

A pause in the story. A kid caught mid-sentence.

I didn't look like I belonged in a hospital bed anymore. I looked like someone that was home from school early, maybe. Someone who should be finishing an essay or scrolling through a phone.

I stepped away from the mirror and wandered to the bookshelf again. Ran my fingers across the dog-eared spines. The Fahrenheit 451 paperback leaned against its neighbor like it needed the support, and I couldn't help but mutter under my breath, "We burn books, then ask why the world is dark."

Peter had highlighted that line. I don't know how I know that. I just… do.

My hand hovered over the train ticket stuck in The Martian. I traced the edge without pulling it out. For a second, I wanted to open it, to flip through the pages and see where Peter had stopped, what notes he might've scribbled in the margins. But I held back. It felt too intimate. Like reading someone's diary.

I moved back to the bed and sat down. The mattress gave beneath me with a soft sigh, springs adjusting to a familiar weight they didn't realize wasn't here anymore.

I leaned back until my spine met the mattress in full, legs still hanging off the edge. And that was the weird part. It didn't hurt. No strain across my lower back, no pressure point between my shoulders, no fidgeting to find the right angle just to breathe easy.

It should've felt like a luxury, but mostly it just felt…off. Comfortable in a way my old body never was, and that comfort carried a kind of grief in it. Like the ache I didn't have anymore was still echoing in my memory, waiting to remind me who I wasn't.

But I could get used to this. The thought came quieter than expected, like it didn't want to draw too much attention to itself.

I used to carry myself like a truck in a narrow lane, always a little too much for the space I was in. Beds creaked, plastic chairs tested their limits, and my spine was a daily complaint after a long shift. Now, though? I could lie flat and breathe easily. The springs beneath me didn't groan… they adapted to my frame.

Yeah, not bad at all.

"Peter!" came May's voice from downstairs. "Food's ready."

"Be down in a second!" I called back, climbing to my feet. I could already smell the burgers, and all I could think was… finally.

I grabbed my glasses and was out the door a few seconds later.

That evening, I sat cross-legged on Peter's bedroom floor, back propped against the foot of the bed, laptop perched on the comforter beside me. The screen glowed dim in the low light, its fan humming softly, the only real sound in the room apart from the faint traffic buzz outside the window.

The folders were…dense. "School Projects," "Ideas," "Blueprints," "Chem Notes," "Photography," "Personal," "Scrap." Each one packed with subfolders nested like Russian dolls. I picked one at random—"Photography"—and opened a folder labeled "People."

What I found wasn't filtered or curated. There weren't any posed Instagram shots or group photos angled to suggest a more exciting life. These were raw. Street-level, almost. Black-and-white candids of students on school steps. A girl with a skateboard laughing with her head thrown back. A guy crouched by his locker, tying his shoes. Half of them probably didn't even know they'd been captured.

It took me about three minutes of skimming through the photos to realize there weren't a lot of selfies. Hardly any photos of Peter himself, except ones taken by accident—his reflection in a window, a mirrored surface catching him while he was adjusting the shot. A ghost boy with soft eyes and a tired hoodie, always slightly out of frame.

I didn't realize how lonely it looked until I started flipping faster, searching for someone else—anyone else—who appeared more than once. Familiar faces. Patterns.

And then I saw him. Curled up in a booth at a greasy diner, head tilted back mid-laugh, Peter across from him. A tall kid, well-dressed. Too polished to be from Midtown's usual crowd. I clicked deeper.

Harry.

There wasn't a last name on the files, but it didn't take much to connect the dots. It was Harry Osborn.

Rooftop hangouts with textbooks splayed open and soda cans kicked to the side. A blurry photo of the two of them on a subway platform, Peter catching Harry mid-ramble with an expression that screamed "are-you-seriously-taking-a-picture-right-now?" The kind of look that only happens between best friends.

And then Halloween. Harry in a black cape and cheap plastic fangs, clearly phoning it in. And Peter next to him in a…

Oh my god, he didn't!

He was wearing a white wig, oversized lab coat, and taped-on mustache that looked like it'd been cut out of notebook paper. Albert Einstein. Of course it was. That's fantastically on brand for Pete.

I actually laughed. A real, sudden, sharp laugh.

And then it caught in my throat.

Because even in the goofy getup, Peter didn't take up much space. He stood slightly off-center in the shot, like he wasn't sure he was supposed to be in it at all. The smile on his face was real, yeah—but shy. Like joy that had to ask for permission to exist.

God, he was trying so hard.

The kind of kid who put real effort into a joke costume and crossed his fingers someone would notice. The kind of kid who took candids of his best friend laughing, but almost never showed up in the frame himself.

I know that feeling.

Better than I'd like to admit.

I used to be the tagalong. The friend with the busted wallet, too broke to cover even my own slice of pizza. My friends never made me feel bad about it—at least not out loud. They'd just pay, shrug it off, tell me they were happy I came. That it didn't matter. But it mattered to me. Every time.

Because when you grow up worrying you take up too much space, even kindness can feel like pity.

Looking at Peter… I wondered how often he felt like that. How often he let himself be invited, but never believed he was wanted.

And how many times he left his own name out of the frame, because maybe he thought the photo was better that way.

I cleared my throat, breaking the silence that had settled over me like a thin fog. My fingers drifted back to the photos, flipping through them with the slow, careful rhythm of someone trying not to disturb a sleeping secret. Harry's face began to fade—less and less in each snapshot, until it was like he was slowly vanishing from the story altogether.

I paused.

Was Harry no longer in Pete's life? Did he move? Did they have a falling out? I could go ask Ben or May, but they're probably lying down now and I don't want to disturb them.

I blinked, and something new caught my eye. Where Harry had faded out, someone else had started to appear. In photo after photo, he was there—always with Peter. But not in the background. He was pulling Peter into the shot, literally. Arm wrapped around his neck in that big-brother way, tugging him in with a grin like nah, man, you're part of this too.

He wore a classic Midtown letterman jacket—the lime green body and white sleeves, a big "M" stitched proudly on the chest. His hair was shaved close on the sides with a sharp fade, and the top was kept longer, slicked back just enough to look effortlessly cool without trying too hard. The guy looked too friendly to be Flash Thompson.

Who is this guy?

I squinted at the name tag clipped to one folder.

Lonnie Lincoln.

Wait—Lonnie? THE Lonnie Lincoln?

As in… Lonnie Lincoln, the guy who grows up to become Tombstone? The ashen-skinned enforcer with a voice like crushed gravel and a rap sheet that reads like a Bond villain's resume?

My eyes darted back to the photos. He didn't look like a future crime boss. Not here. No dead-eyed stare. No pale skin like weathered stone. He just looked like… a dude. Big, sure. Broad shoulders. But his grin lit up the whole photo. There was kindness in it. He was laughing in most of them. And Peter—Peter was smiling back.

Not politely.

Genuinely.

Like maybe, just maybe, someone had finally refused to let him shrink.

What the hell was Peter doing hanging out with Lonnie Lincoln? Or maybe the better question was…

What kind of Lonnie Lincoln was this?

With that, I had to stop looking at the photos. I knew where my brain was going, and it wasn't helpful. Jumping straight to "future supervillain" was a fast track to making bad assumptions. People change. People aren't their worst-case scenario waiting to happen. At least, not always.

No—I needed to focus. Something more grounded. More current. If I was going to understand this world, I had to start looking at the big players. The ones who shaped New York from the top down.

First name on the list?

Easy.

Mostly because he has a nasty habit of becoming a massive problem for Peter Parker, whenever Peter finally becomes Spider-Man.

Wilson Fisk.

I typed the name into the search bar, hit enter.

The results made my chest tighten.

He wasn't just active.

He was the Mayor.

The actual Mayor of New York.

Fuck me.

No, like seriously... why the fuck is he the Mayor? I stared at the search results, hoping I'd misread something.

Nope.

There it was, bold as sin and twice as smug:

WILSON FISK SWORN IN FOR SECOND TERM AS MAYOR.

FISK ADMINISTRATION ANNOUNCES NEW CRIME INITIATIVE.

COMMUNITY LEADERS PRAISE FISK'S "CLEAN STREETS" CAMPAIGN.

Clean streets?

Are you kidding me?

Don't tell me he's playing the dutiful New Yorker now—shaking hands at ribbon cuttings, posing next to playground renovations, flashing that thousand-pound smile while reporters eat out of his palm. All while he's still gutting the city from the inside like a damn butcher in a $10,000 suit.

Okay, I just chastised myself over assuming Lonnie would be a villain later in life, but this is Wilson Fisk! I don't think he's capable of being a good guy in any continuity. This isn't just bad, this is a nightmare waiting to unfold.

Because if he's still Kingpin behind the scenes—and let's be honest, of course he is—then that means he's got the whole machine at his fingertips. Cops, courts, contracts, media… all of it. Everything Peter might one day have to fight against? This guy already owns it. Wrapped up in a nice, legally-sanctioned bow.

Okay, okay, okay… calm down.

One thing at a time. Just get your bearings, remember?

You're not swinging through Manhattan rooftops yet. You don't have spider-sense, webs, or a tragic backstory involving someone whispering "great power" on their deathbed.

No need to assume you're going to be fist-fighting a sumo wrestler's natural predator.

Deep breath.

So. Wilson Fisk is the Mayor. Not great. But technically not my problem... yet.

Let's move down the list.

Pete's arch-nemesis.

Norman Osborn.

I typed the name in and winced, like the words might bite me.

And what do you know? They kinda did.

Norman Osborn: billionaire industrialist, CEO of Oscorp—former CEO, apparently. The headline reads:

OSBORN STEPS BACK FROM OSCORP AMID ILLNESS – SMYTHE TO SERVE AS COMPANY SPOKESPERSON

My stomach dipped.

Norman was sick. That… actually tracked. This was more Amazing Spider-Man than Raimi-verse, and in this timeline, Norman's not blowing up scientists or threatening Thanksgiving dinner—he's busy dying. Slowly. Probably painfully. Which should've made me feel a little sympathy.

Instead, all it did was set off alarms in the back of my brain. Something about this felt like the first note of a much darker song.

Because if Norman's out, that means someone else is holding the leash at Oscorp.

And that someone is Allistaire Smythe.

The name alone gave me goosebumps. I clicked deeper. Photos. Press conferences. Him, standing stiff at a podium in that weirdly symmetrical suit, like he was generated by an AI trained exclusively on images of "respectable corporate villains."

Oscorp to Lead Tech Initiative in Collaboration with Mayor Fisk's Clean City Plan.

And there it was. My two least favorite puzzle pieces, shaking hands.

Allistaire freaking Smythe. The man behind the Spider Slayers. In some versions, he's just a creepy robotics genius. In others, he's a sociopathic zealot with a bug up his ass about vigilantes.

I'd be fine with "creepy robotics genius," honestly. But if he builds the Slayers here, and they're anything like the ones I remember? Sleek, silent, city-patrolling arachnid death machines?

Bad application.

Especially if they want me dead.

Nope. Not loving that future.

I sat back, rubbing my face with both hands. Somewhere between the Kingpin in a mayor's sash and Spider Terminators on the skyline, my whole body had started buzzing with that quiet, rising dread, as if it was telling me 'good luck, sucker.'

But there was still one name I had to check.

Not Fisk. Not Osborn. Not the latest rogue tech billionaire building anti-hero drones in his garage.

Someone else.

The Black Cat.

Out of everyone Peter had ever crossed paths with—friend, foe, flirt—she was the one I couldn't stop thinking about. There was something about their dynamic I'd always loved. That tension. That teasing chaos. The fact that she never tiptoed around him. She didn't ask Peter Parker to be smaller. She flirted with the idea that he could be bigger.

I was a sucker for girls like Felicia, but I'm not aiming for her to be my better half or even a person to add to a harem. She pushes Peter, and I could use someone who does that.

So, I typed it: The Black Cat.

The search results were...dusty.

Not in the usual "scrubbed from the net" kind of way. More like the digital version of a forgotten case file in the back of a locked cabinet.

Most of the entries were old. Really old.

Mentions in crime blogs. Buried police reports. Whispers on conspiracy forums.

"High-end jewel theft in Tribeca. Police say it bears resemblance to the 'Black Cat' string of robberies from the late 90s…"

"Copycat burglaries dismissed by NYPD—no confirmed sightings since the Black Cat's last known heist, seventeen years ago."

"Some say he retired. Others think he vanished for good."

He?

I blinked and scrolled back. Most of the reports didn't even reference the Black Cat as a woman. One line stood out in a crime blog from 2008. The Black Cat was never caught, disappearing without a trace seventeen years ago.

Hopefully that meant Felicia wasn't active yet. Maybe she hadn't put on the suit yet. Maybe she didn't even know what she was meant to become…

I can live with that.

I could deep dive into all my potential enemies for weeks, but there's a more tantalizing, exciting concept creeping into my mind now. What about the heroes?

I mean, yeah, doomscrolling my way through a villain lineup straight out of Nightmare Starter Pack Monthly is fun—if your definition of "fun" includes quiet existential dread and a strong desire to live under your bed, but seeing a hero feels more appropriate at the moment.

And that's when a new name slipped into my brain like a song you haven't heard in years but somehow still know every word to.

Tony Stark.

I typed it slowly, like I was expecting the internet to wink back at me.

STARK INDUSTRIES STOCK HITS NEW HIGH FOLLOWING CEO'S RETURN TO U.S.

"GENIUS, BILLIONAIRE, WEAPONEER": THE UNSTOPPABLE RISE OF TONY STARK.

Okay, so—he's in the public eye. Loudly. Flamboyantly. The human equivalent of leaving caps lock on while drunk-texting the universe. But nothing—nothing—about Iron Man. Not a whisper. Not a "mysterious armored figure seen at weapons test site" or "shiny robot guy punches tank, film at eleven." Nada.

So, he's not there yet. Or he's hiding it really well. Which… doesn't feel like Tony's style.

I clicked deeper, chasing the digital paper trail through articles, interviews, and press releases. His face was everywhere—magazine covers, startup keynotes, gala events where he looked like he was born in a tux and dared the concept of sobriety to a duel. He was just… Tony. Young, rich, obnoxiously brilliant, and aggressively unbothered by anything except his own headlines.

If he'd been kidnapped recently—and the timeline kind of lined up—there was no record of it. No mention of the cave. No murmurs of shrapnel, no arc reactors glowing faintly beneath designer suits. Just more photos of him winking beside missiles the size of school buses, or field-testing drones that made DARPA look like Fisher-Price.

And man, that ego. One article—an actual profile piece in GQ—quoted him saying:

"I'm not saying I'm the smartest guy in the room. I'm just saying it's statistically improbable that I'm not."

Gross. Accurate. But gross.

Still, I couldn't help wondering… had he already built the suit? Was it in a hidden lab somewhere, collecting dust and disdain? Or was he still pretending not to care about what his weapons were doing to the world?

Because that's the thing with Tony. He's not born a hero—he builds his own salvation. With scraps. In a cave. Powered by guilt and sheer manic brilliance.

And if that hasn't happened yet, if he's still just a walking TED Talk with war profiteering on speed dial… then I'm looking at a man who might become one of the greatest heroes of our time—but hasn't even started to walk that road.

It was weird. Seeing him before the burden and sacrifice. Just a young guy with too much money, too little accountability, and no idea that one day, the world would need him.

Captain America didn't pop up with any more promising results.

Well—unless you count conspiracy threads on grainy forums with usernames like "truth4liberty1776" and profile pictures that were either bald eagles or shirtless Rambo edits. The kind of sites that argue fluoride is a mind-control agent and insist Steve Rogers was real, buried somewhere in an iceberg next to Elvis and the Ark of the Covenant.

Spoiler: no Steve.

There were some old World War II articles on the SSR, sure, and vague mentions of Project Rebirth being "decommissioned due to unethical practices," but nothing concrete. No glowing blue serum. No super-soldier program that actually worked.

Just a bunch of whispers. Some historians still argued Rogers was just propaganda, a made-up mascot stitched together from a dozen real soldiers and a thousand wartime fantasies. Even the photos were fuzzy, almost… too perfect. Like they'd been touched up a few too many times, like someone wanted him to look larger than life.

If I didn't know better, I'd say it was probably fake as well.

I close my laptop, and place it beside me. So… Captain America and Iron Man aren't active. If I had to guess, Bruce either hasn't become the Hulk or is lying low.

Norman Osborn is dying, Smythe is the face of Oscorp, Fisk is the Mayor, and Felicia isn't active. Norman's sickness and May's offhand mention of Richard at Oscorp paint a picture that feels oddly familiar—Peter's side of this mess leans way more TASM than MCU.

It gives me a few more names I should look into, but if some of these guys are criminals, looking them up might not be a wise idea.

It's getting late, and I've officially burned myself out from my 'research.' I put everything away and flop down onto the bed.

The clock's not just late—it's practically tapping its foot, calling me out for procrastinating with digital snooping. I shove everything aside and flop onto the bed with the grace of a lead balloon. The ceiling above me doesn't offer answers, just the same quiet that follows a day filled with too many questions.

Sleep's playing hard to get, but eventually, my eyes start to rebel against the glow of screens and endless scrolling. Tomorrow will bring more digging—more puzzles that refuse to stay neatly solved. But for tonight? I'll let the shadows settle and hope the chaos can wait.

Hope you enjoyed! I know it's slow, but hopefully you can see a bit of how I want to make this unfold.

A lot of SI fics just have their inserts be given the memories of their host body or their intellect. I don't particularly like that, because it doesn't feel earned. So, everything "Pete" will get in the future, he/me is going to earn it. Even if he has to work his ass off to do so.

In regards to Pete's powers, I want to explore it slightly different compared to how it normally goes. It's not that the bite didn't give him powers, but rather... there's a gestation period.

Arsenal597 · 2025-12-03T20:59:21+0000

By the time I wake up, birds are chirping outside, and sunlight is cutting through the blinds like a spotlight aimed straight at my face. I groan, roll over, and squint at the clock. Seven.

I think about going back to sleep. My brain's still wired for third shift, not high school. Being up this early feels like a mistake.

Eventually, I sit up and rub at my scalp, fingers dragging across skin that feels too smooth, too healthy. My body's not sore, which still throws me. Old habits are slow to die, and this one—this new one—doesn't feel like mine yet.

The air smells like bacon. Of course it does. And immediately, there's that tug of something half-forgotten—the comfort, the craving. I know that smell. I know how easy it is to lean into it.

But I also know where that road leads.

I can't go back to who I was before.

I didn't hate that version of me, not really. Sure, I could've eaten better. Moved more. Been a little less guarded, maybe a little kinder. But I wasn't miserable. Just… stuck.

Still, if I want to break the cycle—if I want to earn this second shot—I've got to make different choices. That starts with my body.

I need to eat better. Work out. Actually follow through this time.

Back in my old life, I'd hit the gym when I was in the right headspace. The trouble was, that headspace didn't visit often. Most days, I made excuses. Said I'd start Monday. Told myself one more cheat day wouldn't kill me.

And now here I am—new body, new life—and the smell of bacon is already whispering promises in the back of my skull.

Old habits die loud.

I head to the bathroom to get cleaned up. The tile's cold underfoot, the air thick with humidity from an earlier shower—May's, probably.

I splash water on my face, chasing away whatever sleep still clings to my eyes. The cold hits sharp, grounding me for a moment. I inhale slowly, trying to pretend it helps.

Then I look up.

And there he is.

The boy in the mirror stares back with Peter's face—almost.

It's familiar in the way a wax figure is familiar. The features are technically correct, mapped out just right. But something's off. It's like an AI took a dozen photos of Andrew Garfield, scrambled them for legal reasons, and fed them through a deepfake filter.

Uncanny. That's the word.

The hair, the bone structure, the slight curve of the mouth—it all should be right. But the longer I stare, the more it feels like I'm watching someone else wear a mask of someone I know.

Wiping my face with the hand towel, I catch it—just for a second.

My real face.

The one I left behind.

Bloodied. Bruised. The shirt torn, stained dark red. That high-vis orange vest hanging off me like melted plastic, shredded and soaked through.

It flickers in the glass like a jump scare—not loud, not sudden. Just… wrong.

And then it's gone.

But I saw it, and for one breathless moment, I feel like I'm haunting myself. Because I guess… in a way, I am.

I shake my head, placing the towel back on the rack and open the door. At the threshold, I pause.

One last look.

The mirror hasn't changed. It's still Peter staring back—head slightly tilted, expression caught somewhere between thoughtful and tired. I try to smile, just a little. Not for the reflection, but for me.

Like maybe if I fake it hard enough, Peter will smile back. Like he's saying Hey, we've got this.

It's stupid. Delusional, even. But for one small, silent second, it works. The knot in my chest eases, just a bit.

I step into the hall, shutting the bathroom door behind me.

Downstairs, the air smells like syrup and warm batter. Comfort food. The kind of smell that should be wrapped in flannel and played over a sitcom laugh track.

May's at the stove, flipping the last pancake onto a growing stack. The golden-brown tower lands on a plate in front of Ben, who's already seated at the table with a half-finished cup of coffee steaming quietly beside him.

He looks up and offers a small smile, soft around the eyes. May notices me a second later and lights up with the kind of warmth that makes you forget this is a house still weighed down by worry.

It's my first morning in the Parker household, and maybe it should feel strange—like I'm playing house in someone else's life.

But it doesn't.

Not as much as I thought it would.

There's an ease in the rhythm of it all. The clink of plates. The low hum of the radio playing something old and wordless. May wiping her hands on a towel, Ben buttering his pancakes like he's done it a thousand times.

It feels… normal.

And maybe that's the weirdest part.

"Morning, slugger." Ben greets me with a warm smile. "How'd you sleep?"

I don't answer right away. From what they know, I went to bed right after dinner—tired, recovering, still a little foggy from the coma.

What they don't know is that I spent a couple hours glued to Peter's laptop, combing through the digital breadcrumbs of his life—looking into some of Pete's most notable enemies and allies, trying to make sense of things.

Still, despite the late night mental gymnastics, I slept better than I have in… God, years. Even before the accident. No tossing. No panic dreams. Just… sleep.

"Pretty good," I say finally, sliding into the seat across from Ben. I glance toward May, then back to him. "I was kind of out of it when the doc was talking about school. Did she say when I'm going back?"

"After this weekend," May answers, setting down a plate in front of me like she's done it a hundred times before.

Her voice is light, but there's a trace of hesitation in it—like she's watching to see how I'll react. Like she's waiting for the real Peter to resurface, even in something as simple as how I handle breakfast and a Monday looming.

"Harry called," she says suddenly, earning my full attention. "He was hoping to stop by and see you now that you're home. I told him it depended on how you felt."

So, Harry was still friends with Peter then. Maybe they just didn't have the time to hang out as much as they were lately. I kind of want to see if I could ask Harry to help me out getting a new wardrobe, but the idea of asking for money has never been my forte. I like earning things myself.

As much as I wished I could lean on Peter's genius, I knew I didn't have his brain for that kind of tech wizardry. If I was going to pull off any of Peter's legendary feats—web shooters included—I'd have to put in the work and… I shudder at the thought, because God help me… I'm going to have to study.

"I'd like that," I replied. "D-did you tell him about my amnesia?"

"He's promised to take it easy around you so you're not pushed too hard."

That's a start.

I let my gaze drift to the window overlooking the street and stare at it a little too hard. Not because there's anything out there worth seeing—but because I don't know what else to do with myself. The silence from May and Ben stretches, soft but steady, and I lose track of time until the quiet scrape of ceramic on wood brings me back.

May's set a plate down in front of me. Pancakes covered in butter and syrup, with bacon and fried eggs on the side. It's practically your picture perfect meal.

"Everything alright, Peter?" she asks gently.

I nod, snapping back to the moment.

"Y-yeah, sorry. I was daydreaming."

There's a glint in her eye, but she doesn't say anything besides to eat up.

Ben takes a sip of his coffee and glances over at May, brow lifting.

"Anna called you already today?"

May doesn't look up from buttering her toast. "Yes. Is there a problem?"

Ben leans back a little, hands wrapping around his mug.

"No, it's just… it's not even eight yet. Seems like she's calling earlier every day."

"She was worried about Peter," May replies, arching a brow at him. "Wanted to see how he was doing."

"She couldn't call a couple hours later?" he mutters into his cup, like maybe the caffeine will shield him from further commentary.

I raise an eyebrow, chewing thoughtfully on a piece of bacon. Anna?

Wait—Anna Watson?

The name rings a faint bell. Aunt to Mary Jane, if I'm remembering right. I think I saw her name pop up in one of those old email threads Peter never deleted. Strict, maybe. Churchy. Definitely the kind of person who bakes things when she's worried and calls people before the sun's fully clocked in.

"Is she okay?" I ask, trying to keep my voice casual even as the bacon suddenly tastes a little more complicated.

"She's fine," May says with a small smile. "Just a worrier. She said her niece was asking about you too."

That stops me for a beat.

MJ.

Does she know Peter already? Or is it more like how it was with my grandpa—where he'd casually drop fifty names over the course of a single day, most of them strangers to me. But then one or two would stick, and somehow, without realizing it, I'd find myself asking about them like I'd known them forever.

Maybe it's something like that. Maybe MJ just knows May. Maybe she's never even met Peter, and her asking about me is more of a kindness than a connection.

Still… May didn't say her name outright. Just "her niece." That could mean I'm not supposed to know her yet. Or maybe I'm overthinking it, reading too much into a simple comment—seeing ghosts in throw pillows.

"Her niece?" I ask, and I see the twinkle in May's eyes as the words come out. Oh, she's already plotting isn't she? God, please let her just drop it. She's fourteen… fourteen. For fuck's sake I'm technically twenty-four. There's a ten year age gap even if I'm residing in a fourteen year old body.

My stomach lurches at the thought. Suddenly, the bacon doesn't taste as good as it should, and I have to put it down.

"She's a lovely girl. I think the two of you would get along." she replies sweetly. Too sweetly. I glance at Ben out of the corner of my eye. He's sipping his coffee like it's nothing, but his mouth twitches like he's trying not to laugh.

Oh boy… How much has May talked to Ben about this?

"Honey, give the kid a break…" Ben says, the corners of his mouth twitching as he sets his mug down.

"What?" May replies, all innocence, like she didn't just throw a grenade into my morning eggs. "Peter could use more friends."

Ben chuckles under his breath. "The kid's just trying to eat breakfast. He doesn't need to worry about meeting a girl before he's finished his bacon."

I sink a little lower in my seat, eyes flicking between them. This can't be a real conversation. This has to be a stress dream. A matchmaking breakfast stress dream.

"She's not—" I start, but my voice comes out thin. I clear my throat. "I'm not worried about meeting anyone. I just… I've got enough going on, y'know?"

Ben raises a brow like he's heard that exact same line before—probably something he'd said himself when he was around Peter's age.

May, meanwhile, is buttering toast with the serene patience of someone who's already picked out names for our hypothetical children.

"I mean…" I force down the last piece of bacon that's glued itself to the back of my throat. It goes down like a rock. "I can't remember anything. Meeting someone new like that probably isn't the best idea right now."

I say it as evenly as I can, but there's this tight coil just under my ribs, waiting for May to press anyway. God, please let that be the end of it. I'm barely managing my own name without sounding like I'm guessing on a pop quiz. The last thing I need is to add impressing a girl to the list.

"In my defense, dear—I never said anything about meeting her soon."

"You certainly weren't excluding the idea either," Ben retorts. "Give Peter some time to get back into the swing of things."

Heh. Back into the swing of things? That's a cosmic-level pun right there. I have to stifle the snort that nearly escapes.

"I really don't think now's the best time for me to be making friends," I say, half-hoping if I sound sheepish enough, May will take pity on me and change the subject.

May hums, unconvinced. She takes a slow bite of toast, eyes not leaving mine. I clear my throat and shift in my seat, trying not to look like I'm actively squirming.

Finally after a moment, she seemed to relent as she dabbed a napkin against her lips.

"Alright, alright. I won't push." Relief rushes in like a cool breeze. Thank God. "But I still think you two would hit it off," she adds casually.

Of course she does.

I open my mouth to protest—again—but then pivot like a quarterback bailing on a broken play.

"Speaking of people I actually remember," I say quickly, "Harry can stop by whenever. I'd like to see him."

That gets May to pause, toast halfway to her mouth. Her expression softens.

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah." I nod, grateful for the lifeline. "You said he already called, right? I'd rather catch up with someone I at least kind of remember than crash into some girl's life like I'm auditioning for a rom-com reboot."

Ben snorts.

May leans back a little, looking reassured. "Alright. I'll let him know he can come by."

"Thanks." I pick up my fork again.

Ben gives me a nod of approval, the kind that says good dodge, kid, and goes back to sipping his coffee.

And just like that, the grenade's been defused. For now.

Surprisingly, the rest of breakfast goes by pretty quick. May doesn't really say much else on the subject—thank God—and the bits of conversation I actually catch between her and Ben are about stuff way out of my depth. Something about helping Jerry down the street with his busted radiator. May wants to head over to Anna's for their weekly tea, just to catch up. Honestly, hearing that she wants to go out and spend time with someone kind of catches me off guard.

I don't know why, but I always had this image in my head of May just… staying home. Like she lived in a state of quiet domestic limbo, frozen at the kitchen table with a crossword puzzle or folding towels with some sentimental jazz humming in the background.

It's weird. I mean, I know she's active. In some versions of Peter's life, she works at F.E.A.S.T., runs food drives, organizes fundraisers. She's kind. Involved. Present. I know that.

But still, the thought crossed my mind that maybe she just… didn't do much outside of this house. And realizing that—really sitting with it—makes me feel like a complete dick. She's an actual person. With her own life, her own thoughts, her own autonomy. So why the hell did I assume she had nothing better to do than bake wheat cakes and wait for me to come home?

Maybe that's one of the bigger problems I'm facing here: not being able to separate fiction from reality. These people, for years, were just images—faces on paper, dialogue in word balloons. Characters in stories. Seeing them now, in flesh and breath and motion, it's hard to shake that reflex to treat them like pieces of a plot instead of people with histories and lives I don't control.

Trying to see them as real... it's harder than I expected.

It really does feel like a dream. Even now, as I carry my plate to the sink, rinsing it under the warm water, I still catch myself half-expecting the edges of this world to blur. But no fade to black comes. No loading screen. Just Ben finishing his coffee and May wrapping up the last of her toast, the two of them chatting softly in the background like this is the most normal morning in the world.

Being here, with them, in this kitchen… it feels surreal. Almost too gentle to be real.

Normally I'd be dodging two of my dogs begging underfoot, one pawing at my leg and the other whining like I haven't fed them in a week. The absence of that chaos—the lack of familiar weight brushing against my shin—makes everything feel hollow in places I didn't expect.

I let out a breath I didn't even realize I'd been holding.

Ben says something to May about checking the water heater before it gets too hot out, and she hums in agreement as she starts to clear the table. I mumble a quiet thank-you and slip away before I can be roped into anything.

I didn't notice it at first, but I finally realized how soft my footsteps were as I was walking up the stairs. I guess I was too focused on the pictures as I was walking in yesterday to even notice, but my feet don't cause the stairs to creak. There's no strain on the wood as I'm going up it. I suppose I shouldn't focus on the fact that I'm half the weight I used to be, but when you spend 90% of your life a certain amount of weight and you wake up the next day with only a fraction of it, it's hard not to think about it.

But here's the thing, one in my position would end up thinking about this—I don't care who you are. When you go from living one life to another, you're going to think about this shit. Body dysmorphia is a thing. Overthinking is a thing. Sadly, I fit both of those bills right now. I do over think about the littlest thing.

Does my weight fall into that factor? Yes, it does. That's something I'm going to have to work on.

Finally back in Peter's—my—room, I make a slow pass to the bookshelf. There's no real plan as I'm looking through these books. I've seen enough of these to know that they're not really to my taste. After all, I'm not a science geek like Peter was, and I don't plan to be. Sure, I'm going to have to learn some things if I'm going to do half of the stuff Peter did.

Web swinging, for example, will require me to learn how to do equations on the fly. It makes sense, swinging on a pendulum trying to avoid hitting buildings would need precision—but how the hell am I expected to do that? Why do I know that? It was something brought up in the Insomniac games. While I don't know how true that is to the experience, I might as well try to be thorough on the matter.

Though, I suppose it only matters if I have powers. I've been home now for 2 days, and I still have no sign of any powers.

I thought, maybe, it had to do with the fact that I was in the hospital not doing anything. But, I figured I would have felt something different. Maybe my senses were a little bit heightened, faster reflexes, or something… The fact is I don't feel different at all, not in the way I think I should.

Did Peter ever really feel that different from a bite? I suppose I never really thought about that. In any case, I still have to get used to all of this.

Like I said, there wasn't really a plan in my head as I'm looking at these books. There's just this vague itch to do something normal. My fingers land on a worn out science book tucked between two paperbacks. The spine's cracked, the cover slightly curled at the edges, like it's been used enough that it'll go to the exact page it was left on.

When I flip it open, a mess of sticky notes fans out like leaves.

I glance over a few.

The handwriting is young. Clumsy, sharp cornered letters that press too hard into the paper. It's a kid trying to figure things out in real time, half math, half stream of consciousness rambling about force, motion, and electrons. I skim through a few of the pages, piecing together the mindset of a boy who was just starting to really love this stuff. It makes me realize just how much I hated science when I was younger. I can never focus enough to even enjoy it that much. My sophomore year teacher, Mr. O'Brecht, made it easier—actually kind of fun—but even then, I couldn't hold on to it. Not the way Peter clearly did.

O'Brecht was a good teacher. I should've tried harder.

It's undoubtedly Peter's handwriting. Probably from when he first started learning science in greater detail—when it went from a subject in school to something that lit a fire in him.

I'll admit, I'm a bit envious. I can't say a subject ever called out to me like this—aside from writing, I guess. Even then, creative writing class never really sat well with me. Poetry definitely wasn't my forte. Wasn't for lack of trying, either.

The only part I vividly remember was a prompt where we had to write horror based around food. I ended up crafting this unhinged scene where Donald Trump murdered Chester Cheetah and rebranded Cheetos as Trump-O's. I even drew this freaky, Meat Canyon-style picture of him, with more wrinkles than a retirement home and eyes like melted wax.

My teacher seemed genuinely unsure whether she should've been proud or concerned. I was proud—if only because it made the entire class lose it laughing.

And yes, I absolutely read his lines in the voice.

Anyway—back to the point. Peter clearly loved science. I don't. That fire just isn't in me. Normally, if I needed something, I'd just go out and buy it. But now? I'm fourteen again. No money, no job, no Amazon Prime.

Not thrilled by the development. But hey—beggars can't be choosers. Might as well try to learn something before I have to.

I close the book and tuck it into the crook of my arm, thumb still marking the page like I'm going to pretend I'll come back to it in five minutes. Maybe I will. Maybe I won't. Either way, I head out toward the porch, feeling the quiet itch in my legs that's been there since I woke up in the hospital. The kind of itch that says: move, or rot.

The air outside's already warming up, sun filtering through the clouds like it's got somewhere better to be. I drop down onto the porch steps with a low groan—not because it hurts, just because I miss being able to do it with weight behind it. Everything I do now feels like it should come with a squeaky toy sound effect.

The book's heavier than I expect in my hands. Physics: Principles and Problems, by Paul W. Zitzewitz. Glencoe edition. Big red brick of a textbook with a cover that looks like someone thought lens flares and inertia were sexy.

I crack it open, flip past Peter's scrawled name on the inside cover, and settle into the first chapter.

To my surprise, some of it makes sense. Not a lot, but enough. The basic stuff clicks—the kind of stuff that feels like it's always been floating in the back of my head, just never important enough to grab onto. Newton's laws, motion, momentum. Honestly, Peter's notes are doing most of the heavy lifting. They're everywhere—wedged into the margins, stuck between chapters, sometimes scribbled over entire problem sets. And they help. He's not just taking notes—he's breaking things down like he's tutoring himself. Translating Zitzewitz into something someone like me could understand.

Which… is kind of awesome. Kind of infuriating, too.

I make it about twenty pages in before the words start swimming a bit. It's helpful stuff, no doubt, but I'm going to need more than scribbles and good intentions if I want to actually retain this. Videos. Forums. CrashCourse or Khan Academy or whatever YouTube rabbit hole Peter probably already fell down five times over. If I'm going to start web-swinging—or doing anything that involves not dying at high speeds—I need more than just guesswork and the ghost of someone else's study habits.

I'm just about to close the book when a low whistle slices through the still air.

"How'd I know that after three weeks in a coma, you'd be jumping right back into the textbooks?"

I glance up.

Harry.

He's leaning against the porch rail like he's been there a while, arms crossed, half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

The photos in Peter's album don't do the kid justice. He's got that kind of effortless charm that looks curated but probably isn't—hair perfectly tousled in a way that screams casual, even though it probably took effort. He's dressed like someone who doesn't have to try, yet still looks like he walked out of a high-end ad campaign. Just the shirt, jeans, and jacket he's wearing probably cost more than my soul's worth on a good day.

And that smile—it's genuine. There's no smug edge or ulterior motive stitched into the corners.

If I didn't already know who Harry Osborn was, I'd think there wasn't a bad bone in his body. He's got the same soft look Peter had in those pre-bite, pre-tragedy days—except Harry's version comes with designer clothes and a trust fund.

I go to speak, but am unsure of what to say. May did say that Harry knew about my 'amnesia,' right? At the very least, I know Harry is meant to be Peter's best friend. Beyond that, I'm not exactly sure how to approach this.

"Y-ya got me." I chuckle, nervous and sheepish, setting the book down on the porch beside me. "How long have you been standing there?"

Harry shrugs and steps up onto the porch, boots soft against the wood. "Long enough to know you don't pay attention to your surroundings."

I force a crooked smile, trying to sell the role. "Yeah, well… guess I've been kind of in my own head lately."

He raises an eyebrow at that, but doesn't press. Instead, he flops down onto the porch swing like he's done it a hundred times before—probably has. The chains creak slightly under his weight as he leans back, stretching out like a cat in the sun.

"May told me you were different, but I thought maybe she was overthinking again." he said, more casual than I anticipated. "Don't get me wrong, you're clearly still nerdy enough to be reading physics for fun, but… I dunno. You seem quieter."

I nod slowly, pretending to chew on that. "Yeah. Still piecing things together. Some stuff feels familiar, but most of it's... static."

Harry watches me for a second. There's something thoughtful in his expression, like he's trying to read between the lines.

"I get it," he says finally. "After what happened, it makes sense. You don't just bounce back from something like that." He nudges the book with the toe of his shoe. "Still, I didn't expect to find you nose-deep in Zitzewitz again. You hated this thing when you first got it."

I snort at that—probably the right reaction. "Guess I got desperate."

"Desperate enough to start enjoying it?"

"Let's not get crazy."

He laughs.

"Fair enough," he replied. After a pause, he let out a sigh. "I'm glad you're okay, Pete. I was really worried about you."

"Me too. I don't remember what happened, exactly… but I know Ben and May were worried sick."

"What do you remember?"

I try to think of any details regarding the day Peter went into the coma that I would know about, but beyond the fact he fell in front of his entire class, I come up blank. So, I just decided to give him a half-truth.

"Pain," I answer, the sensation of the seat belt crushing my ribs haunting me. "Then the next thing I remember is waking up in the hospital."

Harry doesn't respond right away.

He just sits there, gaze shifting down the porch steps like he might find the right words carved into the wood. The wind threads through the trees beyond the fence, and for a second, the quiet feels loaded.

"Pain," I repeat, quieter this time, as if saying it again will make it more believable—or maybe just help me believe it.

Harry nods slowly. "Yeah… I guess that tracks. You collapsed so fast, it freaked everyone out. They said it was some kind of seizure at first. The paramedics didn't know what was going on. You just hit the floor in front of everyone and didn't get up."

He pauses again, jaw tightening. "It was like someone pulled the plug on you."

It's hard to explain how I'm feeling, trying to picture what happened. I don't know if I should be withdrawn or feeling something, but there's a bit of a fog there. I feel numb, and I don't like that.

"Lonnie was the one who caught you before you hit the ground," Harry continued. "I don't know how he even managed to see it first… you were trailing behind the group."

"I was?"

"Yeah. We were talking with Dr. Octavius. He took a liking to you, by the way."

Dr. Octavius.

That name sinks in weird—like tasting something sweet that's turned sour just under the surface. It's not the "mad scientist with metal arms" version my brain flashes to, but the context still sticks sideways in my ribs. Hearing it like that, casually dropped into conversation, makes the world tilt just a little.

Harry keeps talking. "You two were tossing around all this jargon, and I was just standing there pretending like I understood any of it. At one point I think you said something about neural relays and feedback latency and Doc just lit up. Like, full 'Eureka!' mode."

I blink. "That… sounds kind of awesome, actually."

"It was," Harry agrees with a grin. "I mean, you were nerding out so hard I thought your glasses were gonna fog up, but it was cool. You were actually passionate about it."

There's that word again—you.

It stings a little. Not because Harry means anything by it, but because I don't know how to live up to this ghost I'm wearing.

I offer him a crooked smile, trying to keep the mask from slipping. "Well… I'm glad I left a good impression. Even if I can't remember making it."

He softens. "It'll come back. Probably when you least expect it. That's how memory works, right? It's like… flashes. Smells. Sounds. Something'll trigger it eventually."

"Yeah," I say quietly. "Eventually."

"Anyway," he says, noticing the tension on my face as I said it. "By the time you two were wrapping things up, I went to go catch up with the group. Mr. Larson already doesn't like me as it is, so I didn't want to give him another reason."

Harry says it casually, but I catch the edge beneath his voice—a note of practiced indifference, like someone who's gotten too good at pretending other people's opinions don't bother him. Mr. Larson must be one of those teachers who smiles with their teeth and grades with a chainsaw.

I nod like I get it, because maybe Peter did.

"Is he always that bad?"

Harry snorts.

"Worse. He's had it out for me since the first day of the year. Thinks I'm just some spoiled rich kid coasting through science because I can afford a private tutor. Joke's on him—I don't have a tutor, I just cheat off you."

I laugh—genuine this time, caught off guard. That's going to change quickly. I was lucky to get above a C on my tests, and that was with the little bit of studying I could muster.

Harry grins, leaning back into the porch swing again with a creak of the chains.

"You haven't been caught yet?"

"Of course not! I know how to be discreet, Pete. I mean, I'm not like Flash, but I'm also not at your level either. I only really cheat on the hard questions."

"That doesn't fill me with confidence, Harry." I smile. It's weird. He's trying to make me feel at ease, and for the most part, it's working. But there's still that quiet undercurrent humming beneath everything—because I'm not Peter.

"That's alright, I've got enough for the both of us." He glances sideways at me, then shrugs. "Anyway… I doubled back to find you, and that's when everything went to hell. You were still talking to Doc, but then you went pale. Like—hospital-sheet white. Eyes rolling back. You stumbled back a step and just dropped. Scared the hell out of Octavius."

The image hits me out of nowhere. Not because I remember it—but because I don't. I try to picture what Harry saw. Try to imagine Peter's body suddenly folding in on itself, lights going out behind his eyes. A short-circuit. A reset.

Harry's voice drops, quieter now.

"You would have cracked your head on the tile if it wasn't for Lonnie. He caught you in time. That's our star quarterback for ya."

Lonnie's the quarterback? I figured Flash would have been. He was always the most popular jock in Pete's grade. Though, I suppose that doesn't translate into athleticism. It reminds me of my buddy Gavin and not being able to keep up with a sixty-year-old man in work boots. The old man said it himself, if Gavin was our best player, then it was no wonder our school's team barely won.

I unconsciously sigh. I miss Gavin, he'd enjoy being in my shoes right now.

"What about Flash? Isn't he on the team?"

"He's recovering from a broken wrist. Let me tell ya, he was not thrilled about missing the first few games of the year."

"I can only imagine…"

"So, you remember Flash then?"

"Vaguely," I say. "It's mostly just his name and a picture I saw on my computer." It's not a lie. When I was scanning through the photo albums, I came across a few photos of the football team and various other groups. Peter must have belonged to the yearbook club as their acting photographer.

Harry gives a short laugh at that, more amused than surprised. "Yeah, that sounds about right. Flash has never met a camera he didn't think was already in love with him."

I crack a grin. "I think he's got a permanent smirk in every photo."

"Exactly!" Harry leans forward, animated now. "It's like he's trying to seduce the yearbook. 'Hey there, future readers. Miss me?'"

The impression is surprisingly spot-on, and it pulls a chuckle out of me—one that lingers longer than I expect. I think I needed that.

Harry leans back again, content. "I'm telling you, the guy's an absolute tool half the time, but he's weirdly loyal once you're on his good side."

That honestly sounds about right for Flash during his high school years. Once he graduated, he became easier to deal with, but that's four years away.

Harry kicks at a leaf near his boot.

"Anyway, after you collapsed, the school freaked out. Ambulance came in, sirens and everything. They cleared the building. Larson was shaking like a leaf. I think he actually felt bad for once."

I glance up at that. "That serious?"

"You weren't breathing for a while," he says, voice softening. "Octavius was the one who started CPR. Larson couldn't even move."

"Otto Octavius gave me CPR." The words feel foreign in my mouth. Like hearing that Dracula volunteers at a blood drive.

That part makes my stomach twist. Not the idea of dying—I already did that once, kind of—but the image of a man like Otto Octavius, calm and brilliant and in a lab coat, kneeling down on cold tile to keep a kid alive. It feels… off. Like a villain playing hero out of order.

"He saved my life," I murmur.

Harry nods. "Yeah. He really did. I think that's part of why he keeps checking in. He's been emailing May, asking how you're doing. Said he'd still like to mentor you, if you're up for it."

I pause. It's tempting. Not just because of the opportunity—though, let's be real, having a scientific genius in your corner isn't exactly a bad thing—but because there's a thread there. A connection to the old Peter. Something solid I might be able to use to stitch this whole illusion together.

"I'll think about it," I say eventually, careful with the words.

Harry doesn't push. "Cool. No pressure."

We sit a while longer, talking about little things. He's catching me up with what's been going on at school, and for the most part it's nothing I'm too concerned about. A couple of tests that I'd have to make up, relationship drama, and talk about a new project in History. Speaking of history, I'm actually looking forward to that class seeing as there's a brand new world for me to learn. Seeing how things are different here actually feels tantalizing, and that's probably the weirdest part for me.

Like does Elon Musk exist here? Did 9/11 still happen? How were things different in WW2 with Captain America involved? Was Hydra still a threat that popped up in the headlines through the Cold War? Does Wakanda have an embassy in the US yet, or are they still a remote hidden country at this point?

Shit, mutant rights are another thing I'd love to know about. Is Magneto still a 'villain' or is he actually one of the legitimate good guys now? Hell, if I'm asking that, is Charles Xavier the leader of the Brotherhood now? That'd be a twist. Making a villainous telepath is too easy, though.

"Hey, are you able to leave the house or is May keeping you on lockdown for the time being?" he asked finally, rising to his feet.

"I think I can convince her to let me off the leash for a bit. Why, what's up?"

"I was thinking we could swing by my place. Dad's been wanting to see you." his voice drops, becoming almost melancholy.

I'm quiet for a beat longer than I wanted to be, but it was like getting hit with a flash grenade.

Norman Osborn wanted to see me.

Arsenal597 · 2025-12-03T21:07:05+0000

As it turned out, asking May to let me out of the house was a little like asking a dragon if you could borrow her gold. She gave me a look, the kind that managed to be worried, stern, and exhausted all at once, before quietly nodding, brushing her thumb across my cheek like she thought I might shatter on contact. I got to say it's still a bit weird seeing her look at me like I'm her kid.

I'm not one for public displays of affection, in any regard. I'm what you might call an introvert, but that doesn't really feel like the right word. Basically, unless I am really comfortable with somebody I cannot make contact with them. Hell, it was hard enough to be okay with my own mother hugging me let alone anyone else. About the only two people I could hug without discomfort was my brother and grandpa.

So, seeing her look at me like that was a bit uncomfortable to say the least. At the end of the day, I am her nephew now. I need to get used to that.

"You be careful, okay?" she asked. "Don't push yourself. If you feel tired, or dizzy, or anything—"

I stopped her.

"May, I'll call." I smile. "I promise."

I actually meant it too.

She hesitated for a beat longer than usual, then gave me a kiss on the temple and let me go. It felt like she was handing off a piece of glass she'd spent her whole life trying to keep from cracking. The kiss took every ounce of willpower I had to avoid scrunching my face in disapproval.

The screen door creaked a little louder than usual behind me as I stepped out onto the porch. Afternoon light was spilling across the street in long, lazy beams, the kind that make everything look warmer than it actually is.

Harry was waiting by the gate. The limo behind him looked comically out of place on our block, like someone had dropped a slice of Wall Street into the middle of a working-class postcard. One of the neighbors—Mrs. Reyes, as Ben had pointed out last night after dinner, was peeking through her blinds like we'd summoned a UFO.

Harry caught my eye and gave a small wave.

I gave a smaller one back.

I wasn't used to this. Not just the car, but the idea of having someone waiting for me at all. Where I came from, people didn't really do this kind of thing. If you wanted a ride, you waited out front and hoped the rust bucket didn't stall. You didn't get picked up like a visiting dignitary.

I jogged down the steps, feeling the familiar buzz of nerves in my stomach. It wasn't Harry. It wasn't even the thought of meeting Norman Osborn, not at the moment anyway. No, it was the idea of leaving the house. I always wanted a chance to explore the world, but I wasn't expecting it to hit this hard.

I was used to being in a small midwestern town with a reasonable amount of privacy to my name. I'm not even used to being in Queens, and I'm already about to move out into the Big Apple for the first time. It's a bit much, if I'm to be honest.

"You survive?" Harry asked as I approached.

"Barely," I said. "She almost made me bring a sweater."

"She did make you bring a phone, though, right?"

I pulled it out of my pocket, waved it in front of him like a magician's prop.

"Good," he grinned. "Because if you ghost me, Bernard will start putting up missing persons flyers."

I smirked, but didn't say anything. The truth was, I kind of liked the idea of someone noticing if I vanished. Beyond my immediate family, and maybe one or two friends—it wasn't something I was used to.

Harry opened the limo door for me like a gentleman, and I blinked as the tinted interior yawned open. It was… cleaner than I expected. I knew it'd be clean, but holy shit, I don't think I could spot a single flaw in the interior. And the quiet… I couldn't believe it. I could practically hear my heart beating in my ears. I hate to say it, but I'm so jealous right now.

I climbed in, trying not to look like a kid seeing a spaceship for the first time, and sank into leather that felt like it belonged in a museum. Harry followed, the door whispering shut behind him.

"I'm officially out of my element," I say mostly to myself, but Harry catches it and gets this big grin. "You like showing off, don't you?"

"I'd prefer to be in your shoes, Pete. But, your reactions make this worth it."

"Really? You'd rather be poor?"

"Well, not poor. I'd like to have more anonymity."

"True, I can't imagine going around with everybody knowing who you are."

Harry shrugged.

"It gets old. The cameras, the headlines, the pressure to smile like I've got stock in toothpaste." He turned his head slightly, looking out the window as buildings started to blur together. "Half the time, I'm not sure if someone's talking to me or my last name."

I could hear the undertone there. That subtle wear in his voice, like the words had been walked over a few too many times.

"Your dad is one of the richest men in New York. I'm sure if you asked him to, he'd move you somewhere where you could have a fresh start." I say, and even as the words come out of my mouth, I know it doesn't come out the way I wanted.

"I don't want to have a fresh start. I want things to be normal." Harry explained, his voice becoming soft and longing. "It's not that I don't enjoy the life I have, Pete. It's nothing like that. But, it'd be nice to be able to be my own person away from being the son of Norman Osborn."

He was quiet for a minute after that. He leaned back in the seat and tapped his thumb against the window like there was a rhythm only he could hear. I got the sense Harry wasn't used to silence, not when it lingered like this.

Outside, the view started to stretch. The narrow rows of houses and corner bodegas thinned out behind us, giving way to strips of rusting fences and wide concrete lots. It felt like we were leaving something smaller behind—something human-sized. Then the road lifted.

The bridge rose beneath us like the spine of some ancient thing, steel cables cutting the sky into slices. And then… I saw it.

Manhattan.

A jagged skyline of impossible structures, stabbing into the clouds like they were trying to puncture the sky. Skyscrapers stacked like teeth, windows flashing as they caught the sun. It was overwhelming. The kind of sight that made your breath catch—not because it was beautiful (though it was), but because you realized just how small you were in comparison.

The further we crossed, the more the traffic swelled, like the city was warning us not to enter without a fight. Horns bleated. Engines grumbled. The lanes narrowed in, forcing cars into a slow crawl. It felt suffocating, like the whole place was pressing inward, tightening its grip the closer we got.

And the buildings—God, the buildings—they weren't just tall. They were watching. Towering monoliths leaning over us like giants studying ants. Every glass surface reflected someone else's life, stacked a hundred stories above mine. I shrank into the seat a little without meaning to.

I was so out of my element.

Harry broke the silence, but his voice had dipped—quieter, less sure. The kind of quiet that feels deliberate.

"Hey… just so you're not blindsided or anything… when we get there, my dad's probably going to look a little rough."

I turned to him. Not suspicious—just curious.

"Rough like… he's run-down, hasn't slept well in days, or he should be in the hospital-rough?"

Harry gave this dry, uneven laugh that didn't bother trying to pass for genuine. "Somewhere in between. It's hard to explain."

That wasn't reassuring.

He shifted in his seat, rolled his shoulder like his shirt collar was starting to itch, then adjusted his sleeves like they were closing in on him. His arm settled on the window ledge, fingers curling in without him noticing. Knuckles pale, thumb twitching against his palm like he was grounding himself.

"They said he was sick, right?" he went on, not really waiting for confirmation. "Back when he stepped away from Oscorp. That part was true. What they didn't say is how bad it's gotten since."

I didn't say anything. Didn't need to. Harry wasn't looking for a response—he was just letting the words out, slow and uneven, like it physically hurt to talk about it.

"It's a blood thing. Genetic. He's had symptoms for years, but they didn't get aggressive until recently. Now it's like… everything's catching up to him all at once. His body's slowing down. Shaking, stiff joints, random episodes where he kind of… zones out."

His voice caught a little on that last part.

"And he hates people seeing it. Hates feeling like he's not in control."

That part carried more weight than the rest. Not just pity or concern. Shame. Fear. The kind of fear that doesn't show up in headlines—just in the quiet, invisible places sons carry for their fathers.

"He'll act like it's nothing," Harry added. "Like it's just a cold or a pulled muscle or whatever sounds best that day. But if you watch his hands? You'll get it."

I looked over. Harry wasn't just talking—he was bracing. Like saying it out loud made it more real, and he was trying to stay one step ahead of that realization.

"I've seen people go through worse," I said finally. My grandmother's face flickered through my mind—frail, hollow-eyed in that hospital bed, the way her fingers gripped mine even when she couldn't speak. "I'll be respectful."

Harry nodded. Not out of politeness. Like he needed to hear that.

"He'll appreciate that," he said. "Even if he pretends he doesn't."

We sat there in the quiet again. The city kept moving outside, but in here, everything felt suspended.

"Just let me know if I accidentally cross a line, okay?"

"Of course, buddy."

Harry smiled—but not in the way people normally smile. It was stretched thin at the edges, more habit than expression. I knew that look too well. It's the same one I've seen in the mirror more than I care to admit—the kind of smile that's just armor. The kind you wear because breaking down isn't an option right now.

"If he freaks out at any point, I'm sorry," he added. "Dad's complicated. Cold, sometimes, but not heartless. He's just… calculated, y'know? He needs things to be perfect. And I think this—" he gestured vaguely toward the front of the car, toward the skyline still rising beyond the tinted glass "—this is eating him alive."

"I get it."

I really do.

I'm not a perfectionist, but I like things to go a certain way. And when they don't? I fray. It's something I've been trying to fix, but—let's be honest—everything about my life is broken into jagged pieces now.

While Harry's out here trying to carry the weight of his father's name, I'm just trying not to scream. There's no real safety net for me anymore. No one I can go to if something goes wrong. Sure, I could text a friend, maybe even get a hold of Mand or Jax if I needed to—but that's a lifeline, not a solution. And family? My grandpa's too stubborn to lean on for anything emotional. My mom… God, I love her, but sometimes she could make me feel like a burden just for opening my mouth.

And this? This whole body-swap?

There is no one I can talk to about it. Not really. Not without sounding like a lunatic. So, yeah…

I get it.

Harry doesn't say much after that, and I don't try to push it. The rest of the ride is pretty quiet. Bernard cleared his throat after a few minutes of miserably awkward silence and turned on the radio.

Some classical station. String-heavy. The kind of music you'd hear in a fancy steakhouse or on hold with the IRS. It filled the car like a perfume—something you couldn't quite ignore but didn't want to comment on either. Harry didn't react. He just kept watching the skyline roll by like it was a movie he'd seen a hundred times but still wasn't sure how it ended.

The limo finally banked off the main road and took a turn through a private drive tucked between a high-end art gallery and some kind of boutique coffee place that looked too clean to exist in nature. We passed a small fountain—a ridiculous marble thing shaped like Poseidon throwing a tantrum—and then, there it was:

The Osborn Building.

It's not necessarily the Osborn building. It's a giant apartment building with too much ego wrapped into its foundation because Norman just happens to live there. I don't want to imagine what the price of this place costs for even their shittiest loft. It'd still cost more than what I ever made in a month.

I leaned forward in my seat like somehow that would help me understand the scale of it better.

It didn't.

Bernard eased the car to a slow, almost reverent stop at the front. The doors were tall and tinted, flanked by black marble columns and a valet in a perfectly pressed uniform who looked like he'd been sculpted in a lab.

It opened into a wide plaza tucked just behind a row of trimmed hedges and modest trees in stone planters. There were benches lining the walkways—real benches, not the metal half-seats you get in public parks to discourage napping. One guy was leaned back on one of them, earbuds in, scrolling through something on his phone while a girl beside him tried to wrangle her Pomeranian back into its designer sweater.

It was weird. For all the grandeur, it felt like people actually lived here. Like someone might come downstairs in pajama pants and complain to management about the laundry room again.

Inside, the lobby looked like a boutique hotel with a mild identity crisis. Warm lighting. Earth-tone accents. A low waterfall feature in the corner that babbled just loud enough to be soothing. The floor was polished enough to see your reflection in, and the air had that unnaturally pleasant scent that probably cost more per spray than my old shampoo bottle.

I counted six elevators. Three lined up along one wall, three mirrored on the opposite. Between them was a little sitting area with modern chairs, sleek tables, and a magazine rack stocked with back issues of Architectural Digest and Wired. A teenager sat curled into one of the chairs with a sketchpad and a half-eaten protein bar.

The receptionist glanced up from his desk, eyes lighting up the second he saw Harry.

"Mr. Osborn. Welcome back."

"Thanks, Benny," Harry said with a grin, like they were on familiar, first-name terms.

Then Benny turned to me, and I didn't expect what came next.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Parker. Been too long."

I blinked.

Not just at the words, but at the way he said them—warm, practiced, like this was something he'd said a dozen times before. My mouth twitched upward into a smile before my brain could catch up.

Harry spoke for both of us.

"How's the family, Benny?"

"Surviving," Benny replied with a shrug. "My daughter's graduating in two weeks, so I'm barely surviving, but yeah. You know how it is."

As we walked past the desk, I leaned toward Harry, keeping my voice low.

"I'm guessing I don't remember him?"

"Not really," Harry said, pressing the call button for the elevator. "But Benny remembers you. You used to bring him cookies every December. Your aunt's recipe."

"Oh."

That hit me weirdly hard.

The elevator dinged. Sleek doors parted like they were gliding on invisible air, and we stepped inside.

"Benny's a good guy," Harry added as he pressed the button for the penthouse. "A little nosy, but good. Just try not to say anything incriminating near him and you'll be fine."

I raised a brow.

"Ah. Your friendly neighborhood snitch."

Harry smirked.

"Exactly."

The doors eased shut, and the elevator began its silent ascent. The numbers above the door ticked upward with that sterile, digital beep. Floor after floor slipped past in silence.

Harry leaned back against the wall, thumbs brushing over the edge of his phone screen, not typing anything—just scrolling through some invisible thought. I stood across from him, arms loosely crossed, watching the floors blink by like we were headed somewhere higher than gravity was meant to forgive.

It took longer than expected. Not because the elevator was slow—but because this building was just that tall. By floor twenty-something, I gave a low whistle and tilted my head back.

"Jesus," I muttered. "You sure this isn't just a disguised space elevator?"

Harry gave me a sideways glance. "Dad likes the view."

Of course he does.

Finally, the elevator gave a soft ding that felt more ceremonial than anything else. The doors slid open onto a hallway that didn't even pretend to look like the rest of the building.

The carpet was so plush it made my sneakers feel like I was stepping on a forbidden cloud. Walls were paneled in dark wood—real wood, not that faux veneer crap that peels when you look at it wrong. There were paintings on the wall. Real ones, I think. One looked like it belonged in a museum. The other looked like it belonged in a haunted one.

Harry stepped out first, and I followed, resisting the urge to check if there was a second elevator just for the wine.

At the end of the hall: tall, polished bone-white double doors.

He paused in front of them—just for a second—like some old muscle memory made him stop. I cleared my throat, trying not to shift too much. The longer I stood here, the more I felt like I'd wandered into a furniture catalog I couldn't afford to breathe in. Like if I sneezed, I'd owe somebody thousands in damages.

"You good?" I asked.

He turned toward me, but whatever was on his face wasn't giving anything away.

"Hmm?" He raised a brow like he hadn't actually heard me. Something about it made my stomach twist. On the ride here, he'd been sharp—plugged in, reactive. This wasn't that.

"I asked if you're good?" I repeated, slower this time. His eyes flicked, like he finally caught up to the conversation. He patted his legs absently, tongue clicking against the roof of his mouth as he looked down. "Harry?"

"Yeah. I'm good. Sorry, I was just... thinking about something."

Before I could get a chance to push the matter any further, Harry turned back to the doors and pushed them open. We stepped into the penthouse, and I nearly had to catch my own jaw before it hit the floor.

I'd thought the lobby was excessive. The fountain, the elevator, the wood-paneled hallway—it felt like somebody was overcompensating. This? This was practically somebody throwing money in your face and asking if you were impressed yet.

Yeah, no, I almost laughed. Not because it was funny. Just... What else do you do when you realize your entire apartment could probably fit inside this entryway?

The air inside smelled faintly like some kind of fancy cologne and leather. Not overpowering, just... rich. Everything here smelled rich. The floor beneath my sneakers was cold and smooth—marble, I think—but not the kind you'd see in a hotel lobby or some overpriced mall. This had a texture to it, like it was carved, not poured. Polished to hell, too. I kept waiting for a butler to pop out and tell me to wipe my shoes.

The lighting was low, like deliberately low, which somehow made it feel both expensive and kind of haunted. A warm gold glow ran up the sides of the walls, making the place feel like it was trying to convince you it wasn't as cold as it actually was. It didn't work.

We passed a row of medieval suits of armor that probably cost more than a car each. One of them had a dent in the chestplate, and I wasn't sure if that made it more authentic or less. There were racks of weapons—actual swords and spears—lined up like someone was waiting for a siege. I don't even know what you're supposed to do with that many blades in New York.

"Mand would love this," I muttered mostly to myself, barely in a whisper.

A fireplace sat dead center in the living room, and I swear it looked like it had been ripped out of some European castle. It was massive. Black stone, heavy mantel, fire already lit. Mounted above it was a TV that slid out from behind a hidden panel—because of course it did.

And the walls? All windows. Top to bottom. I could see half the city from where I was standing, and we weren't even on the balcony yet. The glass gave everything this weird blue-gray tint, like the whole place was suspended in its own little snow globe.

To the right, a kitchen bigger than my actual apartment, with steel appliances so shiny I didn't want to breathe near them. The kind of kitchen you hire people to use. And at the far end of the hall, there was this huge, curved double staircase that looked like it belonged in a movie about people who never had to do their own taxes.

I just stood there for a second, blinking at it all.

Because what else are you supposed to do?

"That look never gets old," Harry chuckled, stepping around me and making his way toward the kitchen like this was all just... normal. I followed, still low-key wondering if I should take my shoes off or sign a liability waiver just for walking across the marble.

He pulled open the fridge—naturally, it was one of those double-door units that lit up like a spaceship when you opened it—and turned to me.

"You want a drink?"

"Uh, yeah. Sure."

I didn't even register what I was grabbing until I had it in my hand. Cherry Dr. Pepper. Cold enough that the condensation immediately started forming against my skin. It's always been one of my favorite sodas to drink, besides cherry Pepsi of course.

Harry pulled out some sleek glass bottle of sparkling water. The kind with a minimalist label that probably cost ten bucks per bubble.

I squinted at it.

"How the hell can you drink that stuff?"

He glanced down at it, then back at me with a crooked little smirk.

"Huh. You used to love these." I blinked, then dragged a hand down my face in the slowest, most existential facepalm in history. "I... guess tastes do change."

I didn't say anything, opting to open my soda with a little hiss that felt almost defiant.

Harry chuckled under his breath and nudged the fridge closed with his hip. As he turned, my eye caught on something to the right of us—an inset doorway built seamlessly into the wall. I wandered over and peeked in, expecting maybe a pantry or a laundry room or something else semi-grounded.

Nope.

It was a wine room. A full-on, glass-encased, temperature-controlled gallery of booze. Rows and rows of bottles, some sealed with wax, some corked, some that looked older than both of us combined. Labels in French, in Italian, in handwriting I couldn't even begin to decipher. Reds, whites, stuff that glowed faintly like it had been blessed by a Vatican sommelier.

I don't even drink, but still. Jesus.

"You're kidding me…"

Harry looked over, taking a sip of his sparkling water.

"Yeah, my dad collects it. Hardly touches the stuff though. Only uses it for parties and special occasions."

"This is nuts."

"Honestly, I was about to say the same thing. I know you're a bit spotty on everything, but you really don't remember this place?" Harry asked. I shrugged for a lack of a better answer.

"I don't. I mean, I know you had a big apartment… but this is more than what I was expecting." Harry purses his lips together, as though he's unsure whether to believe me. Finally, I tell him: "I remember names, some faces, but that's it. Everything else feels like a fog."

Harry didn't say anything at first. Just kind of looked at me, the bottle halfway to his lips. I couldn't tell if he was trying to read me or trying to decide if he wanted to read me.

"Yeah," he said finally, quiet. "I figured it was something like that."

I nodded, unsure what to say to that. The soda fizzed gently in my hand, filling the silence with just enough noise to keep it from feeling weird.

"It's a lot like déjà vu." I added, trying to keep it light. "Like walking through someone else's dream."

Harry gave a small, understanding smile, then turned and started toward the stairs. I followed, the sound of our footsteps echoing off tile and stone and god-knows-what imported material.

"This used to be your second home, you know," he said as we reached the first step. "You, May, and Ben would come over during the holidays. When Mom was in town, she'd make sure to cook a big meal for everyone. It was really nice."

There was a softness in his voice, like he was trying to focus on something before it got too heavy. I knew the tone because I was the same way when people brought up someone that passed away. The rawness tended to get under my skin, and made it hard to focus on the good. Seeing as there was no mention of her before, I had a feeling I knew what he was avoiding. His mom, Emily.

I didn't press. I could've. God knows I had questions, but there was a weight in Harry's voice that told me he wasn't ready to unpack it.

So I just nodded again and kept pace beside him.

"She always went all-out," he said, a little softer now. "Roast duck, not turkey. Stuffing made from scratch. Desserts that could knock you out. Bernard would get flustered trying to plate everything the way she wanted, but she'd just laugh and tell him it wasn't supposed to be perfect."

I smiled at the image in my head, almost able to hear the laughter echoing through the penthouse, bringing much needed warmth to the home.

"She sounds amazing," I said.

"Yeah," Harry said, breathing out through his nose. "She really was."

There was a pause after that, and I knew that was where to draw the line.

We made it to the second floor, the quiet thump of our steps muffled by some kind of carpet I'm convinced was designed specifically to erase sound. I didn't know if that was a luxury thing or just an Osborn thing. Either way, it worked.

I broke the silence first.

"Where's your dad? Thought we would've seen him by now."

Harry's hand trailed lightly along the railing as we walked. "Probably in his room or office. He doesn't really get out much anymore."

I glanced at him, and my voice dropped just a notch.

"Harry… is it really that bad?"

He didn't answer right away. His eyes stayed ahead, fixed on the hallway like maybe something there needed his focus.

"He's a proud man, Pete," he said eventually. "Dad doesn't like showing weakness. That's all it is. There's still plenty of fight left in him."

I didn't say anything to that.

We turned the corner, and that's when I heard it—classical music, faint but crisp, drifting through the hall like it belonged to the walls themselves. Something with strings, nothing upbeat. Heavy, tired, like it was trying to fill the silence left behind by something bigger. Layered underneath it, barely audible, was a news report. The words didn't come through clearly until we were maybe two steps away from the door:

"…authorities are still searching for leads for the brutal slayings in which multiple bodies were found in Lower Manhattan…"

I slowed a little.

Harry didn't.

He reached the door and didn't bother knocking. The music got louder, the news report cutting off as we stepped in. There, sitting behind a desk staring at a laptop was the man himself: Norman Osborn.

Not the public version, the one from press conferences and polished magazine spreads. Not the boogeyman business tycoon. This was… different. Whatever image of Norman I had in my head didn't match what was in front of me.

He looked older and paler, like the color had been quietly retreating from his face for weeks. His skin had that dry, stretched look that comes with long nights and very little sleep. Deep bags hung under his eyes, and his posture had that kind of stiffness you only get when standing hurts more than sitting. But even like this—wearing a sweater over a dress shirt like he'd only gotten half-dressed for the day—he still had presence. Still looked like a man who ran empires before breakfast.

And when he saw me?

That look…

His face lit up in this way that caught me completely off guard. Like someone had turned on a light behind his eyes that hadn't worked in a while. It wasn't a show. It was one hundred percent honest to God.

"Peter!" he said, pushing himself to his feet with more effort than he probably wanted us to notice. His voice still had a bite, still had that edge to it, but it was… softer now. "How are you feeling?"

There was a limp in his step as he came over, subtle but there. His lip twitched slightly with each movement—pain, maybe, or something else—but he powered through it like it didn't exist. And as he got closer, it was harder to believe the man I was looking at was supposed to be on death's door.

He really didn't look like he was dying, but I could see it under the surface. God help me—I actually felt bad for him.

"I-um," I started, the words fumbling right at the tip of my tongue. Of all the times for my anxiety to kick in, this is when it decides to? It couldn't have been when those pretty nurses came into my hospital room? "I'm a lot better."

Norman reached out and gripped my shoulder—firm, steady, and way stronger than I expected. The kind of grip that made it hard to imagine this guy ever being frail.

"I'm glad to hear that," he said, giving me a look that… honestly? Felt more fatherly than anything I ever got from my actual dad. "You gave us quite the scare."

Us.

Right. I glanced toward Harry, who was lingering near the doorway now like he wasn't sure whether to stay or give us space.

"I'm sure I did," I said, rubbing at the back of my neck. "I don't know how much Harry has told you, but… I don't remember much."

"Your aunt was the one who told us." Norman gave a quiet, dry chuckle at that, like he appreciated the honesty but wished I hadn't reminded him. His hand dropped back to his side. "I will say though, you always did have a flair for the dramatic. Gave poor Otto a heart attack."

Norman turned and motioned toward a couple of leather chairs in front of his desk.

"Sit, please. Would the two of you like something to drink?"

"We just grabbed something from the kitchen on our way in," Harry piped in, holding up our drinks as we walked over to the chairs.

"I appreciate it, though." I smiled. Also, when the hell did Harry take my drink? Did I give it to him without realizing? Don't tell me my brain fog was kicking in again, I was hoping that was going to be left behind in my old body.

"Like I've said before, if you need anything, just let me know."

I didn't know how to respond to that. It was such a normal thing to say, so casual. Like we were just catching up over brunch or something. Not like I was staring into the eyes of one of the most powerful—and possibly most dangerous—men in the city. The room was warm. Not just from the classical music or the lighting, but from him. It felt like I was stepping into the Twilight Zone or something.

"How are you feeling?" I asked before I could stop myself. "I mean, with everything going on…"

He gave the smallest pause. Just a flicker. Then he smiled again, though it didn't quite reach his eyes this time.

"I've had better years," he said simply. "But I'm still here. And that counts for something, doesn't it?"

The way he said it felt heavy. Like he was weighing more than just his health in that moment. And for the first time, I wondered if Harry had undersold just how much his father was holding back.

"It's better than some," was all I could manage.

"I'm not much for staying back and letting someone else take the reins. Allistaire, while he's a good man, I worry that it might be too much pressure I'm throwing at him at once." Norman explained.

"He's doing fine, Dad. You should worry about yourself." Harry shook his head beside me as Norman sat down.

"That company is my life, Harry. It's an extension of myself. I can't help but worry." Norman exhaled through his nose, resting back into the chair like he was lowering into something heavier than upholstery. "I built Oscorp from the ground up. Brick by brick, contract by contract. It wasn't always clean. It wasn't always pretty. But it was mine," he said. "Handing it off, even temporarily... feels like carving off a piece of myself and leaving it on someone else's plate."

To my surprise, there wasn't bitterness in his voice. He sounded tired, more than anything else.

"Still," he added. "This is only a temporary setback. I'll be back at Oscorp in no time…"

"Just take it easy…" Harry grumbled under his breath, earning a small smirk in response from Norman.

"Truth be told, I was hoping to see you sooner," Norman admitted, voice lower now as he looked at me. "But… you needed time. I get that. From what May said, I wasn't sure how much you'd remember me."

I shrugged, a little sheepish.

"More than I expected, less than I'd like."

He smiled at that.

"You were always like a second son to me, Peter. I don't say that lightly." His eyes flicked to Harry, then back to me. "This place... this family—it was always yours too."

That one landed harder than I expected.

I swallowed.

"I wish I remembered more of it."

"You will," Norman said, like it wasn't up for debate. "Might not all come back at once, but it's still in there. Trust me."

He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk.

"You've always had a stubborn streak. You and Harry both, but you've got heart. You always did."

That sounded more like the Norman I remembered—sharp, intimidating, but with a core that was actually capable of real affection.

"You gave us a scare, kid," he said, voice softening even more. "Don't do that again."

I almost smiled at that.

"I'll try to keep the dramatic comas to a minimum."

Norman gave a quiet chuckle, then ran a hand through his hair.

"God, I sound like your aunt."

"You do," I nodded. "But don't worry, I won't tell her."

He laughed again, this time louder, and I saw Harry's shoulders ease just a little beside me.

The conversation after that sort of drifted. Nothing too deep. Norman asked Harry how school had been—asked me about how things had been feeling at home. I gave the kind of answers you give when you don't really know what the answers are supposed to be—short, polite, light enough to pass as real.

Harry carried most of it, which I didn't mind. Honestly, it made things easier. He was good at that, filling space without making it feel like filler. But then, right as Norman was talking about some foundation gala that I guess I'd gone to once, Harry stood up and muttered something about needing the bathroom.

I watched him step out and close the door behind him. The second the latch clicked, the room shifted.

Norman's face didn't exactly drop—it just… changed. Like he'd taken off a mask he wasn't even aware he'd been wearing. He cleared his throat once, low and tight.

"Peter," he said, and the tone was different now… grimmer and darker. "I'm serious… how are you feeling?"

I blinked.

"Like I said… I'm feeling a lot better."

He just sighed, then reached over and turned his monitor toward me. On the screen was a paused video. I leaned in a little without thinking. It was grainy, security footage by the look of it, but clear enough to tell faces. There I was—Peter, anyway—standing next to Dr. Octavius at some exhibit. One of the research floors, maybe. My arm was up, hand raised.

"Wait," I said slowly, "is that from the field trip?"

Norman nodded.

"It is still my company," he said, tapping the desk lightly. "I spent days trying to figure out what happened exactly, who was around you, what might've triggered the collapse. But then… I noticed this."

He pointed at the screen. My hand.

"You reacted. Right there. Like something happened to your hand."

I didn't respond right away. As much as I wanted to, there was no recollecting the event. Weirdly enough, my hand had a dull phantom pain jolt through it as I continued to stare at the screen.

"I woke up with bandages on that hand," I said, almost casually. The moment it came out of my mouth, I unintentionally swallowed hard and looked back at him. "But I don't remember what happened."

Norman leaned back slightly, studying me in a way that felt less like concern, more like… calculation.

"Well, nothing seemed visibly wrong before you reacted. So, something happened."

"What are you getting at?" I asked, keeping my tone level even though I already had a guess.

He was quiet a moment longer, then turned the monitor back around. When he looked at me again, his eyes were sharp. Curious. Concerned. But under all that? A hint of something else.

Hope. Maybe.

Or something worse.

"You don't remember anything strange? No dreams? No changes? Nothing you can't explain?"

I swallowed hard and did my best to look confused.

"No," I lied. "Nothing like that."

Yeah, there's been changes… but I doubt it's the one you want to hear about.

His eyes narrowed, like he was trying to see through me, peel me open and dig out whatever truth I was hiding underneath. I didn't flinch, but my pulse definitely picked up.

"Peter," he said, his voice dropping into something quiet but firm. "You can trust me if you need to talk."

"Norman, I promise… if something was happening to me, I would tell you," I said, and I was proud of how steady my voice came out. Not too fast, not too defensive. Just enough to hopefully pass.

He didn't answer right away. Instead, he pushed back from his desk and stood—slow, deliberate. He stepped around the table, his expression unreadable now, and placed a hand on my shoulder.

It was firm. Not harsh. But it anchored me in place in a way I didn't love.

Then he leaned in, close enough that I could feel the warmth of his breath against my ear.

"If you did have something happen," he said, just above a whisper, "don't tell anyone. You understand, son?"

That word hit me harder than it should have. My eyes shifted, trying to glance sideways at him.

"What?"

He didn't move back.

"There are eyes watching," he said, quieter now. "And I will not let anything happen to you."

Then, just like that, he let go and stepped back, straightening his sweater like we'd just been talking about weather forecasts. Whatever crack had opened in him just now—it was sealed again.

I just sat there for a second, trying not to let it show on my face how much that rattled me.

Because I didn't know what scared me more—what he meant by eyes watching… or the fact that I believed him.

Nothing about that sat well with me.

Norman just eased himself back into his chair like nothing had happened—like he hadn't just leaned in and whispered something that sounded more like a warning than advice. The warmth in his voice returned like flipping a light switch, the concern in his eyes replaced with that same calm, businesslike sharpness he always wore in interviews and boardrooms.

Like he was playing a part again.

I sat there with my soda in one hand, barely breathing, trying not to let the chill that crawled down my spine show on my face.

Because he was fine. Acting like we'd just talked about grades or summer plans or something stupid like that.

But me?

I couldn't stop hearing those words: "Don't tell anyone."

Was Norman… not a bad guy, like I was afraid he'd be?

I didn't know. I still don't.

Everything in me was on edge, like my brain couldn't decide whether to trust the man or run from him. There was something so real in his voice—something almost desperate—but the fact that he felt the need to say it at all? That said everything I needed to know.

If Norman was worried about something… really worried, enough to pull me aside and whisper it like we were being watched—then it couldn't be anything good.

By the time Harry came back in, I could tell he noticed I wasn't the same as when he left. His eyes lingered on me for a second longer than they probably needed to, but he didn't say anything—just offered a small, polite smile like he was trying not to make it worse.

I didn't say anything either. I acted like everything was fine. Like Norman hadn't just whispered something into my ear that would've made a conspiracy theorist start sweating.

And Norman?

Norman acted like it never happened. Like we were all just picking up where we left off, sipping sodas and making small talk. It was… unnerving, how well he wore that mask.

We stayed another hour. Long enough to make it seem like nothing weird had happened. Long enough for my brain to run that conversation in the background like a broken record on repeat.

Eventually, Harry stood up and stretched, giving Norman a small smile as he glanced toward the hallway.

"I should probably get Peter home before May starts filing a missing persons report."

Norman rose as well, but slower this time, like the weight in his body was starting to win.

"Of course," he said, voice light but his eyes never quite left me. Then, just as Harry turned to lead the way, Norman reached out and gently caught my arm—not hard, just enough to stop me.

"Just remember what I said, Peter," he murmured, his voice lower now. "If you need to talk… I'm here."

I nodded slowly. Forced a small smile that didn't reach anywhere near my eyes.

"Thanks."

And with that, we left.

The building felt different on the way down. Maybe it was the lighting, or the way the elevator hummed a little too quietly, but the weight of that conversation was still riding shotgun in my head. The second the elevator doors opened into the lobby, I was already on autopilot—eyes glazed, thoughts scrambled, trying to make sense of what the hell just happened were almost to the glass exit when it hit me.

Hard.

A jolt—no, a pulse—ran through the center of my head like something had grabbed the base of my skull and twisted. Not quite pain, not exactly. It was disorienting, like my center of balance had just kicked the bucket.

I stumbled, shoulder brushing hard into Harry's side.

"Whoa—hey, Pete?" he said, immediately reaching out to steady me. "You okay?"

I didn't answer right away. I couldn't. My breath caught in my throat and my whole body was on fire, but not from heat. It was awareness. Full-body alert.

The throbbing moved—shifted, spun around my head like a siren—and wherever it passed, the hair on my arms and neck stood straight up. My skin felt wired. Buzzing. The pressure built until I thought my teeth might start vibrating.

"Peter?" Harry repeated, more urgent now.

And then…

My eyes snapped open wider than I even thought possible, and the world suddenly looked clearer. Sharper.

Like I'd just stepped out of fog and into a storm.

No.

No, no, no, wait—

This… this wasn't just panic.

This was instinct.

This was danger…

My Spider-Sense was going off. For the first time.

And it was screaming.

But why the hell was it going off… here?

It started as this general pressure, like my whole brain had been dropped into a wasp's nest, but then it shifted. Drifted. The sensation crept to the left side of my skull and settled behind my ear, like something invisible was pressing into it with a cold finger.

I turned instinctively, head swiveling that way without even thinking—and the buzz slid again, fast, crawling right above my eyebrows, pulsing just under the skin.

That's when I saw him.

Someone was sitting against the far wall of the lobby, half in the shadow cast by a decorative pillar, like he'd been there the whole time but only now decided to exist.

Hood up. Head down just enough to hide his face. But his eyes?

Locked. Dead on us.

Dead on me.

I didn't know what it was about him, not really. He wasn't doing anything. He wasn't moving. But everything in me said this guy does not belong here.

And the Spider-Sense—wasn't just buzzing anymore. It was hissing.

Warning me.

Harry didn't seem to notice. He just kept walking toward the valet, tossing a casual glance over his shoulder.

"You good? You looked like you were gonna hurl for a second."

But I wasn't listening.

Not really.

Because the guy against the wall? He hadn't blinked once.

And he was still watching.

A.S.

A.S.

A.S.

The man watched as Harry led Peter through the front doors of the plaza, his gaze tracking every movement with surgical focus. The kid hesitated, just for a second—eyes sweeping the lobby, landing square on him.

He grimaced beneath the shadow of his hat.

Had he been made?

No. Stupid thought. He'd been careful. Subtle. The kid had just come out of a coma. It was nerves. Coincidence.

Adjusting the brim of his hat, he stood, brushing off his coat. One gloved hand dipped into his jacket to check something—habit, nothing more—then he turned and pressed the elevator button without breaking stride.

The ride up was silent.

No classical music this time. Just the low hum of the lift and the quiet flicker of fluorescent lights overhead. He barely blinked as the floors ticked by, watching his reflection in the stainless steel doors until they slid open.

The penthouse was quiet.

Norman Osborn was still in his office.

He didn't look up right away—but his posture shifted. A small tension through the shoulders. A glance toward the glass. He already knew.

When he finally turned, there was no welcome in his eyes.

"Why are you here?" Norman asked, voice low and worn, but sharp enough to carry weight.

The man stepped inside without answering, his movements calm and measured. The soft carpet dulled the sound of his shoes.

"You know why I'm here, Osborn," he said. "My employer wanted to send a message. In case you were thinking about keeping him from what he's owed."

Norman's brow furrowed, deepening the lines carved into his face.

"That so?" he muttered. "And what exactly is the message?"

The man stopped a few feet from the desk, head tilting slightly.

"You might've built Oscorp," he said. "But men like him—and his partners? They're not here to play games. They're here to remake the world. From the ashes if need be."

A pause stretched between them.

"Make sure you're on the side that wants to see what that world is."

Norman's jaw ticked, but his posture didn't change.

"Awfully big of you to threaten a dying man," he said dryly. "I've heard better threats from people on the street."

The man pressed his hands against the desk, lowering himself enough to be eye level with Norman.

"Where is the spider?"

Arsenal597 · 2025-12-03T21:08:42+0000

You'd think I'd be excited. I have Spider Sense.

That means I'm going to have the rest of it too—the strength, the speed, the agility. Superpowers.

And yet… I'm not even a little happy about it.

Because what set it off wasn't some falling brick or speeding car. Who the hell was he? Why did he make my skin crawl before he even looked at me? I didn't want to leave the plaza, but if I had tried to stay it would have tipped him off.

I couldn't risk it.

Was he watching me because of what Norman had told me? He said eyes were watching, but I don't know, it felt too on the nose. Maybe I'm being paranoid… but if I write it off and something does happen?

No. No, don't do that. That's a trap.

It's not your fault if something happens.

You're not clairvoyant, you're just—

Okay.

Okay.

I might get the chance to do whatever a spider can. But right now? I can't fight. Fuck, I wish I could.

Back in my own body, I didn't have to. Big guy like me? People thought twice. Now? I'd be lucky to intimidate someone now that I'm built like a praying mantis.

My cousins would suggest working out, getting muscle built up. That meant I'd actually have to put the effort in, and the lazy bastard in me is crying at the thought alone. I almost wish right about now that Mand's threats to haunt me would come true. He'd push me to work out. I work better with motivation, but then again, who doesn't?

My willpower sucks.

Yeah, that's always been a problem. I'm actually getting to live one of my greatest childhood fantasies, and I'm already on the verge of chickening out because it requires me to do something.

WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH ME?!

Snap.

I blink, and suddenly Harry's fingers are waving in front of my face. He's close—closer than he was a second ago. I didn't even notice him lean in.

"Pete, you okay?"

"Huh?" The word stumbles out before I can catch it.

"Do I need to call May? You're starting to worry me."

His voice is gentler now, and he leans back into the passenger seat, watching me carefully.

"No, I'm good," I lie, trying to shake the doubt off my shoulders like it's something physical I can peel off. "Sorry. I'm just... getting tired."

If Harry could tell I was bluffing, he didn't say anything. Instead, he leaned back in his seat like nothing was wrong, gaze shifting to the window as he let it slide.

"As long as you're sure," he said, tone light but not dismissive. "Did May say when you're clear to go back to school?"

"Yeah. Monday," I replied, nodding like that was the part of my life that still made sense.

The rest of the drive turned into a blur—buildings sliding past the windows, the radio humming low, and Harry tapping his fingers against the door in a lazy rhythm.

But I wasn't there, not really.

I was back in the plaza again, mentally trapped in that moment where I felt something inside me shift. That buzzing… that feeling. It felt like a string inside my skull had been plucked, if that even made sense. It's hard to even describe. From a throbbing pulse that stretched across my skull to more of a ripple. A touch guiding me in a direction, like a hand running through my hair, but deeper.

It was sharp, instant, and directional—and somehow I just knew.

I don't understand how. I mean, yeah—I knew about Spider Sense. I'd read the comics, after all. I watched the movies and television shows. To be honest, I'd spent too much time arguing with my friends about Spider-Man facts during school. Still, though… that's a lot different from feeling it. Even then, I shouldn't have been able to follow it so quickly. I shouldn't have reacted like it was second nature.

It didn't feel like it was just instinct. It felt familiar, like my brain was hardwired for it already. Like I'd always had it—like it was dormant, waiting for the right moment to start screaming.

The part that concerns me? It didn't feel wrong.

It felt right, and I don't know if that makes it better or worse.

I won't lie, Spider-Man had always been my favorite superhero, and I fantasized about getting to be him so many nights as a kid. So, is it because I already had an idea of how it would feel to have those powers? Or maybe it's because I'm in Peter's body.

What I do know is this:

Norman was worried about something, which meant that guy in the lobby? He's probably involved.

So, I have to be careful.

The car slowed in front of the house, headlights sweeping across the lawn and the familiar shape of the porch. I could already see the warm glow in the windows, and something about it made the whole day feel a lot heavier than it had been a minute ago. We'd barely come to a full stop when I glanced over at Harry.

"Hey, uh... you free tomorrow?"

Harry looked up from whatever he'd been zoning out on, then gave a half-shrug.

"I think so. Got a date with Gwen in the evening, but if it's early, I've got time."

I blinked. "Gwen? As in Gwen Stacy?"

He raised an eyebrow at me.

"You remember her? Guess you weren't kidding about knowing names," he chuckled, clearly amused. "Yeah. It's our first date. I wanna make a good impression."

I didn't say anything at first. Just nodded a little. Gwen Stacy. If he's with her... then she's better off. There's less of a chance she dies because of Spider-Man. Maybe, just maybe, this version of her gets to live a quiet, long, completely normal life. The kind that never makes headlines.

"Huh…" I said, stalling for a second while my brain scrambled. Then it hit me. I snapped my fingers. "Take her to the Sea Fire Grill."

Harry tilted his head.

"Sea Fire Grill?"

"Yeah. I hear they have great branzino."

What I wasn't going to say is that I had made up my mind that if I ever went to Manhattan in my old life that I'd go to the Sea Fire Grill. It'd been one of the few restaurants I'd kept in the back of my head for years once I got the idea of becoming an author cemented in it.

Who knows, maybe Peter Parker could become an author in this world on the side? If I couldn't be a genius, being an author was certainly on the table.

"Really?" He gave me a look that was half confusion, half impressed.

I just smiled.

"Trust me on this one."

"I'll look it up," he said, then leaned forward a bit. "So, what's up? What'd you have in mind for tomorrow?"

I scratched the back of my neck, a little sheepish.

"Well… I kinda hate to ask, but do you think you could help give me a wardrobe update?"

Harry blinked like he'd misheard me.

"Wait. You… what?"

"Come on," I said, trying to play it off. "I'd like to try something different. But hey—if you don't want to be the guy responsible for a better-dressed Peter Parker, I totally understand…"

That's about as far as I got before Harry held up a hand like he was swearing an oath.

"Stop right there, Parker. I got you."

I grinned.

"I've been trying to get you to update your clothes for years," he said, already sounding way too hyped. "You've got it, buddy. I'll be here first thing in the morning."

He looked downright triumphant. Like I'd just agreed to let him makeover a cartoon character.

Honestly? I was kind of looking forward to it.

The door clicked open, and I stepped out into the evening air. It was cooler now, the sun dipping just below the rooftops, giving everything that soft orange tint that made the neighborhood feel like a painting. I was halfway to the gate when Harry leaned over to glance past me, then let out a small laugh.

"Should've known May would be waiting for ya," he said, nodding toward the porch next door.

I followed his gaze. There she was—sitting with Anna Watson on her front steps, arms folded casually, a cup of something in her hand. Her eyes found me in an instant, and there was something in her expression—warm, sure, but… playful. Mischievous, even.

Harry squinted.

"Why does she look like she's up to something?"

I sighed.

"Probably because she's trying to get me to meet Anna's niece. MJ."

His head snapped back like he'd just been handed a death sentence.

"Oh, she's trying to play matchmaker? I'm so sorry…" He gave me this mock-sympathetic frown, like I was marching straight to my doom.

I didn't correct him. I just smiled. Joke's on him—if he knew what MJ was actually like, he'd be the one knocking on her door.

But even still… not tonight. I wasn't ready for that.

"I'll see you tomorrow, Harry."

"You bet, buddy. Take it easy."

He gave me a two-finger salute as Bernard pulled the limo away, leaving me in the quiet hum of crickets and porch lights flicking on one by one. I made my way across the yard, and May called me out before I even had a chance to wave.

"Peter," she called gently. I veered over to the Watsons' porch.

"Evening, Anna," I said with a smile, stepping up and slipping my hands in my pockets. "How are you?"

She looked at me kindly, that sort of way older folks have of peering at your soul like it's written on your forehead.

"We've been wondering how you're feeling, sweetheart."

I gave a noncommittal shrug.

"Getting there," I said. "Some of it's still foggy. Feels like I woke up in someone else's shoes."

It wasn't a lie, technically.

She nodded, and—thankfully—didn't press. There wasn't any mention of her niece. I half-expected some forced introduction, a door opening, the words "Mary Jane, come say hello" flying through the air like a landmine. But it didn't come.

Maybe I got lucky.

"I think I'm gonna lay down," I told them before either of them could suggest anything else. "Long day."

May didn't argue. Just gave me that small, tight-lipped smile of hers that said she understood more than she let on.

I slipped inside through the front door, the scent of home wrapping around me like an old hoodie—faintly of coffee, wood polish, and whatever had been cooked earlier in the evening. The lights were dim, TV murmuring in the background.

Uncle Ben was in the living room, half-reclined in his chair, flipping through channels with a kind of practiced aimlessness that only dads and uncles seem to perfect. I dropped onto the couch beside him without a word, sinking into the cushions and letting the quiet buzz of the screen wash over me.

I don't even remember when it happened, but somewhere between a commercial for laundry detergent and an old sitcom rerun, my eyes drifted closed.

And I slept.

When I open my eyes again, I'm not on the couch.

I'm in my bed.

Upstairs.

What the hell?

It takes a second to register, but then it clicks—Ben must've carried me up. A wave of guilt rolls in before I can stop it. He shouldn't have done that. Not with his back.

I sit up, shoulders stiff, and glance toward the window. The sky's barely blue, just that early morning gray where the sun's about to make its entrance but hasn't quite pulled back the curtain. I didn't realize I'd slept that long.

Swinging my legs over the side of the bed, I stretch once, then wander over to the desk. I queue up some beginner physics videos on YouTube, then crack open Peter's textbook with all the notes in it. I flip to a clean notebook and start copying things down in my own handwriting, trying to make sense of it in my way.

It's only after thirty minutes of scribbling diagrams and half-understood equations that I realize something.

I'm not wearing glasses, and everything's crystal clear.

I turn around in the chair, eyes landing on the glasses resting neatly on the nightstand. There's a pause—just a second—and then a smile starts to creep up.

So. My body's finally adapting? Guess I'll have to come up with a reason I suddenly don't need glasses anymore. Or... maybe not.

I look back at them, lenses catching the soft glow from the window. I could keep wearing

them. Pull a Clark Kent. Nobody expects a glasses-wearing "dweeb" to be anything super.

I mean, who would?

I pull the notebook back into my lap, spinning my pen between my fingers. The next YouTube video auto-plays, a soft British accent walking me through Newton's laws like they're bedtime stories. The equations in the book don't look as confusing anymore. Still complicated, yeah, but they're not gibberish. Like my brain had just… recalibrated overnight.

It's hard to explain.

There's this rhythm to it now. Like I'm not just reading—I'm following. Tracing paths I didn't see before. The formulas aren't second nature, but they click. I can look at a diagram and actually understand what it's trying to show me, not just squint at it until my eyes gloss over.

I pause the video, jotting down a few key terms in the margins.

Conservation of momentum.

Impulse.

Center of mass.

It feels less like I'm learning from scratch and more like I'm remembering the rules of a game I haven't played in years. I can't recite them blind, but once I see them… something just unlocks.

I check the clock—forty-five minutes in. I haven't zoned out once.

Weird.

Weird, but… exciting. I mean, if this is what it feels like to have Peter Parker's brain chemistry working with mine? No complaints. Maybe I can catch up to the guy he was supposed to be. Maybe I don't need to fake my way through this forever.

I scribble down a question in the margin—How does angular momentum affect swinging trajectory?

Part of me already knows what it's leading to.

I stare at it for a second too long, then shake it off and keep going.

There's a warmth creeping across the carpet now. That soft, amber pre-sunrise glow, the kind that makes you feel like the day's still deciding whether it wants to begin or not. It pours in through the blinds and hits the edge of my textbook, making the ink shimmer just enough to catch my attention.

I lean forward again, eyes narrowing as I start another problem. And for the first time in what feels like forever, I'm not doing it because I have to.

I'm doing it because I want to.

And that? That might be the biggest change yet.

I cap my pen and set it down with a quiet sigh, stretching back until the chair creaks under me. My back pops once, then twice. Yeah… that's the signal. I've officially hit the wall. Even my brain, now running smoother than it ever did in my old body, has its limits.

And yet—I've still got energy.

Like the kind that buzzes under your skin when you've had one too many cups of coffee and the walls feel like they're closing in. I drum my fingers on the desk, then glance over my shoulder toward the closet.

I know what I should do.

...but then there's the other voice. The lazy bastard. The one that whispers sweet nothings like, "We could just... lay down for a little while. Maybe catch up on some videos. No shame in that. Rest is productive, too."

Uh-huh. Real productive.

I push myself up and walk to the closet before that inner voice can drag me back to bed. Joggers. Faded gray. Worn-out t-shirt with a stretched collar and a graphic so faded I can't even tell what it used to be. Perfect. If I'm going to suffer, I might as well look like I'm halfway to the grave already.

I change, splash some water on my face in the bathroom, and run my fingers through my hair just enough to make it look like I meant to roll out of bed looking like this. Grab my phone, shove it in my pocket, and head out the door before I can talk myself out of it.

The air hits me first.

Cool and crisp, with that faint dampness still hanging in it from the dew. It wraps around me like a slap and a hug at the same time. The sky's still more pink than blue, and the neighborhood hasn't fully woken up yet. It's that magic hour—when everything feels like it belongs to you, even if just for a little while.

Oh, this is going to suckkkkkkkk…

I ease into a jog. Legs feel weird. Too long, too light. Like I've just strapped stilts onto my old self and dared gravity to notice. My knees wobble. My arms swing too much. This isn't running… I'm torturing myself.

But I keep going, because I need to.

Half a block in, I'm already hating it. The lazy voice starts making its comeback: "You've proven your point. Look at you, exercising. Let's go home and make a victory omelet."

Nope.

I push forward, even as my feet slap the pavement like they're filing a complaint with every step. A dog walker passes by—little brown mutt with a huge tongue and even huger eyes. The guy gives me a polite nod. I manage one back, trying not to look like I'm seconds from death.

A few kids speed past on bikes, one tossing newspapers like he's in a time loop from the '90s. The papers hit driveways and stoops with that satisfying thwap sound. I slow just long enough to glance at one sticking out of a mailbox—Daily Bugle.

Of course.

There's a guy sitting outside a café across the street, coffee in hand, reading the headline. I can't see it from here, but it makes me smile anyway. God, I hope Jameson's still around. The man might've been the human equivalent of sandpaper, but you couldn't say he didn't care. When he wasn't going full conspiracy theorist on Spider-Man, he actually was a great journalist.

Forest Hills starts opening up around me—more people out now, walking their dogs or stepping out to grab bagels. A group of pigeons scatter as I pass, and a chorus of birds up in the trees squabble like they're deciding who gets to chirp the loudest.

The streets are narrow but familiar. Rows of brick townhouses with little patches of grass out front, all damp with dew. Porch lights flicker off one by one as the sun inches higher, and every so often, I catch the faint scent of bacon wafting from a cracked kitchen window.

My pace evens out—barely—and I make it another few blocks before my lungs start sending angry texts to the rest of my body. The burn in my chest comes slow but sharp. My legs ache. My feet feel like they've turned into bricks. But somehow, I'm still going.

I pass Midtown High.

That's when it hits me again. I'll be walking through those doors on Monday.

God.

I was never a fan of school. In my old life, I treated it like a prison sentence. But now? I look at that building and wonder... if this really is Peter's brain working with me—if that switch is really flipped—maybe school won't be a nightmare this time. Maybe I'll get it. Maybe I'll even enjoy it.

Weirder things have happened.

I keep running. A little farther now.

Down the hill. Across the quiet intersection. I can hear my heartbeat in my ears. My shirt's sticking to my back. My breath's ragged and shallow. Every muscle in my legs is cursing my name.

But I don't stop.

Not until I reach the top of the stairs that lead down to the waterfront. The air shifts again—cooler, wetter, and I can smell it before I even see it. The river. That mix of salt, stone, and something metallic, like old train tracks after the rain.

I walk the last few steps down and stop at the railing, sweat pouring off me, lungs ready to revolt.

But I smile.

Manhattan stretches across the water like something out of a postcard—buildings rising in silhouette against the early morning light. It's quiet. Peaceful. Just the sound of water lapping against the shore and a few gulls screaming like they're late to something important.

I lean against the railing, panting, shirt clinging to me like wet tissue paper.

Despite the burning lungs, the aching calves, and the fact I still look like someone dumped me out of a washing machine—I feel good.

Better than good.

Fulfilled.

It's been about a week since I woke up like this. Since I looked in the mirror and saw Peter Parker staring back at me. And for the first time… it doesn't feel like a glitch in the Matrix.

It feels real.

It feels right.

This is my second chance.

And I'm not gonna waste it.

"On your left!" a voice called out suddenly.

I turned, startled, just in time to jerk my body sideways and avoid getting shoulder-checked into the East River. A girl slowed to a stop next to me, her sneakers skidding slightly against the concrete as she leaned against the railing like she'd just run a marathon in fast-forward. She was panting hard, bent slightly at the waist, but grinning wide like it had all been some kind of thrill ride.

Her hair was pulled back into a loose ponytail, bouncing a little as she caught her breath. Earbuds dangled from one hand, swinging lazily with each inhale. She looked over, still smiling.

"You good?" she asked between breaths, giving me a quick once-over.

"Oh, yeah," I huffed, trying not to sound like I was dying inside. I waved a hand vaguely toward the skyline. "Just... embracing the cardio-induced suffering."

She laughed—bright and easy, like it came from somewhere deep in her chest.

And then it hit me.

The laugh. The voice. Something about it flipped a switch in my brain, like a movie reel catching on a frame I'd already seen a hundred times.

I blinked. My eyes finally decided to catch up with my ears.

Her hair—how had I not noticed it sooner?

It wasn't just red. It wasn't ginger or strawberry blonde or that auburn shade people try to pass off as "copper." No. This was red.

The kind of red that cartoon characters had in the late 90s and early 2000s. That perfectly saturated, comic book, Hex Girls lead singer, stop-you-in-your-tracks red.

And it was all of it.

No roots showing. No fading. No accidental dye job. This was main character red. The kind that rewired an entire generation of kids into developing oddly specific taste in women by age nine.

I stared just a second too long.

No. No, no, no, no, no…

Oh, you've got to be kidding me.

Is the universe actually plotting against me?

Because unless the multiverse decided to shuffle the deck really weird this time, I'm standing next to Mary Jane Watson. On my first real run. In public. Dripping sweat like a human waterfall. Wearing a T-shirt older than time.

Cool.

Fantastic.

Exactly the kind of moment I didn't want to have today.

I swallowed hard, glancing back at her. She was focused on the skyline again, arms stretched out wide, eyes half-lidded like she was soaking in the sunrise.

God, she didn't even realize what she just did. She might as well have roundhouse kicked my brain. And of course... of course May had been trying to set me up with her. She probably would've waited until breakfast to spring it on me.

I turned back to the river, resting my forearms on the railing and exhaling slow. Maybe—maybe—if I played it cool, this would be just a blip. Maybe she'd run off in a few minutes and I'd chalk it up to a hallucination brought on by dehydration and muscle fatigue.

Then again, when have I ever been that lucky?

"You know," she finally says, cutting through the silence. "That's really not the kind of clothes you should be wearing if you're going on a run."

I blink and turn toward her, face scrunching up in something halfway between a wince and a laugh.

"Yeah... I figured that out like a minute into it," I admit, brushing the back of my hand across my forehead. "I don't have any tank tops at home. Otherwise, I would've gone full athlete mode."

She raises a brow, one side of her mouth tugging up into a lopsided smirk.

"Well, if you were trying to look like you belong in a '90s sitcom, you nailed it."

"Ha ha…" I roll my eyes, lips twitching into a crooked grin as I turn back toward the water. "Yeah, I'll add that to the list of looks I'm crushing today. Right next to Sweaty Goblin."

She laughs again.

"I didn't plan this out very well," I add, shrugging like the sweat soaking through my shirt wasn't slowly becoming a national disaster. "It was spur of the moment, really."

Her arms stretch overhead in a lazy arc as she lets out a breath, like she's not even breaking a sweat, like this—this early morning run with the skyline and the river breeze—is just her version of a coffee break.

"I mean, that's kind of the best kind, isn't it?" she says. "If you plan stuff, you give yourself too many reasons not to do it. Spur of the moment makes it harder to chicken out."

That… actually hit.

I look over at her again, studying her face a little more now that the initial cosmic slap of recognition has passed. She's still not really looking at me. Her eyes are on the water. The sun's just starting to crest, lighting her from the side like some cinematographer's dream. Her skin has that just-after-run glow, but it works on her. Like everything does.

She's got that kind of presence that people write songs about.

And here I am, dressed like I robbed a Goodwill, trying to regulate my breathing so I don't sound like a wheezing balloon.

"I guess you're right," I say after a second. "Still hurts, though."

"Yeah," she says, letting her arms fall as she cracks her neck with a satisfying pop. "But at least you showed up. Most people just keep saying 'I'll start tomorrow.'"

Oh, you mean like me? LITERALLY, ME.

I can't help it. I smile.

"Is this the part where you tell me I should hydrate and stretch and start tracking macros?"

"God, no," she says, immediately grimacing. "That's how you end up insufferable."

"Good, because my heart is pounding in my ears right now so I doubt I'd hear you." I pant with emphasis.

She snorts, then offers her hand, finally—finally—turning fully to face me.

"Mary Jane, but everyone calls me MJ." She says.

I look down at her hand, then back up at her.

Of course it is.

"Peter," I say, taking her hand in mine. It's casual, quick—but the moment her fingers wrap around mine, something flares. Not electricity or fate or anything that dramatic—just heat. A jolt of oh no, she's real.

Her lips quirk like she noticed it too, even if she doesn't say anything.

"So, Peter…" she repeats my name, testing the sound of it like she's deciding if it fits. And even though it technically is my name now, it still lands weird in my ears. Like trying on a jacket that used to belong to someone else—it fits, sure, but it still smells like them.

"You live around here?"

"Yeah, Queens," I reply, nodding toward the neighborhood behind me like I've been here longer than a week.

Her eyebrows go up, interested.

"My aunt—Anna—lives around here too."

Well, here's my opening. Time to make sure when the inevitable introduction happens, she's already aware.

"Anna? As in Anna Watson?" I ask, already knowing exactly where this is going but playing dumb anyway.

"Yeah?" she says slowly, giving me a look like she's trying to figure out if I'm a stalker or just weird. "How do you know that?"

"I'm her neighbor," I say, like the universe didn't just swing a bat directly at my kneecaps. "May Parker's my aunt. They're, uh… good friends."

MJ blinks, then breaks into a smile that looks way too amused for my current emotional stability.

"You're that Peter?"

I feel my soul deflate just a little.

"Guilty."

"Well," she says, folding her arms and grinning like she just solved a riddle, "you're a lot sweatier than I pictured."

"Hi… I promise I'm not like this normally," I say with the kind of sheepish smile that probably does nothing to help my case, considering I look like I just lost a fight with a sprinkler.

MJ snorts.

"I don't know, I kind of dig the look."

I let out a dry laugh, then rub the back of my neck, my hand damp with sweat.

"I gotta ask…" I glance sideways at her. "Have they been trying to get you to meet me a lot lately?"

She gives me that look. Head tilted, one eyebrow creeping up, the smirk practically weaponized now.

"You mean like… every single time I stop by?"

I groan.

"Fantastic."

"Yeah," she nods, mock-sincere. "I've been told we'd 'really get along' about five times now. Once with a wink."

"I'm so sorry."

"Don't be," she says with a shrug, tossing her hair back over her shoulder. "It was either this or getting set up with her pharmacist's grandson, who apparently 'loves science and knitting.'"

"Well," I gesture to myself, "I can't knit, but I did spend the morning watching physics videos, so…"

MJ looks at me for a beat longer than expected. Her smile softens just a bit.

"Guess you're already ahead of the competition."

"I mean, how can I compete with someone who knits?" I throw my hands up, feigning defeat. "That's, like, peak boyfriend material."

I shouldn't have said that, but the words come out of my mouth quicker than I can stop it. At least she doesn't seem to mind it.

MJ laughs—really laughs this time. It's unfiltered and loud, the kind that makes the corner of your mouth twitch even if you don't mean to smile. She shakes her head, breathing in the river air as it drifts past us.

I feel like I need to be put in prison. I'm twenty-four, she's fourteen. I should not even make a boyfriend joke.

"I suppose it's better we met this way," she says, stretching her arms behind her back. "It's going to be a lot less awkward when they try to introduce us now."

"Oh, it's still gonna be awkward," I reply, leaning back on the railing beside her. "Just... less awkward."

She grins.

For a second, neither of us says anything. The river glints in the early light, and somewhere behind us, a cyclist's bell rings faintly. I steal a glance at her—cheeks still flushed from the run, hair a bit frizzy from the breeze—and I'm suddenly very aware of how utterly unprepared I was for any of this.

"I'm actually staying with Aunt Anna now, so..." MJ says after a minute or two, her steps falling into rhythm with mine. "Do you want to go back with me?"

"Uh, does that involve running?"

"No, I promise." She grins, eyes bright with amusement. "I don't want to explain to May why her nephew looks like a drowned rat."

"Hey, you know what... that's—that's fair."

"Not that it's going to help much, considering..." she adds with a smirk, but lets it trail off, like she's already said too much.

We fell into a steady walk along the sidewalk, passing under trees that hadn't quite figured out if it was spring or summer yet. The sun's climbing now, casting gold across rooftops and car hoods. There's dew still clinging to the grass in yards, glistening like frost that overslept.

And somehow… we're just talking. Like this isn't awkward. Like she didn't just meet the version of Peter Parker who absolutely isn't Peter Parker.

It's funny how natural it feels.

"So, wait," she says, turning to glance at me. "You were in a coma?"

I nod. "Yeah."

"What happened? Why are you running?"

There's something about the way she asks—equal parts genuine concern and bafflement—that makes me laugh under my breath.

"Well, I don't know exactly what happened." I exhale, trying to find the balance between the truth and what the world already knows. "I was on a school field trip to Oscorp. After that... it's blank. Next thing I remember, I'm waking up in a hospital bed and they're telling me I've been out for three weeks."

She blinks.

"And you've got amnesia?"

"Retrograde amnesia," I nod. "Some stuff's still there, but other parts are just... gone. It's like somebody reached into my head and yanked out the important stuff with a pair of tongs."

MJ stares for a second longer than I expect her to, brow furrowed like she's trying to read me, but not in a suspicious way. More... thoughtful. And then:

"Okay. Again—why were you running?! You should be resting."

"I needed to move," I say with a shrug. "It felt like the right thing to do."

"Most people recovering from a coma start with walking to the kitchen. You went full Rocky montage."

"I'll have you know… I've been up and moving for about a week. I've been working up to it!"

"But running through Queens barely a week after coming out of a coma? That's insane!"

"Yeah, well," I huff, nudging a loose pebble off the sidewalk with my foot. "Sitting around just makes me feel stuck. Like if I don't get out of my own head once in a while, I'll lose what little of it I've got left."

There's a pause. A quiet one. No jokes from her this time.

"Yeah," she says finally. "I get that."

We keep walking. No rush. The neighborhood starts to stir a little more—cars rumbling to life, the smell of someone's burnt toast wafting from an open kitchen window. We pass a yard where an old sprinkler's still ticking away from earlier in the morning, little droplets catching the sunlight like glitter.

"I mean," I say, glancing at her, "it was either this or risk falling down some Wikipedia rabbit hole trying to figure out who I was before everything went sideways."

"Plus," she adds, folding her arms, "you never know when you'll scroll too far and learn something weird about yourself. Like that you used to have a MySpace account dedicated to yo-yo tricks."

"I swear if that actually comes up…"

She laughs. It's loud, effortless, and it feels like it cuts straight through the morning haze. I don't think I've laughed that easily in days.

And yeah… maybe this wasn't how we were supposed to meet. But as far as alternate timelines go? It's not the worst version.

By the time we got back to the house, Uncle Ben was on the porch grabbing the newspaper. He looked up at me, eyebrows slightly raised with a quiet curiosity. I gave him a small, knowing smile. Yeah, I'd just vanished for about an hour, only to show up walking alongside a girl. If it were my mom or Grandpa, I'd be bracing for a full interrogation—or worse, a teasing blitz.

Ben just nodded once, then turned and went back inside without a word.

It was weird how understanding he was. May, on the other hand? I'd probably have to answer fifty questions before she'd be satisfied. But Ben… I think he gets me more than I deserve.

MJ glanced at Ben, a curious tilt to her head.

"I suppose that's your uncle?" she asked.

I nodded.

"Yep. That's Uncle Ben. I guess I better get inside before May finds out and throws a party."

She laughed softly.

"Alright, see you around then."

"Oh, I'm sure I will," I said, watching her head up the steps.

I stepped inside and let the door click shut behind me. The smell of coffee hit first—strong, a little burnt, in that comforting way only old drip machines can manage. Ben was already at the dining table, sitting in his usual spot, hands wrapped around a steaming mug like it was the anchor to his morning routine.

He raised his brows over the rim and took a long sip, eyes following me as I walked in.

"Not a word…" I said, pointing a finger as I passed him. "Please."

Ben set the cup down with the faintest clink, that same amused smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"She won't hear a word from me about it," he promised, voice casual. "I'll let it be a nice surprise."

God bless this man. My knight in maroon robes.

I exhaled and dropped into the chair across from him, not realizing how dead my legs were until gravity did most of the work for me. My whole body groaned in silent protest. Muscles trembling, lungs still recovering. If I moved again, I was pretty sure I'd spontaneously combust.

Ben gave me a look.

"Only thing, though… where were you?"

"I went for a run," I said, slumping in my seat and letting my arms hang.

He blinked once. Slowly.

"You… Peter Parker… went for a run?"

"Yeah." I nodded, and then added with a tired grin, "It's hard to explain. It just felt like the right thing to do."

Ben leaned back slightly, lifting his mug again.

"Kiddo," he said, "you're full of surprises lately."

I smirked, dragging a hand through my damp hair.

"So I've been told."

Ben sipped his coffee, that knowing glint in his eye sharpening just enough to make me wary.

"So that's MJ, huh?" he asked, casual as anything.

I groaned.

"Yes…" The word crawled out of my throat like it had been dragged against gravel. "Yes, it is."

"She seems nice," he added, way too smoothly.

"Yeah," I muttered, slouching lower in my chair. "She is."

There was a pause. A beat of silence long enough to feel staged.

"I owe May five dollars," he said.

I blinked.

"What?"

Ben took another sip like he hadn't just dropped a bombshell.

"What the hell?" I said, sitting up. "You two bet on whether I'd meet her?"

"Not whether you'd meet her," he said, lifting a finger. "Whether you'd actually talk to her."

I opened my mouth, and closed it again.

"She said it'd happen today, didn't she?"

"She said you wouldn't be able to help yourself once you got a look at her," he said, with the smug satisfaction of a man who'd known all along this conversation was coming. "I said you'd duck and run."

For fuck's sake, guys… SHE'S FOURTEEN. No. JUST NO.

"I was literally on a run!" I protested.

Ben just raised his eyebrows, like that only proved her point.

I slumped back again and groaned.

"Unbelievable…"

"By the way, language."

I dropped my head onto the table.

This family was going to kill me before any supervillain had the chance.

I try to hide my embarrassment as I sit up, catching a whiff of my sweat and wincing. I need a shower.

"In my defense," I said, already rising to my feet, "I didn't know it was her."

"I'm sure you didn't, son," he replied, the warmth in his voice enough to disarm me a little. "You still talked to her."

"Yeah, yeah…" I muttered, rubbing at my face. "I'm going to go take a shower before May smells me and thinks I've been dumpster diving."

"Good idea," Ben called after me. "Hot water's on. Try not to use it all."

I shot him a tired thumbs-up over my shoulder and started up the stairs. My legs were still jelly, each step a personal attack. Again, the lazy bastard in me is creeping over my shoulder going 'See what happens when you don't listen to me? SEE?!'

Yeah, fuck off. While I didn't want to meet MJ yet, I still consider the run worth it. Then again, the morning is still young and there's time to change that.

Please, let Harry get here soon.

Arsenal597 · 2025-12-03T21:10:28+0000

The shower is better than I could have hoped for. The hot water splashing against my skin feels great, and my muscles are loving it. I get finished and step out of the shower, wrapping a towel around my torso. Heading back to my room, I find Peter's best clothes that don't look horribly geeky. It's honestly a t-shirt with long sleeves under it, with brown cargo pants. Spectacular Spider-Man cartoon style, I can dig that.

The fabric's stiff from sitting in the drawer too long—creased at the sleeves, a little too new-smelling, like laundry detergent trying to cover up disuse. I tug it on anyway. The mirror catches my eye and I glance at it, catching the drip of water down my neck. My hair's a mess—just damp enough to be annoying, not wet enough to look intentional. There's no point in trying to fix it, Peter's hair is unruly anyway.

But it does work for him. I'll give him that.

I look at the glasses, and lift them to where I can gaze through the lenses. I know, I can see perfectly fine without them, but I'd like to see if it's that drastic of a difference. The lenses make everything a bit blurrier, like there's a faint haze, everything's slightly out of focus. That's a headache waiting to happen.

Laying them back down, I head for the door. At least I won't have to worry about needing glasses from now on. I never did like wearing them too much, even if it helped prevent my migraines.

Downstairs, the smell of breakfast hangs in the air—eggs, toast, something vaguely cinnamon if I'm not imagining it. The table's already set, and May smiles at me as I slide into the chair like I haven't just been out running halfway across Queens.

No one says much. Just the quiet sounds of silverware tapping ceramic, Ben rustling the paper, and the occasional clink of a glass being set down. It's… peaceful, honestly. Like they're giving me space without realizing it. Or maybe they do realize it.

The only thing May says—lightly, without judgment—is, "Would've been nice to know you were going out, sweetheart. Just so we knew."

I nod, mouth full, and give her a quick thumbs-up. That's enough for now.

Afterward, I help bring the plates to the sink. I barely finish drying my hands when there's a knock at the front door. One of those casual three-beat knocks—light, but not shy. I already know who it is.

I open it to find Harry standing there, hands in his jacket pockets, grinning like we're about to get away with something.

"You ready to go?" he asks.

I roll my eyes, chuckling.

"Good morning to you, too."

"Is that Harry, I hear?" May calls from the kitchen.

Harry steps in just as she rounds the corner, and the way his face softens says he's been here before—maybe not often, but enough to remember the smell of May's cookies or the shape of the furniture.

"Mrs. Parker," he smiles, pulling her into a quick hug.

"Dear, you should come over more."

"I plan on it," he says, meaning it. "I've been busy lately." He glances toward me. "Speaking of which, Pete and I got a big day ahead of us and not a whole lot of time, so maybe we can catch up sometime next week?"

"Of course, sweetheart," May nods. "You two behave."

"Define behave," I mumble, and Harry's already dragging me out the door.

"Alright, so you got a style in mind or do I get a chance to mold you into my Michelangelo?" Harry asks, putting his hands out toward me like he's already mentally pinning me into a turtleneck. Which, ew. Turtlenecks? They cling to my neck too much. I like to breathe.

"Uh, I was hoping to just kind of wing it. Nothing flashy, but not what I had before."

"So you're not dressing to kill. Got it." He gives me a side glance, one eyebrow cocked like I just walked into a courtroom without a lawyer. "There a reason you want to do this?"

I keep walking.

"You're not trying to impress this MJ girl, are you?"

"HA! Shut up!" I laugh, already shaking my head as we make it to the car. "Please, can we not mention her while we're still on the property line?"

"Oh, I smell a development. What happened?"

"I went for a run this morning and I—"

"Wait, you went on a run? You, Peter Parker… went on a run?"

"I regret it, yes, but that's beside the point."

"But you went on a run..." He's staring at me now like he expects me to pull off a mask and reveal I'm actually a shapeshifter.

"I know, I know," I sigh. "The world's ending. Dogs and cats are living together. The nerd ran."

He snorts.

"You sure you didn't hit your head this morning?"

As I sit down and buckle my seat belt, I press my tongue against my cheek trying to avoid my usual sarcastic comments, because frankly they come off a bit too brass for some people's liking.

"I wish. It'd explain a lot. But do you want me to tell you what happened or are you going to focus on the fact I willingly exercised?"

"Okay, okay… you went on a run and…"

"Thank you," I mockingly bow.

Bernard starts the car and we take off for the city.

"I ended up at the waterfront," I say, watching the houses blur past through the window, "and she ended up being there too."

Harry doesn't jump in right away. He gives it a second, just long enough for me to think maybe he's going to let it slide. But no.

"Total coincidence, or...?"

I shrug. Knowing how Peter is practically destined to meet MJ at one point in his life, it certainly wasn't a coincidence.

"I didn't know she'd be there. I was trying to burn off energy—to do something productive that wasn't in a book."

"So you did it for stress relief? I thought your version of that was homework?"

No, it's not. I hate homework, but Peter… I guess he might like that.

"Still is," I mutter. "Just trying to add cardio."

That gets a short laugh from him. I lean my head back against the seat, feeling the coolness of the window through my hair. The scent of leather seats, faint cologne—Harry's, not mine—and the quiet hum of the engine settle between us for a beat.

"Alright, Fabio… continue on with the story." Harry motioned toward me.

"Right," I straighten my back. "I was relaxing on a railing when she showed up, nearly running into me."

"Classic," Harry grins. "Were you shirtless and glowing from the workout or was this more 'sweaty gremlin crouched on a pier' energy?"

"Definitely the latter," I deadpan. "I was half a second away from heaving into the river."

"So you met her as your best self. Good strategy."

I give him a slow blink. "Anyway… we started talking. Just small stuff. I didn't even realize who she was at first. She mentioned an aunt who lives in Queens and then it clicked."

Harry lifts an eyebrow but doesn't say anything, just nods like he's filing the info away somewhere behind those rich kid sunglasses.

"That MJ," Harry says.

"Yeah," I nod. "That MJ."

The city skyline's getting closer now—buildings creeping taller, traffic inching thicker. Bernard's gliding through it all like it's just background noise. I watch as we pass a street vendor with a cart of roasted nuts, and the smell somehow seeps through the closed windows, warm and sugary.

"She was cool though," I add, maybe a little too quickly. "Like, actually cool."

"Is she pretty?"

I don't answer, mostly because the thought of commenting on an underage girl's appearance makes me sick to my stomach.

"I don't know," I manage. "I was out of breath, about ready to throw up. I didn't pay that much attention."

"You gonna see her again?"

I open my mouth, then pause.

"I don't know, maybe? We didn't exchange numbers or anything."

"Oh, come on… you chickened out?"

"I did not chicken out!"

"You totally did!"

"Harry, I wasn't trying to get her number! I was trying to not die!" I retort, raising my voice slightly just to the point it cracks. I fucking hate puberty… I take a breath, and continue. "But she and I walked back together. She went into her aunt's place, so I'm guessing there's a good chance we'll see each other again."

Harry lets out a low whistle, not mocking—more like he's genuinely impressed.

"Well look at you, Pete. Going for a run, surviving it, and getting a casual walk home with a girl? You're evolving."

"Yeah, if I keep it up, I'll unlock the ability to speak in full sentences without sounding like my voice box is short-circuiting."

Harry laughs as Bernard takes the next turn, the city finally swallowing the last bits of suburbia behind us. The noise level picks up—car horns, a siren somewhere distant, and the rhythmic bass of a stereo from a passing car vibrating through the window.

I shift in my seat, still feeling a little damp in places the towel didn't quite get. My shirt sticks to my back a little. Gross. I subtly peel it away without drawing attention.

"So… you feeling nervous?" Harry asks, tone casual, but I can hear the real question under it. The unspoken what are you trying to become, exactly?

I glance out the window again. "About shopping?"

"About everything."

I give a half-shrug.

"I just don't want to look like I did before. Doesn't feel like me anymore."

Harry doesn't say anything right away. I half-expect him to crack a joke, but instead he nods like he gets it—like he actually understands what it's like to outgrow your own skin.

"Well," he finally says, leaning forward to look out the windshield as we turn down a tighter street, "lucky for you, I know just the place. Low pressure, good fits, solid prices."

"Wait—are we not doing one of your high-end brand places?" I tease. "No gold-leaf silk jackets or imported Parisian leather?"

Harry grins.

"I figured we'd start you off in the kiddie pool before I take you to the deep end."

Bernard pulls up to the curb in front of a storefront that's wedged between a barber shop and a bubble tea place. The windows are tinted just enough that you can't fully see inside, but the clean lines of mannequins in the display window scream "not cheap" without being obnoxious.

I unbuckle my seatbelt and stare at the door for a second, heart starting to thump a little harder than I expected.

Harry's already halfway out when he leans back and says, "Come on, man. Let's get you upgraded."

As we step inside, I can already hear Roy Orbison faintly in the back of my mind—"Pretty Woman" looping on imaginary speakers while I picture myself trying on clothes I have no business being seen in. Knowing Harry, he'd be thrilled to do the full montage. Hell, he might have brought the soundtrack himself.

Honestly? I might just lean into it. For the bit. The workers probably won't appreciate me treating their job like a sitcom gag, but I've got some residual post-run serotonin bouncing around. Let's see how I feel after a shirt or two.

We don't get more than a few feet in before a woman at the counter greets us with that kind of customer service smile that says she's prepared for anything—up to and including a teenager trying on six coats just to leave without buying a single thing.

"What can I do for you gentlemen today?" she asks, polite but sharp-eyed, already clocking Harry's expensive watch and my decidedly not expensive cargo pants.

Harry doesn't miss a beat.

"My friend here is undergoing a full-blown fashion renaissance."

I shoot him a look.

"That's a little dramatic."

"He's evolving," Harry continues, gesturing to me like I'm a museum exhibit titled Before Style. "We're hoping to find him some looks that say, 'I'm cool but not trying too hard,' and also, 'No, ma'am, I don't work for Geek Squad.'"

The woman's smile doesn't fade, but I see the glint of amusement behind her eyes. "Got it. No polos, no khakis, and we'll burn any sweater vests on sight."

"You're a saint," I mutter.

"Let me grab someone from the floor to help you two out," she says, already reaching for a headset. "Make yourselves comfortable."

As she walks away, Harry claps me on the back.

"Alright, Peter. You ready for your fashion redemption arc?"

I glance at the racks of clothes, the mirror-lined walls, and the faint scent of cologne, pressed cotton, and overpriced ambition hanging in the air.

"As long as I don't end up in a deep v-neck or anything leather, I think I'll survive."

He grins.

"No promises."

We go through it all.

There's the skater look—oversized tee, plaid overshirt, sneakers too white to trust. I don't hate it, but it doesn't feel like me. More like a persona I'd try on and then leave folded on the floor of someone else's life.

There's some retro 80s look Harry tries to pitch, complete with loud patterns and sunglasses that look like they belong on a synthwave album cover. Hard pass.

Eventually, we narrow it down. I find a rhythm. A style that actually clicks.

Darker colors. Deep maroons, charcoal grays, navy blues. Layers that feel like armor, but not too heavy. A fitted thermal henley under a broken-in brown jacket, something with structure but not stiffness. A couple tank tops for working out, and shorts that don't look like I stole them from a sixth grader.

Running sneakers—sleek, black-and-white, lightweight. Black K-Swisses for everyday wear. And, against all odds, a pair of combat boots that just feel right. Heavy enough to matter. Like they're made to last.

The woman helping us—who's been pretty patient through the whole montage—raises an eyebrow at the boots with the rest of the outfit.

"Bit of a mixed signal," she mutters.

Harry grins.

"That's his brand."

I change one last time and step out. Harry gives me a once-over, hand on his chin like he's about to cast me in a cologne commercial.

"Okay," he says, "this is working. You look good, Pete."

I nod slowly.

"Thanks."

"But there's something missing," he adds, eyes narrowing slightly. "It's clean. Sharp. But it doesn't feel… you."

He's right.

It takes me a second, but I feel it in my chest—this tiny itch of memory, like I've left the oven on somewhere back in a life that technically isn't mine.

The necklace.

I used to wear one. Silver pendant, black cord. Assassin's Creed insignia. A piece of who I was before all this. I didn't wear it often, thanks to the metal detectors at work always flagging me for secondary screening. But still, it was mine. Simple. Meaningful.

Do they even have Assassin's Creed in this world?

If they did, did they ruin it after 3 like I remember? Did Ubisoft go full corporate greed and never look back?

Not the point.

I stare at my reflection in the mirror—new clothes, new body, new world—and realize I need something. Something simple. A marker. A totem. Something quiet but grounding.

"Maybe a necklace," I say aloud, almost more to myself than Harry.

He perks up.

"Yeah? Like what—dog tags? Chain? Cross?"

I shake my head. "Nothing loud. Just… something personal."

He nods.

"There's a vintage spot a few blocks from here. We can swing by after this, if you want."

I glance down at the boots again, flexing my toes inside the thick leather.

"Yeah," I say. "Let's do that."

The shop is tucked between a laundromat and a bakery that smells like heaven dipped in powdered sugar. The kind of place you'd miss if you blinked—or if Harry wasn't actively dragging me toward it with the determination of a personal stylist on a mission.

A little bell jingles overhead as we step inside.

It's… cluttered. But intentionally so. Every surface feels curated in that chaotic "organized mess" way, like a museum run by fandom goblins. The air's thick with dust, faintly sweet—incense, maybe vanilla or patchouli—and there's soft jazz humming from a tinny speaker tucked behind the register.

The necklace display is a rotating rack jammed with every kind of chain you can imagine. Leather cords, beaded strands, braided hemp, polished metals. I spot a silver Imperial crest from Star Wars, the One Ring replica dangling from a fine gold chain, and more Deathly Hallows pendants than anyone in 2025 should reasonably still be selling.

Harry spins the rack idly, raising an eyebrow at a tiny plastic Poké Ball on a string. "You sure this is your vibe?"

"I'm looking," I mutter, fingers brushing over a dragonfly, an alien head, a miniature cassette tape.

Then I see it.

Bright. Silver. Shaped like a wolf's head.

Not cartoonish. Not stylized to death. It's got an edge—angular lines, eyes narrowed, ears back. Predatory but noble. Like something that'd sit around the neck of someone who walks alone but isn't alone.

I reach for it instinctively.

It's heavier than I expected. Not hollow. The cord it hangs from is a dark gray leather, already broken in and soft from use. The metal's cool against my fingers, but it doesn't feel cold.

Harry leans in.

"A wolf?"

I turn the pendant over once, letting the silver catch the light. It looks a little like the Witcher symbol from the Netflix show—less snarling, more regal. Clean lines. Like it was carved by someone who gave a damn.

"It's my favorite animal," I say quietly.

He studies me for a beat, then just nods.

"Good pick."

I loop it around my neck and feel the weight settle at the base of my throat. It feels… right. Like a name you didn't know you'd forgotten until someone said it.

"Let's check out," I say.

The outfits aren't far off from what I imagined Peter would wear anyway. That kind of layered, slightly rumpled confidence. The TASM vibe is strong—hoodies under jackets, sleeves pushed up, jeans that actually fit. It's practical. It's clean. It's… me.

Or, it's the version of me I always wished I could be.

Back then, clothes like this felt like fiction. Something that lived on mannequins and actors, not on guys like me. I was always just a little too broad in the shoulders, a little too soft around the middle. I wore what fit, not what I wanted.

Now, though—now it fits.

We climb back into the car, shopping bags in the trunk, and the necklace still resting warm against my chest like it's been there forever.

Harry glances at me as Bernard pulls away from the curb, heading back toward Queens. He looks me over once—not obnoxiously, just enough to catalog the change—and nods, satisfied.

"Definitely an improvement," he says.

I just smile—not anything big or dramatic. We ride the rest of the way in comfortable silence, the city bleeding into suburbs again as the afternoon light slants longer across the pavement.

As I carry everything in, I can already feel the weight of their stares before I even make it past the front door.

Ben's eyebrows creep up so high they practically touch his hairline. May just stands there in the kitchen doorway, dish towel in her hand, looking like I've brought home a small furniture set instead of a few bags of clothes.

To be fair… it is a lot. Definitely more than I planned.

I set the bags down by the table and drop into the nearest chair with a sigh, half from exhaustion, half from knowing what's coming next.

"You had a busy day," Ben says, eyeing the haul like it might start multiplying. "Please tell me they were cheap."

"Cheap-ish?" I offer, wincing slightly. "Harry took care of everything."

May gasps softly, and I immediately regret phrasing it like that.

"Peter!" she scolds, stepping forward. "You shouldn't have had Harry do that."

"I didn't!" I sit up straighter, hands out defensively. "I swear, I didn't ask him to buy it all. I just wanted help picking something out that didn't look like it came from a clearance bin."

She crosses her arms, her look somewhere between concerned mother and disappointed tax auditor.

"I'll pay him back," I add quickly. "Even if it takes me until I'm thirty."

Ben chuckles under his breath.

"Something tells me you'd be owing him money for a lot longer than that, kiddo."

He catches sight of the necklace resting against my chest. It gleams slightly in the kitchen light—silver catching amber like a sunset on metal.

"That part of the shopping trip too?"

"Yeah. It was like ten bucks," I say, fingers brushing it instinctively. "You like it?"

"It's nice," Ben nods. "Looks like it means something."

"It does. Sort of." I don't really know how to explain that yet. But I feel the weight of it in a way I didn't expect—like a small anchor in a sea of change.

May's expression softens, but not all the way.

"Just promise me you won't rely on Harry for financial aid, dear. Or Norman," she adds with a subtle frown. "We can manage just fine without their help."

"I know," I say, and I mean it. "I didn't go looking for a handout."

She sighs, then leans over to press a kiss to the top of my damp hair. "We just don't want you to feel like you have to accept help when you've got us."

"I don't," I say. "I've got you guys. That's all I really need."

Ben leans back, satisfied.

"Good. Now go put those clothes away before I start thinking you're about to open a boutique upstairs."

"Don't tempt me!" I beam as I grab the bags and start hauling them upstairs. At least in Peter's body I have a way better center of balance. Hauling things upstairs has never been so easy!

I make it to the bedroom and kick the door shut behind me with my heel, dropping the bags onto the bed with a soft thud. There's a ridiculous amount of stuff—folded jeans, jackets layered over shirts, sneakers in their boxes. I stare at the pile like it personally offended me.

The closet groans when I open it, like it knows what I'm about to do. And yeah… it's not great in there. A graveyard of old shirts, oversized sweaters, and pants that probably never fit right in the first place. Most of it looks like it was bought with coupons and settled into, not chosen.

And now I've got to figure out where all this actual clothing goes.

I sigh and scrub a hand through my hair, already knowing I'm gonna make this worse before I make it better. I'm not what you'd call "organization-minded." My method has always been more… geological. Layered piles. Erosion over time.

Still, I pull everything out of the closet and start going through it. Some stuff I fold neatly on the bed. Some I just toss aside without ceremony. There's a pair of khakis in here that feel like they've personally wronged me.

Eventually, I make a dent. The new clothes start taking up space on the hangers, arranged mostly by color because that's the easiest system I can fake. A few pairs of shoes line up under the hanging clothes. The necklace's silver glint catches in the mirror as I move.

I pause, meeting my reflection again.

I don't look completely like Peter anymore.

I look like me.

Or… maybe like the version of me that's been waiting to be let out. Confident. Comfortable. Just a little bit worn in.

"Not bad," I mutter, nodding at myself. "Still not folding the socks, though."

The lazy bastard in me smiles, having clutched a small victory.

I collapse backward onto the bed, arms outstretched like I've just completed an Olympic triathlon. The fresh scent of fabric softener clings to the bedsheet, mixing with the faint metallic scent of the necklace still pressed against my chest.

It's quiet up here. Just the faint creak of the house settling and the occasional car rolling past outside. I let the moment sit—just me, the calm, and a small mountain of receipts I probably don't want to look at.

The ceiling doesn't look any different from the one in my old room, but it feels different. Like this room has potential. Like it could be mine, not just Peter's. I'm slowly starting to carve out the difference.

I shift, hand brushing over the necklace again, thumb tracing the edge of the wolf's snout. There's something solid in it. A reminder of the person I still am beneath all this, wrapped in another person's skin.

If I get a couple movie posters, a new paint job, and some new books, this will feel a lot more like home.

Most importantly, I need to be able to write. Get my thoughts out before they start turning to static. The laptop'll do just fine for that. It's old, a little sluggish, but it boots up and types, and that's all I really need. I've got things I want to say—some to myself, maybe some for someone else down the line.

Today was good.

Not perfect. Not painless. But good. The kind of good you feel in your chest, like a knot that finally let go. I'm not fully comfortable yet—not in this house, not in this skin—but it doesn't feel like I'm trespassing anymore.

That's a good start.

The weekend goes by quicker than I would have liked, but it was productive. I woke up, went for a morning run to the waterfront and back. It's still just as terrible as I remembered it being the other morning, but unlike the casual walk back with MJ, I force myself to run back both days. After the shower, I studied my ass off.

It's genuinely amazing how everything is sticking now. I know Peter was smart, and since I have his brain now, the neurons are firing faster. I don't have his intellect, but I feel like there's a chance now that one day I could have it.

It's actually fun, I hate to admit it. I'm scribbling down notes, recalling my Auto Body class from high school, minor things like that and finding ways to apply it to what I'm learning. Hell, I bet Ben and May think I'm bouncing right back to where Peter was before the coma.

I help cut the grass, assist May in cooking dinner, and even work with Ben to fix a leak in the basement. The energy I have is astonishing. I don't know how to describe it other than I want to move. I have a drive now…

Like something under my skin's caught fire and decided it's not going out anytime soon.

I'm not bouncing off the walls or anything. It's not hyper, not manic. It's just this low, persistent hum—like a car engine idling in my chest, waiting for green lights. I used to wake up dreading the idea of doing anything, but now I'm pulling open textbooks before I even brush my teeth.

On Sunday night, I actually look forward to school.

Let me say that again for the people in the back: I'm looking forward to school.

I know that's what Peter was about. Always pushing himself, always hungry to learn. And now I get it. I'm not him, but I've got the scaffolding in my head that lets me climb higher than I used to. Every equation I solve, every scientific term I recall, it's like I'm rewiring my own expectations in real time.

And the crazy part? It's not pressure. It's possibility.

The world feels wider now. Like the limitations I lived with before weren't real—they were just familiar.

I even enjoy helping out around the house. Cutting the grass, fixing a leak with Ben, dicing vegetables while May walks me through an old family recipe like I've done it a dozen times. The scent of garlic, the hum of a lawnmower, the cold copper smell of damp basement air—it all hits differently now.

Beyond that, though… I am noticing one thing that's lacking that I wish I had more of: the powers.

I know how ridiculous that sounds. I'm living in a dream scenario. I've got Peter's life, his family, his brain, his shot. And yeah, it's amazing. But the part that made him more than just some smart kid with a good heart—that part's been quiet.

Too quiet.

I shouldn't be upset that I'm not there yet. It's not like I've been bitten, blacked out, and woke up crawling on the ceiling. I know the timeline. I've got a little longer to go before the changes really kick in.

But I want to know what the rest of it feels like.

The Spider Sense only flared up once—but since then? Nothing. No sixth sense whispering in the back of my skull, no danger tingling on the edge of awareness. I keep waiting for it to show up again like a rerun, but all I get is silence.

Still… I can feel something brewing. It's subtle, but it's there.

My reflexes are sharper. I've started catching things before I realize I'm reaching for them. I move quicker. Turn corners faster. It's not much—but it's something.

And maybe that's what makes it harder. The taste of it. The hint.

It's like the universe is dangling the powers just out of reach, waiting to see what I'll do next.

I'm not going to chase after it if I don't have to, but it doesn't mean that I don't want it. I want to know.

So, maybe that's why when I noticed my hands felt grittier than normal as I was sitting at the desk Sunday night, I stopped what I was doing. They didn't feel dirty, but they didn't feel smooth like they normally did.

It was like I had calluses on my hand, but it was barely there, like fresh scratches made from sandpaper.

I rub my thumb across my palm, then over the pads of my fingers. There's a texture there that wasn't there before—like microscopic grit under the skin. Not rough, exactly. Not painful. Just... different. New.

Like something's trying to grow out of me without breaking the surface.

I lean in closer, holding my hand under the desk lamp. My skin looks the same, mostly. No bulging veins, no webbing, no sci-fi nonsense pulsing under the surface. But it feels different. My fingertips feel like they've been... sharpened. Not literally, but there's a kind of edge to them now. A quiet resistance when I drag them across the woodgrain of the desk, like I could grip it a little too hard if I really wanted to.

I press two fingers down on the desk and try to lift without grabbing—just friction and intention.

The sensation of the wood against my fingers as I lift almost feels like a piece of paper sticking to my hand when I'm sweaty. I don't know exactly what I'm supposed to be feeling, but the grit in my skin feels like something is happening.

The wood creaks, just a little, but it's enough to startle me. Whatever that sensation was disappears instantly and my hand yanks back like I just touched a hot stove. I stare at it for a moment, and realize that part of the panelling had stuck to my fingers. Once I remove them, I flex my hand. The sensation fades just a bit. Still there, but buried again, like it's shy.

It's like… static. Or a radio signal I'm not quite tuned to yet. Still faint, still distant, but unmistakably there.

I press my palm against my thigh just to feel something familiar. That soft friction's back again—not enough to stick, but enough that I can tell it wasn't just in my head.

I look at the desk. There's a faint line where my fingers lifted the paneling, splintered ever so slightly. Barely noticeable unless you're staring straight at it.

Which I am.

I lean back in my chair and exhale through my nose, the breath slow and uneven. My heart's beating harder than it probably needs to, and I'm trying to figure out if that's excitement or anxiety. Both, probably.

This is happening.

I stand up, glancing at the ceiling like it's suddenly turned into Everest. There's a pause—a beat where I'm pretty sure my better judgment is trying to drag me back into the chair. But the rest of me? The rest of me is buzzing.

If it works, I'm gonna have to physically stop myself from screaming out loud in excitement.

If it doesn't… well, I'm probably hitting the floor with a very loud thud and screaming for a much dumber reason.

Either way, I'm making some noise, dammit.

"Okay... let's do this."

I bend my knees and jump, pressing both hands flat against the ceiling above me.

And to my shock—no, not even shock—something deeper than that. Astonishment. Awe. Something—I stick.

I'm hanging. From. My. Ceiling.

My legs swing under me, and there's a good three feet between my feet and the floor. I stare down at them like they belong to someone else.

I tighten my core and swing up, slow and clumsy, but it works. I bring my feet up to the ceiling and press them down.

They stick too.

I clap a hand over my mouth just in time to muffle the laugh before it turns into something loud and uncontrollable. It bursts out anyway, sharp and breathless behind my fingers, like I can't even believe myself.

I'm on the ceiling. I'm on my fucking ceiling.

And it's not a fluke. I twist just slightly, testing how much weight I can shift without falling. My fingers grip tighter instinctively. It's like having extra muscles I didn't know existed—ones that are somehow hardwired to know what they're doing even if I don't.

The ceiling creaks above me, wood groaning like it's trying to figure out what the hell I'm doing up here. Same, buddy.

I glance down. It's a six-foot drop—nothing major, but it's enough to make my stomach flip if I think about losing grip.

Then again… I don't feel like I will.

That's the wild part. The security of it. My body knows how to do this. Like it's been waiting for the right moment to show me the manual.

I let go with one hand, just to see if I can. I hang there for a second, one hand and both feet keeping me steady. My heart leaps into my throat. My brain's screaming what are you doing, but the rest of me is too high on adrenaline to care.

I slap the hand back down before gravity changes its mind.

Another laugh bubbles up—quieter this time, but just as giddy. This is nuts. Completely, gloriously nuts. I'm upside down, and it doesn't even feel like it. No dizziness, no blood rushing to my head, no weird pressure behind my eyes. Just a sense of... balance. Like my body knows which way is up, even if gravity disagrees.

Guess that's the equilibrium part of the powers kicking in.

I grin.

"Okay," I mutter under my breath. "Let's see how far this goes."

Carefully—like I'm testing ice—I shift my weight forward. My hands release, fingers spreading wide in case I need to catch myself, but I stay upright. Or… ceiling-right?

Either way, I'm standing on the ceiling now.

My giggle turns into something more like a laugh—still hushed, but no less wild. This isn't just sticking anymore. I'm moving.

I take one cautious step. Then another.

My feet cling like it's nothing. Like they were made for this.

I walk across the ceiling like it's the floor, arms out slightly for balance even though I don't need it. The room's flipped upside down around me—the bed, the dresser, the desk lamp that suddenly looks a lot dustier from this angle—and I can't stop smiling.

I'm walking on the ceiling.

I'm walking on the freaking ceiling.

And it's officially the coolest thing I've ever done in my life.

I stop halfway across the ceiling and blink.

Wait.

How the hell do I get down?

I turn around slowly—still sticking like a pro, thank you very much—and glance at the floor like it's a twelve-foot drop instead of, you know, six feet. It suddenly looks way farther than it did five minutes ago. Like the kind of fall that ends in a very loud thud, a bruised tailbone, and a May Parker panic attack.

I crouch a little, testing the angle, like maybe if I just… peel off gently, it'll be fine. Except now my feet really don't want to let go. They're locked in, like my body's saying, "Oh, we live here now."

"Okay. Cool. Sticking very well. That's good," I mutter, trying not to sound as panicked as I feel. "Now maybe… let's try unsticking just a little bit, huh?"

I bend one knee and try to lift my foot. Nothing.

Shift a little more weight.

Still nothing.

"Oh come on—" I grunt, giving a solid yank that finally breaks the suction with a soft pop. My shoe peels off the ceiling like Velcro, and I wobble, one foot still clinging while the rest of me starts to tilt.

"Bad idea! Bad idea!"

I throw my hands up and catch the ceiling again, heart pounding. Okay. Definitely not graceful. But hey—progress.

I hang there for a second, legs dangling like some weird ceiling bat, and think it through. Okay. Okay. I've seen this before. Into the Spider-Verse. Which, I admit, doesn't make me an expert. But still.

In the movie, Miles kept sticking because he was panicking. He had to relax to stop.

So maybe… maybe that's it. Maybe the key to un-sticking is just not trying so hard.

"Alright," I mutter under my breath, shifting my grip slightly.

I close my eyes and exhale slowly, letting my arms loosen just a little, letting the tension bleed out of my fingers.

And like magic—actual magic this time, not metaphorical self-help stuff—my hands slip free. Just enough.

I drop with a surprised yelp, hit the bed with a bounce and sprawl out on my back, laughing like an idiot as the ceiling returns to its rightful place above me.

"Relax to unstick," I say, grinning at the ceiling like we just made a deal. "Noted."

But man, I gotta work on the landing.

Either way… that was awesome.

Arsenal597 · 2025-12-03T21:12:23+0000

I wake up before my alarm.

It's not a brag—more like a problem. My body's done sleeping, but my brain is throwing a full-on protest, flinging thoughts around like bricks through windows for the next ten minutes while I stare at the ceiling and think about last night.

Whatever I might've imagined wall-crawling would feel like—it didn't even come close. There's no blueprint in the human brain for that. My muscles still remember it. I… I want to feel it again.

I slide out of bed and stretch, just a little. It's a habit I'm still working on—trying to remember that I'm not invincible and that if I don't want to tear something important, I should probably act like I've got bones.

The floor is cold, but only for a second. I barely notice it compared to the itch in my brain as I glance toward the wall.

I step up beside it and press my palm flat against the paint. The grit against my skin comes back instantly, but it's changed now—like there's a pull. Like the wall isn't just a surface, it's an invitation.

So I answer it.

My hand sticks. Then the other. My foot locks next, and my knee bends in this awkward, not-okay angle that should've hurt—but doesn't. Gravity tilts, the room skews sideways, and then I'm crawling up like it's nothing. Like I've always known how.

Once I'm on the ceiling, I roll onto my back, arms folded behind my head, staring down at my bed with a smile.

The weirdest part? It doesn't feel impossible. Doesn't feel like I'm breaking the laws of nature or cheating gravity. It just feels… right.

No. It feels good.

Like this is what I was made to do.

The pressure's different here—not like I'm lying down, more like I'm being held. Like the ceiling's got me. Like I couldn't fall even if I wanted to. The skin on my back tingles faintly where it meets the plaster, every nerve alive and checking in. There's this warm, magnetic sensation running through my limbs. My fingertips buzz like they've got tiny engines under the skin.

I close my eyes.

And for a moment, I let myself feel it all—the silence of the room, the faint creak of the house settling, the slow rise and fall of my chest. The way the ceiling accepts me, no questions asked.

I don't want to come down.

Not because it's cool.

Because right now—I feel complete.

I've never felt more like myself.

The ceiling holds me like a hammock, like a giant palm cradling me above the world. I don't feel weightless—but I don't feel heavy, either. I just feel held.

The drywall under my shirt is faintly warm from the rising heat of the house. There's a texture to it—fine grit and imperfections I never noticed from the floor. I can feel every one of them now, mapped out along my spine like braille.

I stare down at the room below, watching the way the soft morning light spills across the bed. The shadows look different from up here—longer, deeper, stretched like the edges of a dream I haven't quite woken up from.

I don't know how long I stay like that—could be thirty seconds, could be ten minutes. Time's a little sideways in this position.

But eventually, I feel the world creeping back in. The weight of the day pressing in from the edges.

I sigh.

Then, I hop back to the floor with a confidence I didn't know I had, landing softly with barely a sound. I could have gone back to sleep on the ceiling, but truth be told, I'd rather not have May or Ben walk in and see that.

I get into one of the tank tops and shorts Harry bought for me and go for my morning run with the wolf necklace swinging comfortably against my chest. I'm still half asleep, but I'm moving. Bettering myself demands sacrifice, and today, sleep's the lamb.

I hit the street, and the cool autumn air brushes against my face like a pillow I don't want to leave. I sleep great when it's cold, so it's not exactly helping me wake up. So, I shake my head, and start jogging. My feet still haven't found their rhythm yet, but it's starting to feel less awkward. Though, it still fucking sucks.

Every step is a reminder that I'm not built for this yet. The first few blocks feel like my legs forgot what they were supposed to do, like they're running on rusty gears that haven't been oiled in years. The burn creeps up from my calves to my thighs, and my shoulders start burning like I'm carrying a backpack full of bricks.

I'm doing this wrong. I shouldn't feel like this, right?

It's only been a few days. It's gotta be the quitter in me crying out. I need to keep going. Even the part of me that hates running begrudgingly knows it's the only way forward.

So, I grit my teeth, ignore the protest from every muscle screaming at me to quit, and push through.

Queens flies by. The chipped stop sign. The guy walking his dog with too many leashes wrapped around his legs. The old lady watering her plants like she's been doing it since Eisenhower was in office.

None of it matters right now.

I'm pretty sure my grandpa would be thrilled to know I'm finally exercising. He was one of the ones always pushing me to take care of myself.

In a weird way, I think I'm doing this for him.

Even if he doesn't know it, he's with me every step of the way.

Just as I start to drift into autopilot, the sound of pounding footsteps catches my attention—a quick, familiar rhythm beside me.

"Well, at least you look the part today!" a voice teases—light and breezy, like the morning.

I turn to see MJ racing to catch up with me, hair whipping around her face, grin stretched wide like she doesn't have a care in the world.

"Oh. Hey!" I wheeze.

Talking while running. Yeah, that's a new level of torture.

She drops into pace beside me effortlessly, and dammit—she's not even breathing hard.

"Seriously? You're actually doing this? I didn't think you'd stick with it."

I grimace. My lungs feel like they've been through a cheese grater.

"Yeah? Well, it still sucks."

MJ snorts.

"You'll learn to love it, trust me. Though… maybe slow down. It's not meant to be a sprint the entire time."

"I've only been jogging," I mutter, slowing beside a lamppost. "I'm just an idiot who doesn't know what he's doing."

"Oh… that's not good," she laughs—not mocking, just kind of… pitying.
And that's somehow worse.

MJ's looking at me like she's genuinely concerned I might crumple into the sidewalk and start leaking spirit energy. It only makes me want to keep moving more. Because if I stop now, I'm honestly tempted to just sit down next to this pole and let it be my final resting place.

...Which is probably in poor taste, considering where I was a week ago.

Yeah. I know.

"Well," she grins, jogging backward a few paces so she can look at me while I die, "if anyone can make running look this miserable and still keep going—it's you."

I want to argue, but my lungs are doing their best impression of a collapsed accordion.
Instead, I just give her a tired smile.

"Thanks… I think."

"So, how are you feeling?" MJ asks.

I hack out a breath.

"Like I'm about to cough out my lung, thanks for asking!"

She laughs, bright and easy.

"No, silly. I meant in general."

"Oh!" I chuckle, dragging a breath and channeling my inner Chandler Bing. I'm pretty sure I look like he did in that one episode of Friends right now. "Uh, prett—pant—pretty good. You?"

"Now that you're here, I've got my entertainment for the morning, so I think I'm good."

I roll my eyes, smirking.

"Haha."

As we head back toward Forest Hills, the city waking up around us like it's shrugging off sleep, I decide to ask the question that's been hovering since I last saw her.

"So… you living with Anna?" I ask, trying to keep it casual, but honestly just curious.

MJ nods, her steps falling into rhythm beside mine.

"Yeah. For the next few months, at least. My parents are in the middle of a nasty divorce, and I didn't want to be a part of all that. Anna's letting me crash there."

"Ouch," I say, wincing like she just told me she stepped on a LEGO barefoot. "Sorry."

She shrugs, but there's a flicker of something behind her eyes—like maybe she hasn't had a chance to talk about it out loud yet.

Or maybe she's just really good at pretending it doesn't bother her.

"Don't be," she says. "Honestly, Anna's place is kind of a sanctuary compared to the screaming matches I was waking up to back home. She bakes when she's stressed, too, which is, like… the best coping mechanism ever. The woman made blueberry muffins last night because she saw a political ad she didn't like."

I let out a weak laugh.

"That's almost too wholesome to be real."

"Oh, it's real," MJ says with a grin.

"Still, though. I'm sorry about your parents. I know how divorces can be." I say quietly. "I saw what it did to my cousin's kids after she and her husband split. It's rough."

"What's that line people say nowadays?" she scrunches her nose, thinking for a second. "It is what it is? Not much I can do about it."

Oh if my mother had heard that, she would have visibly recoiled over that one. She hated that phrase.

She looks back at me, curiosity flickering.

"But what about you? What's your deal?" she asks. "How come you live with your aunt and uncle?"

I chuckle, pointing to my head like it's some kind of mystery box.

"Uh, well… kinda foggy there, you know?"

She frowns.

"Oh, I'm sorry."

"No, you're good. My parents went on a business trip to South America when I was young. Their plane crashed. I've been staying with Ben and May ever since." I pause, eyes distant for a second. "I wouldn't change a thing though. Just wish I could remember more about them, you know?"

MJ nods slowly, like she gets the weight behind that. And maybe she does. Truth is, I know what it's like—wanting to know a parent more than you ever got to. My father wasn't around when I was a kid. I mean, he was there for the conception, probably, but after that? Ghost. By the time I met him, I was ten, and I didn't even know he was my dad until a few months later—right before he disappeared again.

My family was always my grandpa, my mom, and my little brother. Now? It's Ben and May. And despite the fact I miss them more than anyone could ever know—honestly, I think I won the lottery with them.

We turn a corner, gravel crunching under our shoes as the sidewalk shifts from uneven concrete to that smoother slab near the nicer houses. The air smells like cut grass and leftover rain. Somewhere a car door slams, and wind chimes rattle half a block away.

"You close with your parents?" I ask, quietly. Not nosy—just wondering if she got a better hand than I did.

MJ breathes out slowly, her ponytail bouncing once as she gives a small shake of her head.

"My mom tries," she says after a beat. "She really does. She calls, checks in, sends me stuff. But my dad..." Her mouth tightens for half a second. "It's like he doesn't even want to be there. I mean, maybe it's because things with him and Mom got so rocky, and he's just tired of it all—but it never really felt like he cared that much."

Her voice is steady, but there's something hollow around the edges. Like she's said all this before, but it still stings every time.

"He never told me goodbye when I left to come to Anna's, either."

I glance over at her, lifting a brow.

"What? He didn't say anything?"

She snorts, but there's no humor in it.

"Not a word."

The breeze picks up then, just enough to tug at the edges of her tank top and send the faint scent of lilacs and car exhaust drifting past us. I watch her for a second—how she keeps her face calm, even though I can see the tension in her jaw.

"I'm sorry," I say, because that's all I can really say. And yeah, I know that phrase gets overused and tossed around like a band-aid, but I mean it.

She shrugs, like it's fine, even though we both know it's not.

"It's whatever. I'm used to it."

But nobody should have to get used to that.

We walk in silence from there. The air's already warming, the sun climbing higher now, turning the rooftops gold and pulling long shadows from the parked cars along the curb. A robin darts across the sidewalk in front of us, wings flicking so fast they're just a blur, before it vanishes into a hedge.

Up ahead, the houses start to look familiar.

I can see the peak of the Watson place just above the trimmed hedges—its shutters freshly painted, flower boxes clinging to the windows like they're auditioning for a Home & Garden cover. Right next door, our place looks almost rustic in comparison.

I know that I'm only fourteen now, but the moment I can get some money, I'm going to fix the house up. I owe Ben and May that much.

"Are you going to school today?" MJ asks, cutting through the quiet.

I glance at her, nodding with a little shrug.

"I've got the all-clear, so… might as well get it over with."

She grins faintly.

"Nothing says 'welcome back to life' like a pop quiz."

"Oh, if there's a quiz, I'm faking another coma," I mutter, and she actually laughs at that—just a short, surprised little bark that makes me feel like I've won something.

"What about you?" I ask, wiping a line of sweat from my brow with the edge of my shirt.

"I start at Midtown today."

I blink.

"Wait, seriously?"

"Yep." Her smile tightens a little like she's still trying to decide how she feels about it. "Anna figured it'd be good to get back into a routine. You know. New environment, clean slate, all that fun stuff."

We slow our steps a little as our houses come into full view, the last stretch of sidewalk framed by creaking trees and dappled sunlight.

"Well," I say, trying not to sound weirdly excited even though, internally, I absolutely am, "guess I'll see you there."

"You better." She jabs a finger in my direction. "I didn't move to Queens just to get ghosted by the one person I know."

"Oh no," I say, holding up both hands like I've just been accused of a crime. "You are definitely stuck with me now. That's the deal."

"Deal, huh?" Her smirk returns, sharper this time.

"Full disclosure, if we're going to be friends I want to warn you. You're going to hate me just a little." I smile.

"That so?"

"It's kind of a rule I have with my friends. We're not really friends if you don't hate me just a tiny bit."

"That's an interesting rule."

"But it's served me well, or so I'm told." I chuckle.

"Well, then. I'll see you here after a bit."

As I watch her step onto Anna's porch, I find myself grinning. By the time I realize it, my face turns red. I probably look like an idiot right now, and god help me if May is watching. The ache in my legs is still there, and my lungs feel like they've been run through a paper shredder, but frankly, it doesn't bother me.

I turn toward the Parker house and jog the last few steps. The porch creaks under my weight as I step up onto it, and I see the door's already cracked open an inch.

Did I not get it shut all the way before I left? Grandpa would have said something in this situation. Hopefully it was just Ben getting the morning paper.

Crossing the threshold, cool air hits me first.

Ben must've clicked the AC on when he got up. The smell of coffee drifts in from the kitchen, mixing with the faint scent of toast and whatever detergent May uses that somehow always smells like sun-warmed linen and safety.

Ben's at the table, still in his worn robe and flannel pajama pants, a steaming mug in hand and the morning paper folded into fourths on the table in front of him.

"You're back early," he says without looking up.

I shrug, kicking off my shoes and letting the door thud shut behind me.

"Didn't want to collapse on someone's lawn and get reported."

Ben hums.

I pass through the living room, grabbing the towel May left draped over the banister—she always leaves one for me when I run. I don't know how she's already figured out my schedule, but I'm grateful for the assistance. I swipe at the sweat clinging to the back of my neck.

"How long have you been up?"

"Woke up about an hour early. Couldn't sleep."

He finally looks up at that, his eyes sharp in that way they get when he's picking up on something I haven't said. But he doesn't press. Just nods, like that's all he needed to hear.

Bathroom. Quick shower. No time to linger unless I want to start the day looking like a gremlin that crawled out of a drainage pipe. The water's hot—thank God—and it works out the worst of the soreness, though my calves still feel like overcooked noodles.

By the time I'm out and dressed in clean jeans and a fresh shirt, May's downstairs, hair up in a messy bun, frying something that smells aggressively like turkey bacon. She turns when she hears my footsteps

"You look alive," she says, voice light but eyes warm. "That's an improvement."

"We'll see how alive I am in a few hours," I snicker as I sit at the table and swipe a piece off the paper towel-lined plate she sets down.

"So… today's the big day," she says, nudging a mug of coffee toward me.

"Mm-hmm." I sip. It's too hot. I don't care.

Ben chuckles from behind the paper.

"Just make sure you take it easy, today. Don't get overwhelmed."

Easy enough for him to say. He isn't the one going back to school for the first time since he was eighteen.

"I'll try."

In a few minutes, I'll be walking into Midtown for the first time since everything changed. I'll barely know anyone's names and I won't know my teachers. Hell, the fact I gotta go to the office before class starts to get my locker and schedule is going to be awful enough as it is.

I finish the last bite of bacon, still chewing as I lean back in the chair and let the heat of the coffee cup warm my hands. It's not the best brew in the world—I'm pretty sure May's never measured a scoop in her life—but it's hot, it's strong, and right now, that's all I need.

Across from me, Ben rustles the paper as he flips to the next section. Probably the obits. The one thing I've found he does every day is check the obituaries. He says it's because he'd rather know if somebody he knew was gone. I get that, but I never looked because I was terrified to see someone I was close with there.

May moves around the kitchen like she's gliding, not rushing anything, even though the stove's still hissing and the coffee's cooling by the second. But she's watching me now—really watching—like she's just waiting for the perfect moment to pounce.

And then it happens.

She turns off the stove, leans against the counter with her arms crossed, and lifts one eyebrow like she's the protagonist in a family sitcom that's been waiting three seasons for this payoff.

"So… was that Anna's niece I saw heading up to the porch next door?"

I freeze mid-sip. The mug nearly slips from my hand.

"Maybe?" I try, like there's some universe where that answer won't unlock a full nuclear launch.

May's smile spreads slowly, like butter on warm toast.

"I thought so."

Ben's still reading his paper, but I can feel the shift in the air, like he's tensing up for cover fire.

"She's the one you bumped into on that run the other day, right?" May asks, far too casual.

"She bumped into me," I mutter.

"Mmhmm." Her smirk is a blade. "Funny how you never mentioned it."

"Wait… I never told you I bumped into someone." I turn towards Ben, who mysteriously is looking away in a totally inconspicuous way. "You told her?"

Ben doesn't even lower the paper.

"All I said was that you met somebody."

"Traitor," I mutter.

"I'm sitting right here," he says, unbothered. "And I stand by it."

May's practically glowing now.

"I just think it's nice," she says, pouring herself coffee like she isn't detonating my morning. "You've been through a lot, Peter. And MJ's a sweet girl. Bright, thoughtful… pretty."

"Okay," I say quickly, holding up both hands like I'm defusing a bomb. "Let's not plan the wedding just yet."

May sips serenely from her mug.

"I'm just saying, it wouldn't hurt to let people in."

"She lives next door," I reply. "I think that already qualifies as let in."

Ben finally lowers the paper, just enough for his eyes to peek over the top.

"Just be glad she didn't walk you back holding hands, or you'd already have a photo on the fridge."

May smiles into her cup like that's not the worst idea she's heard this week.

I sit back, mug in hand, and groan into the steam. Not only am I uncomfortable because of the age difference between us, but the fact I'm getting Vietnam flashbacks to my sorta-not ex. That's a lot to explain, and I'd rather not go into that. Just know that everything went downhill when she said "Hi Mom" in the background of a phone call when I was on break at work one day.

Mom made it her personal mission to refer to her as 'future daughter-in-law.' This is giving me serious whiplash.

"I'm gonna go grab my bag," I say, standing from the table. I shouldn't be this nervous or embarrassed. Damn teenage hormones.

"Don't forget your lunch," May calls.

"Wouldn't dream of it," I say, already halfway up the stairs.

God help me.

By no means was high school the worst part of my life. But standing in front of the double doors of Midtown High, it might as well be the gates of Mordor. There's no Eye of Sauron peering down from a flaming tower, but it still feels like I'm being watched.

I'm frozen on the sidewalk, bag dragging at my shoulder like it's full of bricks, just staring up at those doors like they're going to open and swallow me whole. I shouldn't even be this nervous.

Nerves don't care about logic, though. The idea of walking into a building full of people who all know me, while I don't know a single one of them, is intimidating as hell. My stomach's practically doing laundry on spin cycle.

Sure, I've gone through it before, but that was my school. That was my name, my face, and my semi-functional friend group. Now, I'm walking around in someone else's skin.

Back then, I was a loner, but at least I knew who I was avoiding. Even if I didn't like being around people, they knew me. I wasn't nearly as much of a fly on the wall as I like to believe. So, the idea that these kids will smile at me in the hallways, call me by name, and maybe even expect me to sit next to them like we're best friends… it's more than a little horrifying.

I suck in a breath, and step forward anyway. The doors groan open, and walk into the chaos.

The hallways are packed. Sneakers squeak, lockers slam, and some overconfident kid's blasting music from his phone like it's a party. It smells like cafeteria grease, cheap perfume, and something I'm pretty sure is rotting gym socks. A girl with coffee nearly baptizes me in caramel drizzle and doesn't even look back when I mumble a reflexive "Sorry."

The sheer volume of it all makes me flinch—shouting, laughter, slamming doors, buzzing conversations. A kid rushes by with a skateboard tucked under one arm, earbuds in, hoodie up, like he's trying to outrun the concept of attendance. A girl's yelling about mascara. Someone's phone goes off in a bass drop.

Social anxiety's clawing at my ribs. I've never felt more like an alien in a place I'm supposed to be familiar with.

Technically, I'm not new. But it might as well be my first day all over again. I don't know the layout. I don't know my teachers. I don't even know where I'm supposed to be right now. For all I know, I'm going to stumble into AP Chemistry and accidentally burn the school down trying to light a Bunsen burner.

I don't recognize a single face.

From what I've been able to piece together since the hospital, the only people I really "know" are Harry, Lonnie, and Flash... kinda. And now, MJ. Sort of. I think? That one's complicated.

I edge along the wall like I'm in a stealth mission, head down, trying not to make eye contact. Which probably makes me look even sketchier. My goal's simple: main office.

I pass a group of guys yelling about last night's game—or a fight, I can't tell. One of them glances my way and does a double take. I keep walking like I didn't see it. But he definitely recognized me.

Finally, I spot a sign that says ADMINISTRATION and follow it through a set of quieter double doors. It's like stepping into a completely different building. Carpeted floors. Fluorescent lights. Silence, blessed silence.

The main office smells like paper, printer toner, and vanilla—thanks to a scented plug-in humming by the front desk. Talk about priorities.

The secretary looks up, her hair twisted in a tight bun, glasses low on her nose. She smiles like it's automatic.

"Morning, Peter," she says, like she's said it a hundred times before. "Glad to see you back."

I blink, thrown for a second. But I nod and try to smile like someone who isn't quietly preparing to bolt through the nearest window.

The nameplate on her desk says Ms. Diaz.

She pushes a manila folder toward me with practiced ease.

"Schedule, locker assignment, homeroom—everything you need. Your teachers have notes about your... situation. Just take it slow. And if you need anything, we're here, okay?"

I nod and glance at the folder. First period: Biology. Room 214. Top floor, apparently. There's a stapled map on the back. It might as well be a treasure hunt.

I'm halfway to the door when she calls out again—without looking up.

"Oh—and welcome back, hon."

Yeah.

Welcome back.

"Thank you." I manage on my way out.

Biology.

God help me.

Dropping into the plastic chair by the window, I crack open the folder May helped me organize last night. AP Biology. The syllabus for the class is in the front, four sheets of pages printed front and back. Midtown doesn't screw around. I was lucky to get to one or two sheets maximum from my previous classes.

I skim the first line.

This is not your standard biology class.

Yeah, no shit…

By the time I hit "signal transduction pathways" and "Hardy-Weinberg equilibrium," I'm wondering if someone put this in here as a joke. I used to be in college-prep courses. Standard stuff. Nothing special. And even then, toward the end, I'd dropped down to general classes because my grades had started slipping. Everyone called it out for what it was, but I didn't care. I didn't have the drive, the focus… I simply didn't care.

But this? This is above my pay grade, entirely.

Photosynthesis light curves? Population modeling? Gel electrophoresis? I barely remember how to spell mitochondria, how am I supposed to know how to say electrophoresis? I swallow hard and set the paper down on my desk, my face scrunching in disgust. I don't belong here…

At least—not the new Peter.

I'm not going to flunk this, though. I've got work to do, gaps to fill. I'll probably need to teach myself entire chapters at home. It's going to suck, but I'm going to do it. I wasted my life. I'm not afraid to admit it. It shouldn't have taken me dying and getting a second chance to try and fix it, but it's too late for regrets. If I'm going to make the most of this, I need to step up my game.

Midtown is full of geniuses, and if there is one thing I hate more than anything, it's people making me feel like an idiot. If I have to stay up late at night doing extra work, so be it.

Shifting in my seat, I notice that the classroom's still filling up. Someone behind me is complaining about their SAT tutor. A pencil snaps. I watch Harry slide into the seat beside me with a forced smile, and I give him a nod back.

Then, the bell rings.

Mr. Larson is already at the front of the room, scribbling a diagram on the whiteboard. He doesn't say hello. Doesn't ask us how our weekends were. Just jumps straight into a chalk-dry monologue like he's been rehearsing it in the mirror.

"…in the cell cycle, mitosis is essential for growth and repair. But what happens when the cell forgets how to stop dividing?"

I blink. We're talking about cancer. Cool. Totally a relaxing way to start my day.

One thing I learn about Mr. Larson is that Harry was right. He really wasn't kidding about him being a dick.

He's got a stick so far up his ass I'm surprised it isn't poking out of his mouth.

Beyond the initial "Welcome back" when I walked in, Larson's left me alone. Which, great… I love it.

What I don't love is the way he keeps treating Harry like a crash test dummy. Harry's not dumb, but holy hell—pick someone else to answer a question for once.

At one point, he turns around, marker in hand, scanning the class like he's searching for a victim. His eyes land on Harry.

Of course they do.

"Mr. Osborn," Larson says, that familiar faux-friendly venom in his voice, "why don't you tell us what causes a tumor to become malignant?"

Harry freezes.

I can practically see the gears trying to turn in his head, but they're not catching. I don't blame him. Half the class is pretending to not exist right now.

Harry fumbles out a half-answer. Something about cells dividing too much. It's not wrong, but it's not what Larson wants.

The older man sighs, loud and theatrical, like Harry's just ruined his day.

I raise my hand.

Larson's brow lifts, surprised.

"Yes, Mr. Parker?"

"Loss of regulation in the cell cycle," I say. "Specifically, when tumor suppressor genes like p53 are mutated. That's what lets the cells divide uncontrollably and invade other tissue. That's what makes it malignant."

I say it without second-guessing myself. I know this. Grandma was sick for a long time. She had lung cancer—I remember sitting in the hospital at seven-eight years old when she was there for chemo and radiation treatments. After she passed away, I became interested in the subject and started learning about it. One of the few times I had initiative for something more than superheroes and video games during my adolescent years.

Larson blinks.

"…Correct," he says, almost grudgingly.

Harry lets out a tiny breath, and I glance over at him with a shrug.

"Thanks," Harry whispers, and I merely nod.

The rest of the class keeps moving, but I catch the look on Larson's face. The way he lingers on me for just a second too long. Like maybe—for now—he's reconsidering what box to put me in.

And that's fine.

I'm not going anywhere, regardless of what anyone expects.

The rest of the day starts to go by quickly, surprisingly. Harry and I have most of our classes together, and that includes Geometry. Let me tell you, Harry might have not been on his A-game with Larson, but in Geometry the guy is the equivalent of a demigod. Seriously, it's like that's all he's ever known. Meanwhile, I'm staring at Ms. Grant's notes on the board like they're ancient hieroglyphs.

Math's always been my Achilles heel, which—let's be honest—isn't exactly uncommon. But still, I feel like I've been thrown overboard. Why couldn't I have been blessed with Peter's brains?

Right now, I feel like I got the short end of the web.

It's during PE that the day shifts to a better mood, though. Which is weird, seeing as I hated PE back then, mostly because I had self-esteem issues and didn't like to sweat at school.

By the time I get changed into my gym clothes—gray Midtown shirt, black shorts, sneakers that still have showroom shine—I'm already regretting whatever sadist put Physical Education at the end of the day. My body's running on fumes, my brain's half-fried from Bio and Geometry, and now I get to exert what little bit of energy I have left with more exercise.

I let my head tip back and stare at the ceiling. Big metal rafters. Flickering lights that belong in a horror movie. Faint echo of a whistle somewhere in the distance. God, I hope this isn't one of those days where they make us run the mile. I'm not trying to become a chalk outline today.

"Hey, Peter."

I sit up a little too fast, almost flinching—because of course it's MJ. She's already dressed down for class, Midtown tee tied in a small knot at her hip, her red hair pulled back into a ponytail that somehow makes her look both effortless and like she could outpace me in a footrace without even trying.

She flashes a warm, casual smile as she steps up onto the bleacher beside me.

"How's it going?"

I exhale slowly.

"Feeling a bit overwhelmed, but I'm managing," I say, trying to sound chill and not like I just finished reliving every academic trauma I've ever had.

She nods sympathetically and glances toward the far side of the gym, where a few kids are already jogging half-hearted laps.

"What about you? Enjoying Midtown so far?"

She shrugs, settling onto the bench beside me with her elbows on her knees.

"It's not bad. At the end of the day, it's school. Nothing special. But I've already had two teachers mispronounce my name and one kid spill Gatorade on my sneakers, so, you know—pretty on-brand."

I grin.

"Well, lucky for you, you've got me here to lower the bar."

"Oh, absolutely," she says dryly. "You're ruining the curve just by existing."

Wow… she's a bit snarky. It reminds me of my old friends, and I think that's why I'm actually comfortable around her. Despite the fact we've only seen each other during physical activities, she makes it a bit better.

She nudges her knee against mine, and I glance down at the gym floor, smiling despite myself.

"Seriously, though," she adds, voice a little softer, "you hanging in there?"

I glance over at her—and yeah, she means it. She's not just making conversation.

"I'm trying," I say. "Homework's gonna suck, but… I'll figure it out."

"Better you than me," she jokes, then stands and stretches like a cat, eyes on the coach setting up cones across the floor. "C'mon. Let's go get tortured together."

I groan as I push up from the bench.

"Misery loves company, right?"

"Exactly," she says, flashing me a grin over her shoulder. "And if we have to run laps, I'm drafting off you."

"If I drop dead halfway through, avenge me," I mutter.

She laughs as we head down the bleachers together.

"No promises."

Then came lunch.

I don't know why I expected it to feel different. It's still a cafeteria with the smell of grease and bleach colliding, and a hundred teenagers trying to out-shout each other before fifth period.

Harry and I manage to snag a decent spot at the end of a long table, near the windows. I barely have time to unwrap the foil on my sandwich before I realize we're not alone.

"Hey, scooch over," comes a voice behind me.

I glance up.

Blonde hair pulled into a messy ponytail. Denim jacket. Eyeliner so sharp it could cut glass. She's got a confidence in her stride that I would die for. My self-esteem would never let me look so proud.

She drops her tray next to Harry with a subtle smile, and I swear to God he nearly short-circuits.

"Oh, hey," he says, and it's almost impressive how hard he's trying not to sound flustered.

This has to be Gwen Stacy. She doesn't even need to introduce herself. The way Harry sits up straighter and forgets how his hands work pretty much confirms it. They talk like they've done this a hundred times, but there's still this energy between them, like every sentence is being balanced on a wire.

Hell, I almost forget my food is in my hand. They're so adorably distracting that I almost want to gag.

Then the table creaks under a thud, like a small meteor just landed across from me. The guy's built like a fridge. Shaved head, thick neck, massive shoulders barely contained by a green and white Midtown lettermen jacket, with the big M stitched on the left breast.

"Yo, Osborn," he says around a mouthful of mashed potatoes. "You see the hit from last night? Rangers smoked 'em."

Harry grins.

"I was trying to do my homework, man."

"Lame." he says, but with a fondness that makes it feel like he's said it every day since middle school.

I'd have to guess this is Kong... Flash's best friend. I've only seen him in the Spectacular Spider-Man and the Ultimate comics, but the resemblance is uncanny.

Then, as if summoned by the sound of testosterone and cafeteria-grade starch, the chair next to Kong scrapes across the floor. And here he comes.

Flash Thompson.

I recognize him immediately from Peter's photos—same cocky smirk, same athletic build. He's wearing his own letterman jacket open, sleeves pushed up, and his face? It honestly does give off Alan Ritchson energy. He's even got that overconfident frat-boy grin to match.

"Hey Parker," he smiles at me. "I didn't even know you were back. I've missed seeing you around, dork."

"Thanks, Flash. I guess I missed you too," I say, giving him a smile that's about as fake as margarine.

He points a finger-gun at me like I just admitted a deep emotional truth.

"Of course you did. Everybody loves me."

"Please, Flash…" Gwen rolls her eyes. "Let's not pretend that you're Midtown's sweetheart."

Flash clutches his chest like she shot him.

"You wound me, Stacy."

"Not enough," she mutters.

I'm trying not to laugh.

"How are you feeling, Pete?" she asks, turning back to me with a softer look.

"Been better," I admit. "But I'm doing alright."

We fall into easy conversation after that.

Well, I say we, but I really mean they.

I mostly just sit there quietly and occasionally blink, watching them all banter, half-dazed by the fact that I'm actually in this group. How the hell did this happen? Everything I'd seen from Peter's computer made it seem like I was going to mostly be around Harry and potentially MJ.

Flash is posturing like an idiot, but it's more bark than bite. He and Kong trade one-liners about the gym teacher, and to my shock, Kong might be the most wholesome behemoth I've ever seen. He keeps offering me pieces of food from his tray and asking if I'm "getting enough protein," like I'm his smaller, more fragile cousin.

Harry leans over and mutters something under his breath to Gwen, and she laughs. I wouldn't have pictured them together before. But now? It works. It really does.

And selfishly, it's a relief. If something ever happens—if I ever put the mask on and step into the line of fire—I won't have to worry about her the way Peter once did. She's not the girl I'm supposed to save. She's just... Gwen. Sharp, funny, and probably smarter than all of us combined.

I'm just starting to think this might be the most bizarre thing I've lived through all day when Gwen turns to me, brows raised in amused interest.

"Peter," she calls my name. "Who was the new girl you were talking to in PE?"

My brain throws up static.

"…New girl?"

"Yeah. Red hair? Ponytail? Midtown tee tied at the hip?" she adds, nodding toward the gym wing like I didn't just mentally black out the entire class. "The one that had you in a smile the entire period?"

"Oh…" I say slowly, blinking. "That's MJ."

Gwen's eyes light up with something that gives me an uneasy reminder of May's own face on the topic. That same I'm-not-saying-it-but-I'm-absolutely-saying-it kind of look.

"You know her outside of school?" she asks, too casual to be innocent.

"Uh," I clear my throat. "She's staying next door."

Gwen raises an eyebrow like she just cracked a case.

"So she's your neighbor?"

"Technically," I reply, trying very hard not to sound like that makes it anything more than a geographical coincidence. "Her aunt is close friends with May. She's been crashing there for a bit."

"Interesting," she says slowly, dragging the word out like she's tasting it. "Very interesting."

I glance to Harry for backup, but he's no help—too busy trying to hide a grin behind his sandwich. Kong, meanwhile, is mouthing ooOooh around a bite of mashed potatoes like this is a soap opera. Flash just raises an eyebrow, amused, but says nothing—maybe the one thing he's smart enough to keep his mouth shut on.

"She seems cool," Gwen continues, swirling her juice box like it's a glass of wine. "Cute, too."

"I—I guess," I mumble, suddenly hyper-aware of literally every eyeball at the table. "We talked a little. That's all."

"You smiled the whole time," she sing-songs, just enough to make me want to slide under the table and never come out.

"I was trying not to throw up from Coach's suicide drills."

"Uh-huh." Gwen smirks, nudging Harry with her elbow. "Sounds like a crush to me."

"I don't have a crush," I say firmly, and maybe a little too quickly. "I barely know her."

Flash snorts.

"You kidding me? Red was in fourth period with me. She's out of Parker's league."

"Are you just scared that Peter might get a girlfriend before you do, Flash?" Gwen asks, and Flash's cheeks turn red.

"Uh, excuse me?! I can get any girl I want, thank youuuu!" He draws the word out like he needs the extra emphasis. "I just don't want the little guy to get hurt."

"Right…" Gwen deadpans.

Harry finally cracks and snorts into his sandwich, trying and failing to cover it up with a cough. Kong lets out a wheeze that sounds like a balloon giving up on life.

I sigh and rub the back of my neck.

"Can we please talk about anything else? Literally anything?"

Flash leans back in his seat, shrugging.

"Hey, I'm just looking out for you, Parker. That's what friends do."

The table pauses for a second.

Even I blink at that.

I watch him for a second, waiting for the punchline. But it doesn't come.

Instead, Kong jumps in, pointing his fork like it's part of the conversation. "He's been a little extra sentimental since Liz turned him down for Homecoming."

Flash's head snaps around.

"Dude."

"What?" Kong grins. "You have."

"I have not."

"You absolutely have. You bought cologne for her. Cologne, Flash..."

Gwen perks up.

"Wait, Liz turned you down?"

"Can we not turn this into a school-wide bulletin?" Flash grumbles, folding his arms. "I'm just saying… comas are serious, alright? And Pete's… Pete. He's one of us."

"When have you ever said that?" Harry asked. "Aren't you the one that makes him the butt of every joke you can?"

"Peter, come on… help me out here." Flash motions towards the rest of the group. "We were friends when we were kids, rememba?"

"Uh, sorry to disappoint… but I have amnesia, Flash. I don't remember much of anything."

"WHA?!" Flash's eyes widen like a cartoon character. "You're pulling my leg, right?"

"Nope," I say, popping the P. "Don't even remember my own locker combo. You could tell me we used to do gymnastics together and I'd just have to believe you."

Flash looks visibly distressed by that. Like I just told him he was the one in a coma.

"Dude," he says slowly, "you don't remember anything?"

"Bits and pieces," I admit. "Faces are mostly familiar. Names, too. But… memories? Not really. It's like someone hit a reset button up here." I tap the side of my head. "I thought you knew, everybody else does."

"Apparently, I didn't get the memo." Flash frowns and leans forward on his elbows, glancing between me and Harry. "That's messed up, man. Seriously. You—uh, you doing okay with that?"

That... wasn't sarcasm.

"Yeah," I say, nodding a little. "It's been weird, but… I'm figuring it out."

"Good," Flash says. Then, after a pause, he adds, "For what it's worth… you were kind of a nerd before."

Kong makes a choking sound, like he tried to laugh mid-chew and almost died.

"But you were our nerd," Flash adds, tossing a grape at Kong like it'll cancel out the accidental sincerity.

"Wow," Gwen says, mock-clutching her chest. "That might be the most emotionally honest thing I've ever heard come out of your mouth."

"Don't get used to it," Flash grumbles, clearly already regretting letting the sentiment slip.

I lean back in my seat, glancing over at Harry. We lock eyes for a second, both of us quietly stunned by the social miracle happening in front of us.

Harry just shrugs, mouthing, I don't know either.

Kong breaks the silence by sliding his chicken strips across the table toward me.

"You need protein," he says seriously.

"Thanks…" I reply, taking them cautiously.

As I eat the strips, I realize that out of everybody I've seen today, there's only one person from Peter's computer that I haven't seen: Lonnie.

"Hey, where's Lonnie?"

Everyone looks surprised that I brought him up.

"He's out of town on vacation, visiting his aunt in Tennessee." Kong explains. "He should be back next week."

I nod, not wanting to push any further. I was actually hoping to get to meet him, because he's the only one out of the entire group here that I can't imagine interacting with Peter. Though, I can wait a week. It'll give me a chance to get used to the others.

I finish off the strips Kong gifted me, watching the rest of them talk. I lean back a little and just... take it in.

How the hell did this become Peter's lunch group?

Like seriously. Gwen Stacy, who could easily be sitting with the AP crowd or the student council. Flash Thompson, literal high school jock archetype. Kong, who looks like he should be lifting trucks for fun. And Harry—rich kid royalty, somehow managing to act like the most normal one out of all of them.

This should not work. On paper, it's a mess. A half-step away from a sitcom cast that got assembled by throwing darts at a yearbook.

Hell, to top it off you got an amnesiac Peter Parker among them.

How did this happen?

I don't bother to question it right now—I'm just thankful that I get to finish my lunch in peace.

As the school day closes out, I'm walking down the front steps toward the sidewalk where Harry is already waiting. He's got his hands shoved in the pockets of his jacket, looking a little too relaxed for someone who definitely just bombed a pop quiz in third period.

"Hey," he says when he sees me. "You survive?"

"Barely," I mutter, hoisting my backpack higher before it dislocates a shoulder. "I think if I don't spend every waking second tonight studying, I might actually drown under the makeup work."

Harry winces in sympathy.

"You want help?"

"Tempting. But then we'd both fail."

He chuckles and starts walking with me, heading toward the street.

There's a beat of silence before he scratches the back of his neck.

"Hey, uh… sorry about lunch. I didn't know they were all gonna sit with us."

I shrug.

"Why would you apologize for that? It was weirdly… decent."

"Yeah, but I know it was a lot. Gwen, you know why she was over there." He glances at me meaningfully. "Flash and Kong, I don't know. Maybe because you're back?"

I shake my head and let out a dry laugh.

"I wasn't expecting that. Felt like getting adopted by a pack of wolves mid-meal."

Harry snorts.

"Well, wolves don't usually offer you chicken strips."

Before I can reply, the sound of sirens cuts through the air.

We both glance toward the street as a cluster of squad cars speeds past the school, lights flashing, engines howling. It's not subtle.

"Wonder what that's all about?" I ask, squinting as they disappear down the avenue.

Harry just shrugs.

"It's New York. Could be anything."

Could be.

Could be another robbery. Could be a car crash. Could be a mutant bear loose in Queens for all we know.

I keep watching the lights fade into the distance anyway, that part of me—the part that wants to do good—itching to go after them.

But I can't, right now. I'm not ready for that.

I'll get there, but not today.

"I'll talk to you later," I tell Harry, stepping off toward Forest Hills. "I need to get a jump on this schoolwork before it jumps me."

"If you need anything," he says, "just call."

I nod and start to turn—then feel his hand tap my arm.

"Hey," he says, voice low. "Is that her?"

I glance back, following his line of sight.

It's MJ.

She's walking down the stairs alone, earbuds in, denim jacket slung over one shoulder. The breeze catches her ponytail just enough to make it sway. She doesn't even notice us.

"Yeah," I say. "That's her."

"That's MJ?"

"Yes," I repeat, already bracing myself.

Harry lets out a low whistle.

"No wonder Flash looked like he was gonna short-circuit during lunch."

I give him a look.

"You're with Gwen."

Harry lifts his hands innocently.

"Hey, I'm not doing anything. I'm just saying… if your aunt's trying to set you up with that…"

He trails off and grins.

"…you might've hit the jackpot, man."

Oh, you've gotta be shitting me.

Arsenal597 · 2025-12-03T21:13:59+0000

I drop my backpack next to the desk with a heavy, defeated thud, and stand there for a second. Part of me wishes the bag would unzip itself and do the work for me. It doesn't, obviously. So I drag the chair out, sit down, and peel open the folder Midtown has so generously filled with three weeks' worth of work. Because nothing says welcome back from a near-death experience like a mountain of homework.

It's not even one subject. It's everything. Geometry, Biology, English, World History—an entire cross-section of academic suffering, lovingly preserved on crumpled worksheets and photocopies that smell vaguely like printer ink and despair.

I exhale, long and slow, pressing the heels of my hands into my eyes. My brain already feels like it's leaking out my ears just trying to look at all this. And the worst part?

I'm not even starting yet. I'm stalling, because of one goddamn sentence.

"You might've hit the jackpot, man."

Why did he have to say that?

It keeps floating back in, circling like a fly that won't leave me alone. Not in a serious way. Not even in a particularly Harry way. He grinned when he said it. He knew what he was doing. But still—still. It stuck. It lodged itself in the back of my head like gum under a desk, and now every time I try to focus on quadratic equations or osmosis or whatever the hell Emerson was talking about in that essay, all I can hear is Harry's voice, smug and amused and perfectly oblivious.

You might've hit the jackpot, man.

I want to throw my head through this desk.

Instead, I crack open the first binder, grab a pencil, and force myself to start on the math. Because if I don't, this pile is going to outlive me.

Fucking hell.

That was not what I wanted to hear come out of Harry's mouth. Of all the things he could've said. He could've said MJ was cute. He could've made a joke. He could've said nothing. But no—he had to use that line. That specific, stupid, iconic line. Like the universe gave him a script with one job: emotionally sabotage me.

It's so dumb. It's a throwaway comment. Harry doesn't know what it means. Not really. But it hit me like a brick to the teeth. Because I do know what it means. I know exactly where it comes from. I know the weight of it. And for a second—for just a flicker—I felt like I was watching the rails snap off the track.

Why the fuck did he have to say it?

No. No, don't even think about it.

For god's sake, do not think about it.

You are twenty-four. You are not fourteen, no matter what your bone structure and backpack say.

You are twenty-four.

Do. Not. Even. Think it.

Shit, I might kill him. No, don't get mad at Harry. He doesn't know-nobody does. Peter's fourteen, and it was probably a joke.

Well, it doesn't matter if it was a joke, it still makes me sick to my stomach to comprehend it. Why can't I just be friends with someone? That's possible, right? Come on, "Parker," focus dammit.

I shake my head, turning back to the work on my desk.

Right, focus.

I grab the Geometry worksheet first.

I crack the textbook open and skim the chapter—slowly at first, like my brain needs a warm-up lap just to remember what a transversal is. It's been years since I touched any of this. I find the example problem, line it up against the worksheet, and work through the first proof with all the cautious precision of a guy trying to pick a lock he's only pretty sure won't explode.

Then I check it.

Then I check it again.

Then I triple-check it, just to be safe.

Next is Biology. Somehow worse. The entire section on meiosis reads like someone threw every science word they knew into a blender and called it a study guide. I bounce between the glossary and the diagrams, translating it line by line like I'm trying to decode an alien language using duct tape and blind optimism.

But I get through it. Two whole assignments.

Two more than I thought I'd manage.

And just as I start mentally squaring up against the third one like it's some kind of miniboss, I hear her voice from downstairs.

"Peter! Dinner!"

I exhale, drop the pencil like it personally wronged me, and sink back in the chair.

Saved by the aunt.

"Coming!" I call back, already on my feet. I glance at the stack of assignments—still monstrous, still judging me from across the desk—but I give it a nod, like, I see you. You'll get yours.

Dinner might be a break.

But the night?

The night's just getting started.

That evening, I'm sitting on the roof with only a textbook, a notebook, and my last hopes and dreams because this is a lot to deal with. God, I hope Anna doesn't see me. The last thing I want is her calling May.

It's not even the work, really. Okay—it's partly the work. But mostly, it's the fact that my brain's been doing mental gymnastics all day and now expects me to solve triangle proofs like I'm some kind of academic Spider-Man. Which I'm not.. Yet. Hopefully.

God, I hope Anna doesn't see me. The last thing I need is her calling May like "Your nephew's having an episode on the shingles."

I just wanted fresh air. That's all. Some kind of reprieve where the walls weren't closing in and the light wasn't that awful, yellow ceiling glare that somehow makes me feel like I'm in detention even when I'm not. The porch light wasn't cutting it either—too dim, too buggy, and definitely still within range of being "checked on."

So now I'm here. On the roof. Cross-legged, textbook open, pencil dangling in one hand, and trying to figure out how angle C connects to angle F.

I'm up there for about another twenty minutes, watching the sun bleed out across the horizon like someone knocked over a jar of peach and violet paint. It's quiet up here. Just the sound of distant traffic, the occasional bark, and the steady scratch of my pencil against paper as I pretend to understand what a corresponding angle is.

Then, I hear it.

"Peter?"

I glance over.

There's a window open next door—second floor, facing mine. MJ's leaning on the sill, one elbow propped up casually like she's been there a minute. Her ponytail's a little looser than it was earlier, like the wind's been playing with it. She looks genuinely curious.

"Hey," I say, lifting a hand in a little wave.

She tilts her head.

"What are you doing up there?"

"Homework," I reply, holding the textbook up like a flag of surrender. "Not a cry for help, I swear."

That gets a small laugh out of her—just a little huff through her nose, but I'll take it.

"You always study on rooftops?"

"Couldn't tell ya," I smile, poking the side of my head.

"Right…" she lowers her head, again. "I'll stop asking that eventually, I promise."

I grin, feeling the corners of my mouth tug up despite myself.

"No rush."

She watches me for a moment, like she's weighing whether to say more or just let it sit.

Then she sighs and leans back, resting her forearms on the windowsill.

"Honestly, you look like you could use a break."

I glance down at the textbook, then back up at her.

"Yeah, tell me about it."

She smirks. "Well, if you ever want to study somewhere with better lighting and fewer falling hazards, my porch is not too far."

I raise an eyebrow. I'm not sure whether I want to take that offer up. After my freakout earlier, I don't think I should push the matter further.

"I'll keep it in mind."

She nods, like she gets it. Doesn't press.

"Cool," she says softly, almost like she's filing it away more than anything.

A pause stretches between us. Not awkward. Not yet. Just… quiet.

She glances down, fiddles with a loose thread on the window curtain. "Well. I'll let you get back to it."

"Yeah," I say, tapping the edge of the notebook with my pencil. "Big night of thrilling academic success ahead."

MJ grins.

"Try not to fall off the roof."

"No promises."

She lingers just a second longer—like maybe she wants to say more—but then gives a two-finger wave and pulls the window mostly shut, not slamming it but letting it click closed with finality.

And just like that, I'm alone again.

Just me, the textbook, and a mind that won't shut up.

I sit there long after MJ's window closes, letting the pencil rest idle in my hand. The sky shifts slowly, colors draining from warm peach and violet into deepening shades of indigo and midnight. The sun slips completely below the horizon, and night stretches itself across the city like a thick, velvet blanket.

The city lights flicker on one by one — street lamps, apartment windows, distant car headlights weaving through the streets. From up here, the noise softens to a distant hum, like a lullaby for the restless. Queens feels alive but calm, caught between the chaos of the day and the stillness of night.

I lean back on my hands and let out a slow breath, chest rising and falling. I look out over the rooftops, the patchwork of buildings, the glowing windows like tiny stars pinned against the dark.

It's beautiful.

And for the first time since I woke up in this body, I get why Peter loved this city so damn much. I might not understand everything about it yet — the people, the dangers, the history — but this view, this moment, it's enough to die for.

Somewhere in the distance, a siren wails—a reminder that this city never really sleeps. But up here, with the night wrapped around me, it feels like the world has paused just long enough for me to catch my breath.

I close the textbook with a grimace, reluctantly admitting it's time to call it a night. Standing up, I scan the rooftop—empty. No wandering eyes, no unwanted audience. Good. I don't need Anna or May catching me doing whatever dumb stunt I'm about to attempt.

I glance over at MJ's window. Curtains drawn tight. Perfect. She won't see this.

I step toward the edge of the roof and peer down at the yard below. It's maybe a little higher than I'd like. Okay, a lot higher. Heights aren't exactly my thing. Well, not exactly. It's not heights themselves — it's falling. The idea of landing wrong and breaking something stupidly.

And yeah, I'm used to breaking bones. But I'm not eager to add a new "fun" injury to my collection just yet.

I mean... What's the point of this rooftop perch if I can't make a little leap? Might as well try it. Besides, I'm hoping Peter's legendary healing factor is as real as the spiders that bit him.

I take a deep breath, steady my nerves.
One foot forward.
Then the other.

It's not quite a skyscraper, but I suppose every Spider-Man has to take a leap of faith, right?

The world seems to slow down as I launch myself off the edge.

A sudden buzz prickles at the back of my neck—spider-sense kicking in like some weird built-in alarm system. Panic floods my chest, but I focus on the fall.

I clutch the textbook and notebook tight under my right arm, bracing for impact.

And somehow—somehow—I do a front flip midair.

I hit the ground on one knee, hand pressed firmly against the pavement, textbook still in one arm like a trophy.

HOLY SHIT.

I sit there for a second, heart hammering, the rush of adrenaline sharp and loud in my ears.

Did I just... stick the landing?

I actually might have.

I push off the ground to stand, chest still pounding—and then, because of course, my foot catches on something invisible, and down I go, face first into the grass.

"Of course…" I mutter, mouth full of dirt and my shattered dignity.

Because why wouldn't I fall after doing something like that? Way to keep my ego in check, universe.

I stand up, wiping the dirt off of myself only to see the front door open to the Watsons', and MJ steps out. She doesn't notice me at first. She's in her pajamas, moving to a chair on the porch. MJ looks a bit off. I don't know, like she's got something on her mind.

I drop my textbook and notebook carefully on the bottom step, the worn wood creaking under the weight. The night air feels cooler now, carrying the faint scent of cut grass and something faintly sweet—maybe lilacs from a neighbor's garden.

MJ's sitting on the porch chair, knees pulled tight to her chest, arms wrapped around her legs like she's holding herself together. Her pajamas aren't the typical flannel kind—more like soft cotton, loose and comfortable, the kind that's clearly seen a dozen restless nights. The fabric wrinkles where her elbows press in, and the pale blue of the top makes her pale skin look even softer under the porch light's glow.

Her hair's a little tousled now, strands escaping the ponytail to frame her face in a way that makes her look… less guarded, somehow. She's staring out into the street, but her eyes aren't really seeing it. There's a weight there—something heavy but quiet, like she's carrying it all on the inside.

I clear my throat and tap the wood beam beside her. The sudden noise snaps her out of whatever she's wrapped up in. Her eyes flicker toward me, surprise flashing briefly before she masks it with that familiar half-smile—the one that says, "I wasn't expecting company."

"Hey," I say, voice softer than usual.

She straightens a little, but still keeps her legs hugged close, like the chair's the only thing grounding her.

"Hey," she replies, voice low.

The porch light flickers once, casting brief shadows across her face, and for a moment, I just watch her—not wanting to pry, but wanting her to know I'm here.

"What are you doing here?" she asks. I can't help but notice the softness, almost withdrawn tone of her voice. It's almost like she's on the verge of crying.

"Well, I was seeing if that offer went beyond studying." I say, not moving from my spot.

MJ doesn't say anything.

"Okay... I saw you come out, and I guess I wanted to talk to you."

She blinks slowly, like she's processing more than just my words. The faintest tremor catches the edge of her lip before she clears her throat.

"Talk, huh?" she says, voice still low but steadying. "About what?"

I shuffle my feet, suddenly aware of how loud the night feels—the crickets, the distant hum of traffic, the faint buzz of a streetlamp above us. It's like the whole world's waiting for an answer.

"Honestly? I don't really know," I admit, voice rougher than I want it to be.

I take a slow step forward and lower myself onto the railing below her. The rough wood presses against my back, steadying me after that not-so-graceful fall. She's perched just above, legs curled close, arms wrapped around her knees like a shield. Somehow, that makes me feel less awkward.

She looks down at me, her voice soft but pointed. "Seriously, Peter... what are you doing here?"

I meant what I said, I really don't know. I guess I wanted to extend the same kindness she gave me earlier.

I run a hand through my hair, shrugging.

"Like I said, I wanted to talk to you."

Her gaze flickers away for a moment, like she's wrestling with something she doesn't want to say. Then she meets my eyes again, voice quieter now.

"I'm not really in the mood to talk."

The pause stretches. I glance toward my house, then back at her.

"If you want me to go, I can."

She shakes her head, but there's no smile.

"I didn't say that."

Her words hang in the air, fragile and a little hesitant. And just like that, the quiet between us feels less like a wall, and more like an invitation.

I settle into the silence, letting the night stretch out between us. For a few minutes, I don't say a word—honestly, not sure what to say anyway. The crickets chirp steadily, and somewhere in the distance, a siren wails like a reminder that life keeps moving.

Then, something catches my eye. The faintest glimmer of redness rims the corners of MJ's eyes, subtle but unmistakable. Like she's been wiping away tears.

"MJ?" My voice is quiet, cautious. "Are you okay?"

She gives a small nod, like she's trying to agree with me, trying to convince herself more than me. But there's that tremor again—right at the edge of her lip, betraying everything she's not saying.

I push up from the porch floor and lean against the railing beside her, a little closer now. Not close enough to crowd her, but enough that I'm not just a background noise in her evening anymore.

The wood's cool against my back, grounding. My palms itch with the urge to fidget, to say something stupid, or to run—but I don't. I stay.

I'm not good at this. Never have been. Comforting people isn't my specialty—I'm more of a nervous joke guy or someone who panics at the exact wrong time. But I can't just sit here and pretend everything's fine when clearly it's not.

After too long debating it, I let out a quiet sigh and glance her way.

"You don't have to pretend with me, okay?" I say. "I'll admit, I'm not the best at this, but… I'm here. So, if something's eating at you, I'm all ears."

She doesn't answer right away.

Her arms are still curled around her knees, knuckles faintly white where she's gripping tighter than she probably realizes. Her eyes don't meet mine—just stay fixed somewhere off in the dark, like there's something only she can see.

"I shouldn't let it get to me," she murmurs finally, her voice quiet. Flat. "It's just… he called earlier. My dad."

I don't move. Just lean slightly closer, not crowding her—just enough so she knows I'm still here.

She swallows hard, eyes still distant.

"He was drunk. Or... I think he was. He always is, lately." A pause, then a shallow breath. "He said they were happy. That everything was fine until I came along."

That lands like a rock in my chest.

She says it like she's quoting a voicemail. Like it's not the first time she's heard it.

There's no drama in the way she delivers it. No tears. Just that same hollow edge I remember from when we walked together—like she's already done all her crying behind a locked bathroom door somewhere, and now there's only the ache left behind.

I don't say anything.

Instead, I just stay where I am—leaning on the porch railing, letting the silence hold its shape between us.

"Peter, it... it hurts," she says, barely above a whisper.

I glance toward her again—and that's when I see them. Fresh tears slipping quietly down her cheeks, like they've been waiting for permission to fall.

Her voice cracks as she asks, "Why does he hate me?"

It's not rhetorical. Not said with bitterness. Just raw confusion. Like a kid trying to solve a math problem that never had an answer to begin with.

And God, I want to say something. Anything. I want to tell her it's not her fault, that her dad's a coward, that no child deserves to carry blame for grown-up failures. But my mouth won't move. My chest feels tight.

Fuck, I hate being in these situations. I don't even realize I'm doing it, but I find myself wrapping my arms around her, bringing her into a hug.

She doesn't pull away. That's the part that gets me.

She just lets herself fold into me—quiet at first, but then the sob hits, deep and shaking, and she clutches the front of my shirt like it's the only thing keeping her tethered to the Earth.

I don't know what I'm doing. I really don't. I've never been great at comforting people—never had the right words, never knew when to speak or when to stay silent. But right now, it doesn't matter.

My arms wrap tighter around her, and I rest my chin lightly on top of her head. I can feel her shoulders trembling against me.

She smells like lavender shampoo and the faint musk of worn cotton, and something in my chest aches because she shouldn't have to feel like this. Not tonight. Not ever.

"I'm sorry," she whispers into my chest. "I didn't mean to dump this on you."

"You didn't," I murmur. "You didn't dump anything."

She sniffles, but doesn't let go.

I rub my thumb gently along her arm—slow, steady, grounding. I don't even think about it. It just feels like the only thing I can do while she breathes ragged into my shirt. Her hand still clutches the fabric like it's the only thing keeping her upright, and I let her. I let her hold on as long as she needs.

The porch light hums quietly above us. A car drives by down the block, tires whispering along the asphalt, but otherwise it's just the two of us here in this still, quiet night.

After a while—maybe minutes, maybe longer—I finally manage to find something to say. Something I won't regret.

"MJ…" I whisper, voice low and careful, "if he can't appreciate you, that's on him. It's not your fault, okay?"

She doesn't move, but her fingers twitch against my side.

"As far as I'm concerned," I continue, "he doesn't deserve to have a daughter like you if that's how he feels."

Her breath stutters, like my words hit something locked up for far too long.

But she still doesn't let go.

I only found those words because I had to say them to myself before. My dad wasn't around much, and some days, I wondered why I wasn't enough for him to stay. It stung even more knowing he had another kid years later, and called them his 'first kid.'

It's rarely the kid that's ever the problem.

She sniffles, and in a whisper that I can barely catch, says:

"Thank you…"

I may not be good at this, but I know what it's like being in that position. I didn't get a chance to let my emotions out over this, but if I can help her with it, then that's perfectly fine. Even if she ends up crying all over one of my brand new shirts.

Eventually—after what might be a minute, or maybe two—she pulls back. Not abruptly, not like she regrets it—just like the storm inside her has finally passed. At least for tonight.

Her eyes are still red, lashes damp, but now her face is red too—a blush creeping in around her cheeks as she avoids my gaze. She clears her throat, rubbing the back of her wrist across her face as if she can erase what just happened.

"Thank you, Peter… I mean it."

Her voice is steadier now, but there's something delicate beneath it—something raw and real that she's still holding onto, even if she's trying not to show it.

I don't say anything right away. I just smile.

"You don't have to thank me," I say quietly. "Least I could do."

She finally looks at me—just for a second—and the way her eyes meet mine? There's a kind of quiet understanding there.

She exhales slowly, like she's been holding her breath for longer than she realized.

Then, as if to reset everything, she stretches her legs out and stands. Her movements are slower than usual, like she's still shaking off the emotional weight.

"Sorry about your shirt," she murmurs, glancing at the wrinkled mess of cotton clinging to my chest.

I glance down at it. Yup, it's definitely tear-stained, with bits of make-up mixed in.

"Eh," I shrug. "Gives it character."

That gets the tiniest laugh from her, and for a second, the heaviness lifts.

We stand there together, not quite brushing shoulders, watching the quiet street stretch out in front of us.

"Are you going to be okay?" I ask, my voice soft as I glance at the time and realize how late it's gotten.

MJ wipes her face one last time with the edge of her sleeve and nods, a little too quickly.

"You sure?" I press gently, not accusing—just checking.

"I will," she says, then adds with a small, tired smile, "I'm going to stay out here a bit longer. That way Anna doesn't see me like this."

"Okay." I nod. "I think I'm gonna head home… don't want May getting worried."

She gives a small huff of acknowledgment, the barest ghost of a laugh, but it's real.

She shifts on her feet, like she's not quite sure what to do next. Then she looks at me—really looks at me.

"Thank you again," she says softly.

I smile, tilting my head just a little.

"That's what friends are for, right?"

Before I can react, she steps forward and wraps her arms around me again. It's gentler this time—less desperate, more grateful. I hug her back without hesitation.

"Goodnight, MJ," I murmur.

"Goodnight, Peter."

I step down from the porch and start walking back toward the house, the grass cool beneath my feet and the night air brushing gently against my face.

But just before I reach the door, something tugs at me, and I glance back.

She's still standing there, arms loosely folded now, watching me go. There's no smile, no wave—just her, quiet and present in the moment.

"Hey, MJ…" I call.

Her head lifts a little.

"Yeah?"

I let a grin tug at one side of my mouth.

"I might take you up on that study offer next time."

This time, she does smile.

"I'll be here," she says.

And with that, I head inside.

I sit down on my bed, the springs creaking softly beneath me as I let out a breath I didn't realize I was still holding. The room is dim, lit only by the faint orange glow leaking in from the streetlamp outside my window. It casts soft shadows across the walls, turning everything just a little more surreal.

I can still feel MJ's hug.

The warmth of it lingers like heat from a blanket that's been pulled away. The weight of her pain settles somewhere deep in my chest. The crack in her voice when she asked why he hated her—it hits harder now than it did in the moment. I wasn't ready for how much that would stay with me.

As I stare at the ceiling, I find myself thinking about something I hadn't planned on.

Maybe… I was meant to cross paths with MJ.

I mean, sure—every Peter Parker has his MJ. That's almost a law of the multiverse, right? But maybe it's not always some tragic romance with tears and broken promises and too many missed chances.

Maybe this version—my version—can be different.

I roll onto my side, the pillow cool against my cheek, finally ready to let the day go. Sleep is already starting to tug at the edges of my mind when—

Bzzt bzzt.

The phone buzzes on my nightstand, cutting through the silence. I groan softly, reach for it, and squint at the screen.

Harry…

I sit up, rubbing a hand over my face before answering.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Pete…" Harry's voice is quiet, hesitant. "Hope I'm not waking you."

"I just laid down, but it's fine," I say, straightening. "What's up, Har?"

There's a pause. Then, "Uh, I—"

"You okay?" I cut in gently, noticing the tension bleeding through the line.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine. It's… it's Dad. Something's going on with him."

I feel my chest tighten, but I don't let my thoughts jump to the worst just yet.

"What do you mean?"

"He's been acting differently since you stopped by the other day. And he just left the penthouse without telling me anything. Didn't even tell me he was leaving."

"Wait—left?" I sit up straighter. "He didn't say anything at all?"

"Nope. He just disappeared. I asked the staff, they didn't know either."

That's not like Norman. Everything I've seen and heard so far tells me he's a man who doesn't do random.

"Okay," I say slowly. "How exactly has he been acting? What's different?"

Harry exhales into the phone, and I hear the scrape of a chair or something shifting on his end.

"He's… I don't know. Shifty. Distant. Jumpy, almost. I've never seen him like this, Pete."

"Could it be health-related?" I ask. "Bad news from a doctor or something?"

"If it is, he didn't tell me," Harry mutters. "But he's been keeping things from me for a while now."

I rest my elbows on my knees, staring at the floor. The shadows stretch long beneath me. Something's not sitting right about this.

"Alright," I say quietly. "Let me think for a minute."

There's a silence between us. Not awkward—just heavy. Like we both know we're circling something bigger than either of us wants to admit.

"This isn't normal, Pete," Harry says, his voice tightening. "He doesn't just leave. Not like that. He always tells me. Or has someone tell me."

"Yeah," I murmur. "I know."

He's nervous, and for good reason. Norman's sick, so if he's hiding something, that could be really bad. Then again, it could be something worse. I immediately think back to the guy in the lobby that I'd seen. Had he been part of Norman's change in behavior? Maybe I need to talk to Norman, if I can get the chance.

"Call me if he comes back, okay?" I ask.

"Sure, no problem." He pauses. Then, in a quieter voice: "Pete… Dad would tell me if his health was declining, right?"

I hesitate.

That hesitation says more than I want it to. I rub my forehead, wishing I had an answer that didn't feel like a coin toss.

"Yeah," I say, because it feels like the thing I'm supposed to say. "I think he would."

But the truth is—I don't know. I've known Norman Osborn for maybe a few hours total. Harry's known him his whole life, and he's not even sure.

"I just don't want to lose him," Harry says finally. His voice drops to a whisper, like saying it too loud might make it real.

My chest tightens, because I get it. That fear? It's not just about sickness—it's about watching someone you love become someone you don't recognize.

"I get it," I say softly. "You're not going to… I'm sure Norman's fine, and he'll be back before you know it."

MEANWHILE

The building was quiet this time of night—quiet in a way only glass and steel could be. Cold. Controlled. The kind of silence that echoed in the bones and clung to the walls like a secret.

Norman Osborn stood in the center of his old office, a place he hadn't set foot in for months—not since he stepped down as CEO to begin treatment. The walls were still lined with accolades and innovation, etched metal plates and framed patents. They stared at him like ghosts.

The city stretched out beyond the glass wall, lights flickering like fireflies over the East River. He didn't care to look at it tonight.

Instead, he waited.

He stood near the bar cart, one hand resting on its edge, the other loosely curled around a heavy tumbler of whiskey. The ice had mostly melted. The drink was warm now, bitter with time.

Norman took a slow sip and let the alcohol burn its way down. His posture was steady, but his eyes kept darting—barely perceptible shifts as he watched the shadows cast by the tall shelves and the darkened corners of the room.

His reflection in the window didn't look like the man who used to command boardrooms. He looked... thinner. Paler. Tired. There was a dull sheen in his eyes—not quite fear, but something adjacent. Dread, maybe.

There was a flicker of movement.

He didn't jump, but he did turn—calmly, mechanically—just in time to see a figure drop silently from the ceiling, landing with a whisper-soft thud against the polished floor.

The man was dressed in black from head to toe. Skin-tight fabric. Tactical gloves. A ski mask obscured his face, but his gait gave him away before the voice did.

"Sorry I'm late," the intruder said, peeling the mask off with practiced ease.

Underneath was the grinning face of Walter Hardy—older now, streaks of gray in his slicked-back hair, but still carrying himself with the kind of sharp confidence that only came from decades of slipping past lasers and locks.

Norman gave the faintest nod.

"You're fine, Walter. Were you successful?"

Walter's grin widened, cocky and dangerous.

"You know me, Norman. The Black Cat always gets his prey."

He slung a small black satchel from his shoulder and unzipped it. From inside, he carefully withdrew a reinforced, temperature-controlled vial—about the size of a thermos—and handed it over like it was a bomb.

"Though, I'll admit… paying me to rob your own company is a strange request."

Norman took the container and held it up to the light, turning it slowly in his hand. The fluid inside shimmered faintly, preserved in whatever solution the Oscorp vaults had been using.

"It might be strange," Norman said, his voice low, grave, "but I promise you—this asset is far too important to fall into the wrong hands."

He unsealed the top with a hiss of released pressure, peeled back the containment lining, and inside… was a spider.

Not just any spider.

The spider.

The one that bit Peter Parker.

Its curled legs were still intact, its red-and-blue markings preserved perfectly. Lifeless, but no less dangerous. It looked like something out of a nightmare—half science project, half divine accident.

Norman stared at it for a long moment, his expression unreadable. The light glinted off the glass, casting a warped silhouette across his face.

Walter shifted on his feet, the silence stretching.

"So," Walter said eventually, "what's the next step?"

Norman sealed the container again and set it down on the edge of the desk with delicate precision. Then he took another sip of whiskey, slower this time.

"I need to make sure this never falls into their hands," he said, more to himself than to Walter. His voice was softer now. Tense. Like he was admitting something aloud for the first time.

Walter arched an eyebrow, brushing invisible dust from his gloves.

"This was Richard's project, wasn't it?"

Norman's expression shifted, almost imperceptibly. He turned back to the window, but his reflection didn't look any steadier than before.

"Yes," he said finally, voice hushed. "It was."

There was a pause, as Norman closed his eyes.

"I would never see his work corrupted."

Walter didn't respond right away. He just watched Norman, carefully. The way his shoulders tensed when he said Richard's name. The weariness that wasn't just physical—it was guilt. It was grief.

"Funny," Walter muttered, stepping away from the desk. "People on the outside think Oscorp was always your baby. But I remember the early days. It was yours and Richard's. He had the soul. You had the spine."

Norman gave the faintest twitch of a smile.

"And now there's too little of either."

He picked up the container again, holding it carefully in one hand, like it might wake up and bite.

Walter took a step closer. His voice was low, but edged with something genuine.

"I know you, Norman. You wouldn't ask me to commit a crime unless you had a damn good reason. I came out of retirement because of you. I swore when my daughter was born that I would never put the claws back on."

His tone sharpened. Concern rippled just beneath the surface.

"Who are these people?"

Norman's eyes darkened with something unspoken.

"I can't tell you, Walter," Norman said finally. His voice had shifted—colder now, distant, like a shadow creeping over a fading light. "But all you need to know is that they were willing to kill Richard and Mary Parker to ensure this spider was never created."

Walter's eyes narrowed, the weight of the truth pressing in like a vice.

"What? They were the ones that killed Richard?"

Norman didn't flinch. Just met his gaze with a hollow calm.

"Yes."

For a moment, Walter said nothing. His jaw tightened. The confident veneer—the veteran thief, the legend of the underworld—slipped, just a little.

"My daughter…" he said slowly, voice quieter now, like he was already imagining worst-case headlines. "Is she in danger?"

Norman turned back to the window, his reflection fractured by the city lights flickering in the glass. He swirled the whiskey in his glass once, then answered without looking:

"So long as your involvement tonight is never discovered... no."

Walter stood still, tension rippling under his skin like a wire pulled taut.

"But if it is?" he asked.

Now Norman looked at him. Just for a second. A tired, weathered glance that carried far too much understanding.

"Then God help us both."

Arsenal597 · 2025-12-03T22:55:44+0000

I will admit, I don't often dream as much lately. When I was a kid, I would dream often in these bombastic, cinematic level events. I never got to see them through my own eyes. It always felt like I was watching myself through a camera lens. Looking back on it, I can't help but think of one where it was this weird mash-up of Tobey Maguire's Spider-Man and the Tom Cruise version of War of the Worlds.

Weird, I know. But I was like seven when I had the dream. Uh, where was I going with this?

Oh… right.

I never felt like I was genuinely experiencing the dream. Only in a nightmare did I ever feel like I was right there.

Well, after getting off the phone with Harry, that's exactly what I had…

A nightmare.

I was back in Norman's office. He'd called me and asked me to come see him. It was important, and it couldn't wait. The computer had images of me on there. Not just from the field trip, but like at home. Recent ones too. Even had an image of me standing with MJ on her porch, holding her as she was crying.

My stomach twisted, realizing he was watching me. There's a click of a door, and when I look up, there he is. He's standing there with a volatile smile, one that makes my heart drop at the sight of it.

He doesn't say anything at first. Just walks across the office, slow, unhurried. Each step echoes too loud—like we're not in a building anymore, but a hollow stage built to look like one.

"You've changed," he says, stopping just short of the desk. "There's a new spark behind your eyes, Peter."

The way he says my name makes me want to crawl out of my own skin. There's this drag on it—like he's savoring it. Like the name itself is a joke he's about to explain.

"I don't know what you mean," I say, except my voice doesn't sound right. Too small. Too young.

He doesn't answer.

Instead, he tilts his head, and I notice the first spider. It drops from the ceiling, a single thread of webbing lowering it down until it lands silently on his shoulder. Then another. And another.

Within seconds, they're crawling all over him—up his chest, across his face, into his hair—but he doesn't blink or swat at them. He just keeps looking at me like I'm the freak here.

"Funny," Norman murmurs. "You think you're hiding. But I see it. The way you move. The way you hesitate before speaking. You're not the same boy I knew."

I want to step back, but I can't move. My feet are locked in place.

The spiders keep coming—some of them skittering across the floor, others dropping from the rafters. They crawl across the desk, past the photos, into the shadows. One of them scales the computer monitor and stops right in the center of the screen—where an image of MJ and I is frozen, paused like we're a file being reviewed.

Norman finally moves.

He leans forward slowly, spiders squirming under the collar of his shirt as his skin starts to… shift. Not fast. Just enough that it's wrong. His neck tightens, veins rising. A sickly green tint seeps through his cheeks.

"I could tear you open," he whispers, "and see what's really inside."

That's when I scream—except nothing comes out.

I can feel it clawing at my throat, but all I manage is a rasp. My vision shakes, the room starts to melt like wax, and Norman's smile splits wider than it should be humanly possible.

And then—

I wake up.

Not slowly. Not peacefully. I'm yanked out of sleep like someone cracked open my chest and pulled me upright by the ribs.

My body's already reacting before my brain can catch up. I'm sitting up in bed, soaked in sweat like I ran a marathon in my sleep. The sheets are tangled around my legs, damp and clinging, and my skin feels like it's humming—every nerve twitching with leftover static from the nightmare.

I want to say it was just a dream. Just some leftover stress cooked up by my overactive brain. Worst-case-scenario garbage. But that doesn't explain the way my hands are shaking. Or the way my throat's tight like I did scream and it just got lost in the pillow.

And it definitely doesn't explain why my heart won't slow the hell down.

The room's quiet—too quiet. It's that kind of early morning stillness where everything feels like it's holding its breath. The faint glow from the window tells me it's not even sunrise yet. Somewhere between night and day, where nothing feels quite real. Shadows stretch longer. Corners look unfamiliar.

My breathing's ragged. Shallow. I try to pull in air, but it doesn't feel like enough. It's like trying to drink through a pinhole straw. My chest keeps tightening, and I can hear my pulse in my ears—fast, frantic, like I'm still trapped back there, in that office, with him staring at me.

Norman.

God.

Even now, I can still see the look in his eyes. The spiders crawling over him. The green bleeding into his skin. The way he said my name like it wasn't really mine.

Peter.

That part won't leave me alone. The way he looked at me like he already knew. Not just who I was—but what I was.

I run a hand through my hair and realize it's soaked too. My fingers feel cold against my scalp. I glance down and notice I'm gripping the edge of my mattress like it's the only thing keeping me tethered. Nails digging into the fabric. I don't even remember grabbing it.

I try to talk myself down. It's fine. It was a nightmare. It's not real.

But then I remember what Harry said on the phone. That Norman hasn't been the same since my visit. That he's been distant. Erratic.

And yeah—rationally, I know it's probably that guy I saw in the lobby that night. But there's still this other part of me. The part that remembers everything Norman becomes in the stories I grew up with.

That part's screaming.

And I'm trying not to listen to it.

But it's hard when your skin still feels like it's crawling… and you don't know if you brought the nightmare back with you.

I reach for my phone on the nightstand, hands still unsteady, and see a missed call from Harry. A text follows a minute later:

Tried calling you. He just got back.

Only a few hours ago.

I just stare at the message for a second, letting it sit there on the screen like it might tell me more if I keep looking at it. It doesn't. Of course it doesn't. My thumb hovers, but I don't type anything back. Not yet.

I try to stretch like usual, but my arms feel like they're still stuck in that bed. Like I never really left it.

The bathroom mirror is waiting for me, whether I like it or not.

The water's cold when I splash it on my face, and I welcome the shock. It breaks through the leftover fog and jolts something sharp back into focus. I grip the edges of the sink and lean forward, letting the drops fall, watching them streak down the porcelain like sweat.

Once I'm done, I check the time. Only about an hour until my alarm goes off. No point in trying to fall back asleep now. Not with my brain still running on fumes and dread.

So I change, lace up my shoes, and head out for the run.

The air outside's got that damp, early-morning chill to it—just cold enough to sting a little when I breathe in too deep. The kind of air that makes the city feel slower. Quieter.

I'm locking the door when I hear footsteps on the porch across the way. MJ's coming down the steps, earbuds in, hoodie zipped halfway. Her eyes catch mine for a second, and we give each other a nod. Nothing more.

It's weird seeing her this soon after last night. After she fell apart in my arms, even though we barely know each other.

There's a part of me that's glad she felt safe enough to let it out. That she trusted me, even just for a moment.

But there's another part—a deeper, uncomfortable one—that keeps whispering: That shouldn't have been you.

That wasn't supposed to be your job.

Either way, we still end up next to each other. I don't know if she slowed down to match me or if I sped up to match her, but it doesn't matter. We just fall into step like we've been doing this for years instead of… what, three days?

The street lamps are still on. Queens is quiet—just the occasional car, a few dog walkers, and the distant hum of a bus starting its route.

We don't really talk.

But I don't think we need to.

At one point, she glances over like she's about to say something… but doesn't.

It's only when we're back at our houses when MJ says something to me for the first time that morning.

"See you at school," she says, tugging one earbud out and giving me the smallest half-smile.

"See ya," I say, quieter than I meant to.

"Peter!"

I glance back.

She's at the top of her steps, one hand on the railing. There's a pause—like she's not sure if she actually wants to go through with whatever she's about to say.

"Yeah?" I ask.

"Do you… want to walk to school together?"

It catches me off guard for a second. I don't know what I thought she was going to say, but it wasn't that.

Still, it's... nice.

"Yeah," I tell her. "I'd like that."

With that, I walk inside and head upstairs to get cleaned up.

By the time I've showered, thrown on something clean, and made it through a quick breakfast, the sun is properly up. Ben and May don't even look surprised I'm already moving. It hasn't even been a full week and they're acting like my morning runs have always been a thing. I suppose that's a good thing.

I sling my bag over my shoulder, grab an apple for the road, and call out a quick, "See you later!" before stepping outside.

MJ's already back on her porch. She's leaning against the railing with her arms crossed, hoodie half-zipped like it hasn't quite hit her that the day's started yet. Her hair's still damp at the ends, like she had rushed a shower and didn't care to dry it all the way. She sees me and straightens up a little.

There's a moment where we just look at each other. It doesn't feel awkward, exactly, but I can't help but wonder if she's thinking about last night too.

"Hey," I say.

"Hey," she replies, then adjusts the strap of her bag and starts walking. I fall into step beside her, and just like earlier, there's not much talking.

It's weird. Just a few days ago, I was freaking out about not wanting to meet her—but now, here I am walking to school with her. It's funny, because now that I genuinely think about it, most of my interactions with her have been around physical activities.

Last night was the only exception.

We pass a few kids heading the same direction, some adults pulling out of driveways, someone's sprinklers still running on a timer. The sidewalk smells faintly of wet leaves and leftover pavement heat from the day before.

About halfway there, MJ finally speaks.

"Hey—" she says, breaking the silence, "here."

I glance over, confused for a second to see her pulling her phone out. She holds it out to me, and I take it gingerly. The contact screen is open. I try to hide the smile creeping its way onto my face.

"I, uh—what do you want me to put it under?" I ask.

She raises an eyebrow, clearly amused.

"Just put Peter. What else would you put?"

"I don't know. McLovin?"

MJ doesn't laugh, but I can tell she wants to. There's a pause, just long enough for her lips to twitch like she's fighting it. I grin anyway, type it in, and hand her the phone. She gives a tiny nod when she sees it.

A moment later, I hear the softest giggle escape her.

"What?" I glance over, raising an eyebrow.

"You're a dork."

"Even amnesia isn't taking that away from me," I say, chuckling.

In my old life, I got called that all the time. Dork. Nerd. Whatever version people felt like that day. One of the ways I dealt with it—besides just trying to disappear into my hoodie—was making jokes before other people could. Self-deprecating humor was my shield. If I said it first, it didn't sting as bad when they did.

Even though my self-esteem has gotten better, the jokes have been a relentless habit that I doubt will ever go away— that's one reason I should consider myself lucky that I woke up as Peter Parker.

I mean… The guy practically has a copyright on sarcasm.

MJ glances over at me, a small smile playing at her lips.

"Well," she says, brushing her hair back behind her ear, "guess you're in luck."

I blink.

"How's that?"

She shrugs.

"I like dorks."

My brain skips like a scratched CD. I nearly trip over a crack in the sidewalk, and it takes every ounce of dignity I have not to make it worse. I recover fast—hopefully fast enough—and manage:

"G-good to know."

She doesn't say anything else. Just keeps walking, earbuds back in—but there's a definite smirk on her face now. And I'm pretty sure she knows exactly what she just did to me.

Suddenly, I'm back to internally screaming about the age difference.

By the time we reach the school, MJ still has that same smile on her face. Not a full grin—just that small, knowing curve that makes it obvious she's enjoying how off-balance she's left me.

She pulls one earbud out as we reach the steps.

"Catch you later, Peter."

I nod, but it's not even a cool nod. It's one of those automatic, slightly delayed ones where my brain's still buffering.

"Yeah. Later."

She turns and heads inside, ponytail swaying behind her, and I just… stand there. Like an idiot.

Not because I don't want to follow her in, but because I have no idea what to do with myself. My brain's still short-circuiting from I like dorks, and if I try to say literally anything else right now, I'll probably embarrass myself on a molecular level.

Fuckin teenage hormones… right?

So I hang back near the entrance.

Waiting for Harry.

Because I really, really need to focus on something other than, well… her.

But of course, the universe doesn't even give me that.

"You two walked to school together?!" Harry's voice hits me before I even see him—he's already standing there, arms crossed, wearing the most smug, shit-eating grin I've ever seen on a human face. "My, my… what a big step for you, Mr. Parker."

"Oh my God, shut up," I groan, dragging my hands down my face. "It's not like that."

"Uh-huh. Then why are you blushing like you just got caught holding hands at a middle school dance?"

"I hate you."

"You love me," Harry grins. "Say it back."

I flip him off instead.

He gasps, clutching his chest like I just stabbed him with a rusty butter knife.

"Oh, you wound me, Pete. I'll never recover from this. My heart—shattered. My spirit—crushed. This is how villains are made, you know."

I shoot him a look. I know how villains are made, and I cannot say I've ever seen someone become a villain over getting flipped off. Murdered? Sure. Happens every time I play GTA, but then again I'm the one going on a rampage. But that's a video game…

"Yeah, well, I'll be sure to cry at your tragic origin story."

"You better," he sniffs dramatically. "With tears. Real ones. I want mascara running."

"I don't wear mascara." I tilt my head.

"Well, you better start now, because I want an award-winning performance from you."

I shake my head, finally cracking a grin despite myself. God help me, but he's good at making me forget my brain's on fire. Even if he does it by setting more fires.

"C'mon, drama queen," I say, nudging him with my shoulder. "Let's get to class."

"You're just upset that I caught you lovebirds," he says, bolting ahead before I can smack him.

The fuck he just call us?

"WE'RE NOT—SHUT UP!"

A.S.
A.S.
A.S.

There was a particular kind of silence that only the rich ever heard. The kind that came with altitude—glass walls, private elevators, the hush of a city held at arm's length. It was the quiet of being untouchable.

Tony Stark woke to that silence wrapped in a tangle of limbs and Egyptian cotton. The women next to him were still asleep, breath slow and even. One had an arm thrown lazily over his chest, the other curled in close like they were orbiting the same gravitational pull. Neither stirred when he groaned and pushed himself upright, rubbing the sleep from his face like it had personally offended him.

Sunlight poured in through twenty-foot windows, bathing the penthouse in a golden wash that made everything look expensive—because it was. From the floating glass staircase to the climate-controlled wine vault, every inch had been handpicked, designed, and customized for its owner.

Tony swung his legs out of bed, stretching once before standing. He padded across the room barefoot, scooping his robe off the back of a leather chair. Burgundy velvet with gold trim, ridiculous and regal. Exactly the kind of thing you wore when you were trying to convince the world you didn't have a single problem.

It'd been about a year since his father, Howard, had passed away in that tragic accident en route to Latveria.

The world had called it a malfunction. A faulty guidance chip in the jet's autopilot system. Weather complications. Unfortunate circumstances. The kind of language that softened the violence of loss until it sounded palatable—digestible. But Tony knew better. Or at least, he suspected.

He didn't talk about it. Not even to himself. But some mornings—mornings like this one, where the sun hit the old Stark Industries crest just right on the wall across the room—he felt it again. The emptiness. The lingering shape of a father's absence.

They hadn't always gotten along. Howard could be cold, exacting, impossible to please. But there were moments that stuck with him anyway. Late nights in the workshop. Blueprints scattered across the dining room table. Howard handing him a soldering iron when he was ten and saying, "Don't burn the carpet this time."

Tony hadn't. Well—not that time.

He stood for a moment in the quiet, just letting memory breathe. Then he turned away and headed into the bathroom.

"JARVIS?" he said, voice hoarse with sleep.

A moment later, the familiar reply came from the hidden ceiling speakers—calm, posh, and unbothered.

"Good morning, sir. It is 10:47 A.M."

Tony squinted at his reflection. The mirror lit automatically, illuminating the fine architecture of his face—chiseled, half-awake, annoyingly symmetrical. He looked tired, but good. He always looked good. It was a curse.

"Tell time to take a number," he muttered, reaching for his razor.

As the blades hummed to life, JARVIS continued, "Mr. Stane has requested a meeting at your earliest convenience."

"Oh, come on, Jarv. I just woke up, buddy. Give me some good news."

"Ms. Virginia Potts has accepted the position. Effective immediately."

Tony paused mid-shave, one brow lifting.

"Now that's what I'm talking about."

Pepper had been a late-stage interview, technically a formality. She'd walked into the room with no patience for showmanship and even less for his ego. She didn't blink when he offered her three times what she was asking. That had impressed him.

He finished shaving, splashed water on his face, and toweled off. By the time he stepped into the kitchen, the penthouse was awake with quiet automation. Lights adjusted. Coffee brewed. The fridge displayed a biometric greeting. He ignored it and pulled out the cold brew, drinking straight from the bottle.

The table near the balcony was cluttered with blueprints and prototype schematics—military-grade designs layered with cutting-edge elegance. Drones. Energy rifles. Armor components.

An open laptop screen flickered quietly with classified readouts. One window was labeled:

PROJECT LUX – TARGET ACQUISITION SYSTEM (FIELD READY)

Another showed a folder flagged for deletion:

CROSS SPECIES GENETICS – INACTIVE

Tony swiped it closed without opening it. That project was destined for the scrap heap at this point. Messing with DNA could only go wrong. Connors and Michaels had tried their damnedest to keep it alive, but they failed nevertheless. Machinery was the future.

The TV was still on in the background. Morning news.

"—and in Lower Manhattan, police have confirmed yet another death in the string of so-called Vampire Killings. The victim was discovered with no blood, no visible trauma, and no signs of forced entry. Authorities are urging citizens to avoid traveling alone after dark—"

A cut to Mayor Fisk at a podium. He looked too large for the frame, jaw set, voice calm.

"Let me assure the public that this city will not be terrorized. I have personally authorized the expansion of our tactical response teams. We will find the one responsible, and we will bring them to justice."

Tony muted the broadcast with a quick flick.

He wasn't worried about Fisk. The man might've worn a suit like a statesman, but Tony had seen the contracts. The private investments. The armored task force. It wasn't protection—it was leverage. Stark tech flowed into the mayor's hands like water through a carved channel. And as long as the checks cleared, Tony didn't ask questions.

He wandered into his personal office. One wall lit up automatically as he entered—an interactive display of Stark history.

The centerpiece was a photograph of Howard, flanked by two engineers, all of them standing beside a hulking steel prototype. The plaque beneath read:

PROJECT I.M.

Tony stared at it longer than he meant to.

Howard looked proud. Exhausted, but proud.

"I know, Dad," Tony said quietly. "You wanted better."

He opened a hidden drawer in the desk. Inside sat a sleek gauntlet—gunmetal gray with a soft blue core at its center. No wires, no mess. Pure tech. He slid it on, flexed his fingers, and felt the energy hum back at him like it knew him.

He turned his palm outward. Let the repulsor flicker to life with a high-pitched whine.

Beautiful. Precise. Absolute.

Then he powered it down and removed it.

"Better every day," he muttered. "Too bad Obie doesn't get it."

He almost believed that. But lately, Tony was starting to wonder if Obie did get it—just not in the way he wanted.

A soft ping from the elevator.

Obadiah had arrived.

Tony didn't move. He stood by the window, looking out over the skyline that had never looked more fragile.

He was lucky, he thought. Very lucky.

If it hadn't been for the Rasputin siblings intercepting that convoy in Afghanistan last spring, he might've ended up in a ditch halfway across the desert. Bag over his head. Fingers broken. Blood on the sand.

But fate had intervened.

And in return, he was going to build something the world wouldn't forget.

Something that could never be taken away.

Not again.

Tony wandered back toward the living room, cold brew still in hand. The morning sun had shifted across the skyline, casting long shadows through the penthouse's glass walls. A folded copy of The Daily Bugle lay abandoned on the arm of the couch, the paper crisp and untouched except for a faint coffee ring near the masthead.

He picked it up absently, eyes scanning the front page.

TRAGEDY IN WAKANDA — KING T'CHAKA KILLED IN TERROR ATTACK.

The subheadline went into more detail—something about a rebel splinter cell breaching the borders. It was a daring assault, bold and surgical, carried out with tech that shouldn't have existed in that part of the world. Not without outside help.

Tony's jaw tightened slightly as he read.

He'd met T'Chaka once. Geneva, five years ago. Sharp guy. Dignified. The kind of man who said more with a look than most politicians did with a filibuster. Tony had just turned fifteen. Howard was ecstatic to be able to speak with T'Chaka. They spoke like old friends.

And now he was gone. Just like Howard.

The elevator chimed behind him.

Obadiah Stane stepped into the room, his presence heavy even before he spoke. His tie was askew, his coat slung over one shoulder. He looked older than he had yesterday—like the hours had pressed in on him without mercy.

"You know, Tony," he said, forcing a dry, weary grin, "you are a hard man to contact."

Tony looked up from the newspaper, eyebrows raised.

"Whoa, Obie… you alright?"

Stane waved him off, though his movements were stiff.

"Didn't sleep last night. I'm fine." He gestured vaguely toward the kitchen. "You have any of that sludge you call coffee left?"

Tony set the paper down on the glass table and gestured toward the fridge with his thumb.

"Help yourself. I was just catching up on the news."

Stane opened the fridge, pulled out the cold brew, and poured himself a tall glass without bothering to ask. He took a long drink, winced slightly, then turned back toward Tony.

"Did you bother to read the text messages I sent you?"

Tony glanced over his shoulder toward the bedroom. One of the women was starting to stir, hair a mess of copper curls against a sea of sheets.

"I was a bit preoccupied," he said, deadpan.

Stane didn't even bother responding to that one. Just sighed and set the glass down a little too hard.

"So, mind giving me the summed-up version?" Tony asked, dropping back onto the edge of the couch like this was all one long, mildly irritating brunch.

Stane groaned as he lowered himself into the armchair opposite.

"Fine. You know… we agreed that Stark/Stane Industries is supposed to be a partnership. Correct?"

Tony raised his eyebrows, gesturing lazily toward the ceiling.

"I mean, the name would point to that."

"Then why wasn't I told," Stane snapped, "that Mayor Fisk wanted us to spend millions on improving his Task Force's gear?"

Tony didn't answer right away. He leaned back, one arm stretched across the top of the couch, the other draped over the back of his neck like he was trying to stay relaxed—but a tension had crept in beneath the surface. Subtle. Cold. Like static waiting to crackle.

"I didn't think it was worth waking you up over," Tony said finally. "Come on, what's the problem? You and I both want to keep New York safe, right?"

"Safe?" Stane scoffed. "What Fisk wants is nothing short of an army, Tony."

"We have people who can control the weather running around, Obie. Regular weapons wouldn't protect them for shit."

Stane stared at him, incredulous.

"You think throwing more guns at the problem's going to fix it?"

Tony stood, not abruptly, but with purpose. He walked toward the bar cart, fingers skimming the edge before pouring himself two fingers of whiskey—no ice. Morning or not, this conversation had earned it.

"What I think," he said as he turned, "is that waiting for the next 'freak' to tear through Brooklyn without prepping for it is suicide."

Obadiah didn't move.

"You sound just like Fisk."

Tony raised his glass in mock toast.

"And yet I have better taste in ties."

Stane wasn't amused.

"You know what his endgame is. He's not looking to protect the city—he's looking to own it. And we're just handing him the keys."

"No," Tony said, taking a sip. "We're selling him the keys. At markup."

"That's not funny."

"I wasn't trying to be." He gestured around the room—at the schematics, the half-finished tech, the skyline just beyond the glass. "Obie, you think this place runs on good intentions? Stark Industries only survived my father's death because we kept the gears turning. Fisk is just another gear. Ugly, loud, but useful."

Obadiah stepped forward now, his voice lower, harder.

"And if he turns that gear against people like us? Against the wrong people?"

Tony's reply came without hesitation. Calm. Cold.

"Then we build something better."

There was a long beat of silence. Obadiah stared at him like he was seeing a blueprint he didn't recognize anymore.

"You really believe that, don't you?"

Tony set the glass down.

"I believe in control, Obie. If we don't make the future—we get buried by it."

"Control?" Obadiah repeated, incredulous. "What are you talking about? We're not gods, Tony."

He stepped closer, voice sharp with something more than just frustration—concern, maybe. Fear.

"Your father wouldn't approve of this. Hell, I don't approve of this."

Tony flinched—not visibly, not quite. But there was a flash behind his eyes, a tightening of the jaw that cut through the performance. He turned fast.

"Dad's not here now, is he?" he snapped.

The words hit the air like a slap, sharper than he meant, but not enough to take back.

His face flushed red for a split second—rage, or maybe regret. It didn't matter.

"You are family, Obie," Tony said, quieter now, but no less charged. "But do not try guilt-tripping me over what my father would have wanted."

Obadiah didn't back down. He stared at Tony, hard.

"I was there when he built the first prototype, remember? Project I.M. was about protection. Not escalation. Not domination."

Tony walked past him, pacing now, hands raking through his hair like he was trying to push the heat out of his skull.

"Things change," he said. "The world changed."

"And what—you're the one who gets to decide how it responds?"

Tony stopped, looking back at him.

"No. But I can decide who gets the tools."

Obadiah's voice dropped.

"And what if you're wrong, Tony?"

Tony stared at him for a long second.

"Then I'll be the one holding the detonator."

The silence that followed was heavy. Muted. Two men standing on either side of something broken, pretending it hadn't already split.

Obadiah exhaled through his nose, slow and tired. The weariness was back, stronger than before.

"We need to talk to the board."

Tony didn't blink.

"Then talk to them."

"I'm serious."

"So am I."

Obadiah shook his head.

"This isn't what Howard wanted."

Tony looked away, jaw tight again.

"Yeah," he muttered. "You've mentioned that."

Obadiah began pacing—slow, tight steps that carved a controlled circle around the room. His hands were restless. One tugged at the loosened knot of his tie, the other smoothing down the front of his wrinkled shirt like he could iron out his frustration with sheer force. He exhaled sharply, then dragged a hand over his face, fingers pressing into his eyes like he could press the headache out.

"Kid, don't be like this."

Tony didn't move. Just watched him from the other side of the room, arms draped open like a man inviting judgment.

"Be like what?" he asked, voice edged but casual. "Go ahead. Finish the thought."

Obadiah stopped mid-step, turned toward him, mouth parted like he had a dozen answers but none he wanted to say out loud. He looked at Tony not as a partner, not even as Howard's son—but as the boy he used to find asleep in the R lab, curled up next to half-finished inventions and tools too heavy for his hands.

Tony still had that look now. But it was buried under armor that hadn't been built yet. All sharp angles and hard truths.

"Like someone who's forgetting where he came from," Obadiah said finally.

Tony's smile came slow. Bitter.

"Where I came from burned up with my father's jet."

"That's not fair."

"No, it's accurate."

Obadiah pointed toward the wall display, where Howard Stark still stood frozen in sepia—a photograph surrounded by the legacy he left behind.

"You came from him. From that. You don't get to rewrite what this company is supposed to be just because you're scared."

Tony's jaw tensed.

"I'm not scared."

"You're always scared," Obadiah said quietly. "You're just better at hiding it now."

That landed.

Tony stepped forward, arms lowering, face hardening as the distance between them vanished.

"I'm building something that can protect people from the things we can't control," he said. "If I have to burn money to do so, then why not?"

Obadiah held his ground.

"And who protects them from you?"

Tony didn't answer.

Obadiah's eyes widened. It wasn't theatrical—it was instinctive, like something just clicked in his head and there wasn't enough room to pretend otherwise.

"Oh my God…" he breathed, voice low. "You've been working on the project in secret, haven't you?"

Tony didn't flinch. Didn't smirk. He just shrugged—cool and detached, like the truth was already a foregone conclusion.

"I might have been," he said. "What difference does it make?"

He turned back toward the window, hands in the pockets of his robe, silhouette framed by the morning sun and the jagged skyline beyond.

"It's my legacy, Obie. I just want to see it through."

Obadiah didn't respond at first. He stood frozen, still trying to wrap his head around it. His shoulders rose as he took a breath, like he was trying to calm a storm that had just pulled up an anchor inside his chest.

"No…" he said finally. "That's not it."

Tony glanced over his shoulder.

Obadiah shook his head, stepping forward again—his voice tightening, like the pieces were still falling into place faster than he wanted them to.

"I can see it in your eyes."

Tony turned fully now, eyes narrowing just slightly.

"What exactly do you think you're seeing, Obie?"

"A man who's not building something to protect the world…" Obadiah's voice dropped, the words hanging heavy between them, "but to control it."

He took another step closer.

"This isn't about carrying on Howard's legacy. It's about rewriting it. You want to prove that you're smarter. Stronger. More capable than he ever was."

Tony's expression didn't change. But his silence was louder than any denial.

"And you think if you build something big enough—loud enough—powerful enough, the world'll finally look at you and see more than his shadow."

Obadiah's tone wasn't cruel. It was tired. Disappointed in a way only family could be.

"You're not doing this for the world, Tony. You're doing it for yourself."

Tony stood there for a moment. Still. Measured.

Then he gave a half-smile—crooked, bitter.

"Maybe I am."

The silence between them stretched like wire—pulled taut, ready to snap.

Behind them, movement.

The two women from Tony's bed drifted silently into the living room, now fully dressed, their smiles gone and replaced by something more subdued. They didn't speak. Didn't ask questions. They just exchanged a glance, grabbed their shoes, and left the penthouse with the quiet understanding of people who'd seen this kind of tension before.

Tony didn't stop them. He didn't even look at them for long. Just watched the door shut behind them… then turned away.

His jaw was tight now. A muscle feathered in his cheek as he walked across the room, bare feet padding softly against the polished floor. He stopped in front of the wall display—the one lit with the history that never quite stopped following him.

There, behind the glass, sat the original plaque and photo from Project I.M.—a grainy black-and-white snapshot of Howard Stark, arms crossed, standing proudly beside the hulking first-gen armor. The prototype that had never made it past the concept phase. All steel and blunt force, designed for durability, not grace.

Tony stared at it like he was staring at a memory too vivid to blink through.

"Dad stopped because he felt it was too dangerous," he said quietly. "But he told me something before he left for Latveria."

Obadiah stood there, silent.

"He said I'd be the one to finish what he couldn't."

Tony reached out and rested his fingers lightly against the edge of the glass. It was warm from the sunlight, but he looked like he didn't feel it.

"He didn't see it as a weapon," Obadiah said.

Tony didn't turn around.

"Neither do I," he said. "I see it as a tool. For a better future."

There was no smugness in his tone. No performative edge. Just conviction. Bone-deep, unshakable.

Obadiah exhaled slowly. He didn't try to hide the look on his face—part disbelief, part fear.

"You really believe that, don't you?"

Tony finally turned to look at him.

"Every day."

Obadiah shook his head, almost imperceptibly.

"Tony… what are you expecting to come from this?"

Tony didn't answer immediately. He just looked out over the city again. His reflection hovered in the glass—tall, alone, backlit by the morning sun that made everything look golden, even the mistakes.

"Do you want to see?" he asked softly.

Obadiah hesitated.

"Tony—"

But Tony was already moving.

He crossed the room to his desk, fingers moving with practiced ease across the biometric locks. A soft click—and then the drawer opened, revealing a matte-black case with reinforced edges and no labels. He flipped it open.

Inside sat the repulsor prototype.

Sleeker than the last one Obadiah had seen—refined. The wiring had been tucked away. The casing was contoured, clean, the pulse core glowing with a faint, steady blue-white hum. Tony lifted it carefully, like it meant something more than just metal.

"I've managed to get some of the original kinks out of the tech," Tony said as he slid it onto his arm. "No more feedback loops. Improved heat dissipation. Battery life's still trash, but that's part of the fun."

Obadiah just stared.

"I think it's ready for trials," Tony added. Then he turned, already walking toward the private elevator. "Come on."

"Tony…" Obadiah started.

But the look in his eyes stopped him. It was drive.

Obadiah didn't want to follow. He knew that feeling in his gut. But he stepped forward anyway.

The elevator dropped them twenty floors in silence.

The doors opened to a lab that could've doubled as a miniature city. A cathedral of circuitry and glass and hydraulic scaffolding. Massive screens blinked to life as they entered. A bank of robotic arms clicked into standby. The air smelled faintly of ozone and metal shavings.

Tony walked straight to the center of the space, where the framework of an exo-suit hung from a reinforced rig—suspended like some mechanical ribcage waiting for flesh. It wasn't armor in the traditional sense. Not yet. Just a skeletal frame of reinforced alloy, grafted with muscle-threaded wiring and pressure sensors. But in the center of the chest plate, embedded with deliberate reverence, was the arc reactor.

Tony stepped into it without hesitation. The frame adjusted, arms whirring to life as they clicked into place around his limbs. The repulsor linked to the system with a satisfying chirp, syncing instantly. The light in the arc reactor pulsed brighter in response.

He exhaled slowly.

"JARVIS," Tony said. "Begin stabilization protocols."

"Affirmative, sir. Initiating phase one."

The suit shifted, responding to his posture, syncing with each breath.

Obadiah took a step forward, voice low.

"You put the arc reactor in your chest rig?"

Tony nodded.

"It's the cleanest power solution I've found. Self-sustaining. Scalable. Portable."

"And dangerous."

Tony didn't flinch.

"It's the future."

He raised his hand. The repulsor flared like a sun caged in his palm.

Obadiah wasn't looking at the light. He was looking at the man behind it. And for the first time, he couldn't tell which was wearing the other.

Tony stepped forward, the exo-suit adjusting fluidly with each movement. The servo motors responded like extensions of his own muscles, legs moving without resistance, weight distributing naturally across the reinforced floor plates.

Ahead of him stood a cluster of mannequin targets—lined up in staggered formation, each one human-sized, armored with various types of ballistic plating. They'd clearly been set up for this moment. Some were spray-painted with crudely drawn frowny faces. One wore a Mets cap.

Obadiah didn't move as Tony raised his arm.

"You sure this is safe?" he muttered.

"Define safe," Tony muttered.

And then, with a small grin…

FWHRRMMM.

The repulsor ignited with a piercing blast of blue energy, punching clean through the first mannequin's chest. It dropped instantly, plastic torso sizzling with a charred black ring dead-center. Another shot followed—then another. One by one, the mannequins fell, scorched at the point of impact, smoking slightly as they hit the floor in a heap of melted plastic and slumped limbs.

Tony whooped.

"Yes!" he shouted, nearly stumbling from excitement as the rig compensated. He turned toward Obadiah, grinning wide. "Did you see that? Dead center! All of them! I knew it was ready!"

Tony was still grinning as the last target crumpled with a satisfying thunk. The smell of scorched plastic hung in the air, sweet and acrid, like the ghost of victory on the tongue.

He flexed his fingers again, watching the repulsor fade from blinding to dim, still humming with restrained energy. His heart was racing. His mind buzzing. He turned on his heel, practically electric.

"Did you see that? Obie, come on—tell me that wasn't incredible."

Obadiah… wasn't smiling.

He stood stiff at the lab's edge, arms crossed, jaw tight.

Tony's smile faltered, his eyes scanning Obadiah's face like he'd missed something.

"What?" he said, brow furrowing. "I thought you'd be happy about this."

The echo of his own voice hung in the lab, bouncing back empty.

"I am happy, Tony…" Obadiah's voice was careful. He ran a hand down his face, then let it rest against the back of his neck. His fingers lingered there, like the weight of the moment had settled right between his shoulders. "But I need to know… does Fisk know about this?"

Tony blinked.

"What?"

"This." Obadiah motioned to the exo-suit. "The gear Fisk wants—is it involving this? This level of firepower?"

"No," Tony said immediately. "Different scope. Different budget. This is for us."

Obadiah's frown deepened, but before he could push, Tony stepped forward, voice gaining momentum like a train cresting a hill.

"But we could end up showing this off," he added, excitement bleeding back in. "At the expo in a few months. Just imagine it, Obie—'Stark/Stane Industries Presents: The Future of Integrated Defense.' You and me standing on that stage, suit fully functional, running a live demo. Press losing their minds."

His voice lifted with that same spark.

"A legitimate prototype. We'd dominate the headlines. We'd bury every competitor."

But Obadiah still wasn't smiling.

He was watching the suit—and the man in it—like he'd just seen a fault line form beneath their feet.

"Why would you want to market this as a weapon?" Obadiah asked, his voice low and tight.

Tony scoffed.

"Obie, did you not just hear me? It's for defense. Not a weapon."

Obadiah shook his head.

"You and I both know that's a marketing line. The greatest defense is a good offense, and this? This would be a hell of an offense in the wrong hands."

Tony stepped forward, face tightening.

"This can help people." He gestured to the gauntlet. Then to the arc reactor. "The arc reactor could power exo-limbs. Give mobility back. Dignity. No more hauling tanks and dragging wires through disaster zones. This isn't about combat. This is about giving people a future."

His voice caught—not yelling, but urgent.

"This is a second chance."

Obadiah looked at the suit, then the charred mannequins—one of which still twitched faintly, like it had died reaching.

"You say that now," he said softly. "But upstairs, you made it sound like you were doing this for yourself."

Tony turned, a flicker of defiance already rising behind his eyes.

"I'm doing this to make my mark on the world, Obie. That's what everyone wants. To matter. To be remembered."

Obadiah took a step closer, his expression folding in on itself, halfway between concern and disbelief.

"Is that really the way you see this?"

"How else am I supposed to see it?" Tony asked. "Look at what we're building—"

Obadiah looked at the mannequins again, at the smoke still trailing up the lab walls. "You're creating a mobile weapon of mass destruction. That's what I'm seeing."

Tony's eyes widened, face flushing with disbelief.

"Excuse me?" he said, voice cracking slightly. "I would never—"

"Bullshit!" Obadiah roared, his temper boiling over. "We sell weapons. That's what Stark Industries was before I stepped in to help carry your father's work forward. We were the world's largest arms dealer! You want to talk legacy? This is our legacy!"

He stormed forward, grabbing Tony's wrist and yanking it up between them, forcing the repulsor into view.

"This isn't hope. It's a palm-mounted energy cannon."

Tony jerked his arm back.

"You don't get it, Obie. You never did. My father wanted to protect the world. I'm just the one willing to make sure it actually happens."

They stood in silence for a moment, only the arc reactor pulsing between them.

"I want you to look me in the eye," he said, voice steady but low, like someone bracing for a truth he already knew. "And tell me you don't see this for what it really is."

Tony stood still, jaw tight, teeth grinding behind a closed mouth. His eyes were glassy with heat—somewhere between fury and shame.

Obadiah softened—just a little.

"Tony…" he said, quieter now. "If you meant a single word about this being used to help people… you'd know that this isn't the way."

Tony's eyes finally flicked up, staring hard. But there was something tired in them now. Like a storm pulling back out to sea.

"Then what is?" he said, and it wasn't defiant this time. It was honest and bitter. "Tell me, Obie. What is the way? Because all I ever hear is what I shouldn't do. What I can't build. What line I'm crossing. But no one ever tells me where the line is."

Tony walked slowly back to his workstation, boots echoing dully across the lab floor. The hum of the arc reactor was louder now, more noticeable in the quiet—like a heartbeat that wasn't his.

He reached the console and pressed both hands flat against the edge, head bowed slightly. For a moment, he didn't say anything.

Then, quietly—almost to himself:

"I just want to help."

His fingers curled against the metal, his voice tightening with it.

"War is how we advance our technology… always has been. We innovate when we're scared. When we're forced to. The breakthroughs we've made in war—they help people back home."

He looked up at the monitors.

"Why should this be any different? The end justifies the means, right?"

His voice was empty now—hollow.

"It's not that I disagree with you," Obadiah sighed, fatigue in every word. "We're partners, Tony. If you'd told me all of this… if you hadn't left me in the dark, working backroom deals with Fisk, building this behind my back… we wouldn't be standing here like this."

Tony turned slowly.

"I didn't agree to anything with him," he said flatly. "I told him I would discuss it with you."

Obadiah blinked.

"You did?"

"Of course I did. What do you take me for?"

Obadiah's mouth opened, but he didn't have an answer. Not one that didn't sound worse out loud.

"Why didn't you just say that?" he asked instead.

Tony shrugged, the movement stiff with restrained annoyance.

"Well, I can't say that you gave me the chance. You walked in here already sure I'd betrayed you."

He looked up, voice steady but quiet. "Like I said… everything I do is because I want a better future. Fisk might not be the best man around. But he's a lot better than the alternatives right now. If someone's going to shape the tech we've built… better it be us than someone who doesn't care where it lands."

He paused. Then added, with a faint smile that didn't quite reach his eyes:

"But I would never—ever—go behind your back."

Obadiah studied him. Long enough that it almost felt like silence had won. But Tony shifted again, gesturing toward the exo-suit.

"As for keeping you in the dark about this?" he said, voice lighter now, almost hopeful. "I was… trying to surprise you."

Obadiah blinked.

"Surprise me?"

"You were there from the beginning," Tony continued, stepping closer. "I figured if I could get a stable prototype mocked up… something real… you'd be excited. But now you're looking at me like I'm some kind of madman waiting to snap."

Obadiah's mouth pressed into a thin line. He didn't speak for a second. Just exhaled slowly, rubbing his jaw like he could smooth the worry out of his face by force.

"I'm looking at you like someone I care about," he said finally, "-who's walking too close to a cliff."

He glanced toward the suit again, then back to Tony.

"You're brilliant, kid. You always have been. But brilliance without brakes?" He tapped a finger against his temple. "That's how we lose control."

Tony didn't flinch, but the lines around his eyes tightened.

"I don't think you're a madman, Tony. I think you're trying to outrun a ghost. Maybe more than one."

"I told you already—" Tony began, his voice rising.

"I know, I know…" Obadiah cut in, holding up a hand. "You just want to help. But kid, you're not helping your case. You've been different since that attack in Afghanistan."

Tony went still.

The breath left him sharp, like he hadn't realized he'd been holding it.

"Obie," he said after a moment, his voice lower now. "The people that tried to take me… I was powerless to stop them."

He paused, swallowing.

"I'd never felt that kind of helplessness before."

"So that's why you want to finish the project? Because you felt hopeless?" Obadiah asked. It came out with more bite than he meant. A snap of disbelief dressed up as concern.

Tony's head turned, slowly.

"Careful," he said, too calm. "That sounded a little like mockery."

"I didn't mean it like that," Obadiah said quickly. "I just—God, Tony, you're building a damn war machine because you had a panic attack in a desert—"

Tony stepped forward, suddenly.

"No," he snapped. "I'm building a solution. Because the people who tried to take me—they're still out there. And you know what scares me more than being captured again? Letting them do it to someone else. Letting them win."

"Tony," Obadiah said, his voice low now. "You're not thinking straight."

"I'm thinking clearly for the first time in my life!"

Tony slammed his hand against the table.

"You don't get it," he said, turning back. "I've seen what they're capable of. I've seen what happens when we wait."

Obadiah stepped forward, calmer than he felt.

"You're making yourself a weapon."

Tony's mouth twisted.

"I'm making myself a shield."

"For who?" Obadiah shot back. "The city? The company? Or is it just so you can look in the mirror and not feel like a failure?"

That hit harder than either of them expected.

Tony didn't answer.

"You can't carry the weight of the world just to erase your guilt, Tony."

Tony stepped up to him, chest nearly touching—the hum of the arc reactor loud now in the silence between them.

"You think this is about guilt?"

"I think you're scared. And you don't know what to do with it."

Tony's fist twitched.

"You know what I see?" he said, voice cold now. "I see someone who stopped believing. You and Dad. When it got hard, you walked away."

"Because we knew how dangerous it could be," Obadiah snapped. "Damn it, Tony—this isn't what he wanted."

Tony's voice was low, bitter.

"Dad's not here to say otherwise."

"He trusted me to keep you from doing something reckless."

"Then maybe you should've done a better job."

The heat from the repulsor surged. A flicker of unstable energy hissed in the air.

The slightest twitch of his hand and—

FWHRRMMM.

The blast hit Obadiah square in the chest. He was sent flying backward, his body crashing through the high-rise window with a spray of safety glass and sunlit dust. For a fraction of a second, Tony saw the look on his face. It wasn't shock, anger, or anything that Tony could have handled in the moment. All he saw was betrayal.

And then he was gone.

Tony couldn't move. The sound of the repulsor faded in his ears, replaced only by the rush of blood and disbelief. His chest rose and fell in shallow bursts, the arc reactor's hum now sickeningly loud in the hollow room.

"No," he whispered.

He stumbled forward. Shards of glass crunched beneath his bare feet. Wind tore through the breach in the building.

"Obie—" His voice cracked.

Far, far below, sirens were already starting to stir.

He looked out through the shattered window, and for the first time since Afghanistan, he didn't feel powerful. He felt empty.

Shaking, he stripped off the exo-suit and let it fall to the floor.

Standing at the edge, alone, he whispered:

"I-I…"

The city breathed beneath him. Wind rushed through the broken window. Sirens wailed somewhere far away, still blind to what had happened here. The hum of the arc reactor was the only thing steady.

Behind him, the lab lights dimmed slightly, sensors falling into passive standby.

Then:

"Sir?" JARVIS's voice was soft.

But Tony didn't answer.

He didn't even hear him.

Arsenal597 · 2025-12-03T22:57:21+0000

I don't know why, but for some reason, the smell of dry-erase marker hits me before the class even starts—sharp, chemical, clinging to the inside of my nose. It mixes with someone's overly sweet body spray a few rows over and the faint reek of cafeteria eggs still stuck to someone's hoodie. The window's cracked, but it's doing a piss-poor job of airing the place out.

I sit at my desk, trying to breathe evenly through my mouth, but it doesn't help much.

The bell hasn't rung yet, but students are already drifting in—footsteps thudding against the floor in uneven, unpredictable rhythms. Sneakers squeak. A backpack zipper screeches open. Someone drops their binder too close behind me and I jolt slightly. Laughter breaks out across the room, loud and unfiltered, as if someone just said the funniest thing on Earth and we all needed to hear it.

The noise doesn't stop. It just piles on. One layer at a time.

Larson enters, peeling the cap off a marker with that awful pop, and I wince at the sound. He scribbles something on the whiteboard, the tip squeaking like it's struggling to keep up. Somewhere near the window, a fly is buzzing—just one—but it's persistent. I can't even see it, but I can hear it. High, shrill, constant.

Harry's tapping his pencil on the edge of his notebook. Not fast—just steady enough that it starts syncing up with the throb behind my eyes. I want to ask him to stop. I want to say something, but the words aren't forming right. My stomach's already knotted, and the overstimulation is grinding down my focus like sandpaper.

Then Harry speaks.

It's low. Easy. Familiar.

That's what cuts through the noise.

"You alright?"

It's not even loaded—just a check-in. But it's enough to give me something to hold onto.

I take a breath, let it out slowly, and manage to focus on just him. His voice, not the fly. Not the marker. Not the chaos happening just beyond the edge of my vision.

"Yeah," I say. It doesn't sound convincing.

I wait a beat longer, then ask—voice a little tighter than I'd like, but steady enough:

"So… did your dad say where he went last night?"

Harry lets out a breath through his nose, still half-focused on the corner of his notebook where he's carving some lazy spiral into the paper.

"Nope. Just told me it was business and not to wait up."

His tone is flat, but there's something underneath it. Like the words themselves don't sit right in his mouth.

"Is that normal for him?" I ask.

Harry shrugs. Doesn't look up.

"I mean, he's not exactly the 'text me when you get there' type. But he usually says something. At least lets someone know."

He glances at me now, and I can tell it's been bothering him. There's a tension in his jaw, that crease between his eyebrows deeper than usual.

"Something's still off," he mutters. "He looked… I don't know. Pale. Shaky, almost. Like he hadn't slept. I tried talking to him and he just… brushed me off."

I nod slowly, trying to hide the way my own skin is crawling.

"You think he's mad about something?" I ask.

"Maybe." Harry frowns. "Or maybe he's not mad at all. Just… somewhere else. Mentally, I mean. It's like he's not really in the room with me anymore."

That hits harder than I expect. I've seen people do that. Slip behind their own eyes. Go somewhere quieter, darker, because they can't—or won't—say what's happening.

"You ever seen him like that before?" I ask quietly.

Harry hesitates, then shakes his head.

"Not like this."

The bell rings. A fresh wave of noise cuts through the air—chairs scraping back, doors slamming open, the sound of someone dragging their feet down the hall like they're trying to tear a hole in the floor.

Neither of us moves.

"Let me know if anything changes," I say under my breath.

Harry nods, but there's something hollow in the motion.

"Yeah. I will."

The lesson starts, but it's like I'm not in the room anymore.

Larson's voice is going on about cells and mitosis or maybe how to dissect a frog—I can't really tell. It all starts blending together into one long, droning hum that refuses to stay in the background. My eyes track his movements automatically, but none of it sticks.

My fingers are digging into the grain of the desk without me realizing it. There's a groove running down the wood from years of people carving stupid little shapes or writing "help me" like that would magically free them from sophomore bio. I press my thumb into one of the deeper notches and it suddenly feels like I can feel every splinter. Every microscopic ridge in the wood's surface. It's not just texture—it's like I'm reading the damn desk like braille, and it's screaming at me.

The oscillating fan in the corner clicks once. Then again. And again. A rhythmic rattle like it's been unbalanced for years and no one's ever fixed it. My head jerks toward it on instinct, and I don't even realize I've turned until Harry gives me a weird glance.

The fluorescent lights above flicker slightly. Once. Twice. And then it's like I can hear them. That soft, electric buzz that normally fades into the white noise of a classroom? Yeah, not anymore. It's sharp. Piercing. There. Like a mosquito whining inside my skull.

My hands start to shake.

The AC kicks on and I feel every molecule of cold air hit my skin like a goddamn needle. Someone coughs in the back. Another kid laughs under their breath. Someone's chair squeaks. The fly is still going. Still buzzing. Still there.

I can't focus.

I can't breathe.

My stomach twists so hard it feels like it's trying to crawl up my throat. I press a palm to my abdomen, then quickly raise my hand.

"Mr. Larson," I manage, my voice barely audible. "Can I go to the bathroom?"

He barely glances up.

"Yeah, yeah. Take the pass."

I'm up before he even finishes, grabbing the grimy laminated pass off the hook near the door and making a beeline for the hallway. The second I'm out, I move fast—too fast. I'm already pushing the bathroom door open with more force than necessary, the hinges creaking behind me.

I barely make it to the toilet.

Then it hits.

Hard.

My knees hit tile and I vomit like my body's just done pretending to keep it together. There's nothing graceful about it. No cinematic wipe of the mouth or distant stare. I'm just there, head practically in the bowl, coughing and retching like my stomach's trying to exorcise something.

Even with the door shut, I swear I can still hear that fly. Or maybe it's just in my head now. Either way, it's not leaving.

Once I finally stop—once I'm sure there's nothing left—I pull myself up on shaky legs and hit the flush.

I don't look at the mirror.

I won't look.

Instead, I plant both hands on the edge of the sink and stare down at the porcelain. My palms are slick with sweat. My chest rises and falls like I just ran a hundred yards uphill in a thunderstorm. Everything's heavy. My head. My limbs. My thoughts.

My thoughts especially.

They won't stop.

They're moving at a thousand miles per hour—flashes of light, the screeching of tires, the car accident…

Shapes—outlines I recognize before I can name them. Ben. May. Norman.

Broken bones.

The wolf necklace swinging from my neck.

Ben yelling my name.

Images of my old family—faces I'll never see again except like this, upside-down, flickering, burned into the backs of my eyelids.

Myself—sitting on the ceiling.

And then MJ.

That look in her eyes.

It's immediately replaced by the way Norman smiled in that dream—

And then I hear it… a laugh in the back of my head like a ghost.

It's not Norman's voice, exactly. So much darker…

"You're different now, Peter…"

It's oily and gleeful and wrong.

"You're not the same boy I knew… are you even Peter Parker?"

"SHUT UP!"

The words rip out of me before I even register saying them. My right hand slams forward into the wall beside the mirror.

There's a crack. Like a tree splitting down the center. Dust rains from the wall, coating my wrist, and I'm staring at a crater in the tile—about three inches deep. My fist is embedded in the concrete.

Not a hairline fracture. Not a dent.

A full-on crater.

My hand pulls back on instinct, trembling, dust trailing off my knuckles. No blood. No bruises. No broken skin. Just powdered grout clinging to my fingers like chalk.

I stumble back a half step, staring at the wall.

That wasn't even hard. That wasn't even close to trying.

I didn't rear back. I didn't put my body into it. That was a reflex. And I still punched through solid concrete like it was wet plaster.

A cold sweat prickles down my spine. My breath hitches.

It's not just nausea anymore. It's not even fear in the traditional sense. This is something else.

Like my body is rebelling. Not against danger—but against me.

I shake, hands still buzzing with leftover adrenaline. Every sound from earlier—the lights, the fly, the fan—it's gone. The world's suddenly dead silent, like I've stepped into a sensory deprivation chamber. There's no noise. No movement. Just my heartbeat, and even that's quiet.

For the first time in days, my thoughts stop spinning.

And now that I'm not running from it… I can feel just how strong I've become.

And it terrifies me.

Because if I can do that without trying—without even thinking—what happens if I snap at the wrong moment? What happens if I lose control? What happens if someone pisses me off in the hallway and I react just a second too fast?

That laughter echoes manically as though it's won. That somehow, it got what it wanted in the end.

And for a second—just a second—I swear the crack in the tile looks like a grin.

I swallow thickly. My throat suddenly feels dry like I've been screaming for hours.

I rinse my hands under cold water, scrubbing the dust off my knuckles like it'll make me feel normal again. Then I dry them. Wipe my face. Avoid the mirror again.

And then I leave the bathroom like nothing happened.

Because the truth is—if anyone finds out what I just did… I don't even know what I would say.

"You feel it, don't you? What you really are..."

Shut up. Just shut up… please.

"You want to be a hero… yet you can't even stand up to the voice in your head? Poor little Peter…"

My jaw clenches. Just once. Like that part of me—the part that heard it—wants to answer back.

"You don't have to be afraid of what you are. You just have to stop pretending you're not…"

I keep walking. One step. Then another. Back to class like nothing's wrong. Like my stomach didn't just empty itself onto the bathroom floor. Like I didn't just punch a crater into the wall. Like I don't still feel that whisper curling around my spine like smoke.

"Stop pretending, Peter… you're not meant to be a hero. You're just a coward. Just admit it."

No.

That word doesn't leave my mouth, but it takes shape in my head—solid. Heavy. Like a weight I can finally lift.

No.

I'm not just listening anymore. I'm pushing back. Even if it's small. Even if it's barely more than a whisper in the dark.

This thing in my head—it wants me to flinch. To doubt. To fold in on myself and call it survival.

But I know what that looks like.

I lived that way for years.

And I'm not doing it again.

It doesn't matter if I'm scared. Doesn't matter if the voice keeps talking. Doesn't matter if I don't know what I am yet.

What matters is I'm still walking.

And I'm not stopping.

I step back into the classroom. The fluorescent lights still hum. The fan still ticks. Larson is still droning on at the front like he's being paid by the syllable. But the world doesn't feel quite as sharp this time.

Harry looks up when I slide back into my seat.

"You okay?" he asks quietly.

"Yeah," I say, giving a short nod. "Just needed to get some air. I'm better now."

He watches me a second longer, like he's still deciding whether to believe it. Then he nods.

"Okay… You need anything?"

"Yeah." I force a small smile—thin, uneven, but it's the best I've got. "I need the notes on what I missed."

"You got it."

I take the paper from him and stare at the first line, trying to focus.

My hands are steady now.

But I don't know how long that'll last.

We didn't even make it halfway to the cafeteria before Harry nodded toward the common room.

"Let's chill in there. Gwen's in Chem anyway."

I didn't argue. I was more interested in quiet than lunch. My tray barely had anything on it—an apple, a chocolate milk, and a sad slice of something that swore it used to be pizza. I wasn't exactly in a social mood.

The common room's dimmer. Fewer people. The couches all have that slightly-saggy look like they were dragged here from the teacher's lounge a decade ago, and one of the vending machines is perpetually blinking an error code that no one's fixed. Still, it's calm. Some juniors were sitting on the floor comparing notes, and across the room, Flash and Kong were halfway through a foosball match that sounded like it'd been going since the Industrial Revolution.

I dropped into the far couch with a low exhale, tray balanced on my knees. Harry sat beside me and immediately took out his phone—probably already texting Gwen something dumb.

That's when I saw it.

The TV in the corner wasn't loud, but the graphics were enough.

BREAKING NEWS: Obadiah Stane Pronounced Dead in Stark Tower Incident

I froze. The milk carton almost slid off my tray. A familiar face was plastered on the screen—a corporate photo, smile tight, suit clean, like every press release headshot ever taken.

Harry noticed me staring and looked up.

"…Wait. That's—no way." He leaned forward. "Holy crap. That's Stane."

Neither of us spoke for a second.

The reporter's voice was low and rehearsed. Calm. All business.

"Stane, the co-founder of Stark/Stane Industries, was reportedly killed this morning during an early-stage technology test at Stark Tower. Sources confirm it was a tragic accident. Emergency responders arrived on the scene, but were unable to revive him. No foul play is suspected."

An accident.

I just stared at the screen. My heart wasn't racing exactly, but it felt like it should be. It felt like something had cracked a little sideways inside my skull.

I didn't know the guy, but… I did.

I mean—I knew him. Not personally. But I'd watched his villain arc. I knew the blueprint. The Iron Monger. The suit. The betrayal. The factory floor showdown.

Now?

Now he was just dead.

No suit. No final confrontation. Just… an accident.

My stomach turned slowly, not because it made me sad—but because this was the first time I felt genuinely lost.

This wasn't the MCU. I never expected it to be. But I'd been telling myself that I sort of knew the general shape of things. That enough threads would stay the same to follow the pattern. Norman wasn't evil yet—but hey, maybe one day. Fisk was Mayor—but I'd seen worse. MJ and I met earlier than expected—but that was manageable.

This, though?

This was new. This wasn't a curveball. This was the pitcher throwing the ball into the stands and walking off the mound.

"Dude," Harry muttered. "That's insane. My dad's gonna be freaking out. They were in meetings all week."

I nodded faintly, but I couldn't take my eyes off the screen.

Obadiah Stane. Dead.

No Iron Monger.

So what else was different?

"Hey." Harry bumped my shoulder lightly. "You alright?"

I blinked. Pulled back from the spiral.

"Yeah," I said. My voice came out flatter than I meant it to. "Just… wasn't expecting to see that today."

He looked at me for a second like he wasn't totally buying it, but didn't push.

From across the hall, Flash whooped loud enough to draw the whole room's attention.

"Goal! That's five to two, Kong! You're getting destroyed, man!"

Kong shouted back something about cheating and gravity and how the table was slanted.

In the back of my head, that fucking voice was creeping its way back to the front.

"You're not the only one that's changing..."

That thing is going to make me punch something by the end of the day, I can feel it.

God, I miss my PS5. At least I could've relaxed with that. Blown off some steam, killed some zombies on COD or something.

This blows. I can't shoot a voice in my head. Then again, it's just my own doubt creeping in. I can handle it. I just need the right outlet, something to let it out before it drags me under.

For now, I just sit there, letting the noise of the room cover the noise in my head.

I push through the front doors like I've just come out of a war zone, squinting against the afternoon sunlight. My bag's slung half-on, one strap barely hanging off my shoulder, and my legs feel like lead. I'm not even sure if it's from the physical exertion or just… existing.

Harry's beside me, hands in his pocket, with that usual casual strut like he's in some photoshoot. He's mid-sentence about something—but I'm not able to give enough of a shit to bother paying attention. I might as well be in my own little world at this point.

My head is fuzzy, so many thoughts swirling in it that focusing on what's in front of me is a challenge of its own. It takes Harry nudging me with his elbow for me to even give him the time of day.

"Dude," he says under his breath, tipping his chin forward.

I follow his gaze and—yep. There's MJ, standing by the front gate, arms crossed loosely over her chest, looking like she's been waiting just long enough to make it look casual. She's… she's got her hair down. I barely recognize her, despite the radiant red hair you only see in cartoons or comic books. It's—it's quite mesmerizing to be honest.

Apparently, I'm not the only one that's taken note of that based on the whistle Harry lets out.

"Go get your girl, man."

"Shut up…" I roll my eyes, shouldering my bag properly. "I'll talk to you later."

"Yeah, yeah." He waves me off, walking backward for a few steps. "Tell her I said hey."

"Not happening."

I turn back toward MJ, who's giving me a look of her own now—eyebrows raised, arms still crossed, head tilted just enough to say she definitely noticed whatever that was.

"Did I miss something?" she asks as I reach her.

I shake my head, brushing it off.

"No. Harry's just… being Harry."

She raises an eyebrow but doesn't push it, letting me fall into step beside her as we head down the sidewalk together.

The school behind us starts to fade into the background, the noise of students scattering in every direction like we're all just trying to outrun something.

After a minute, she glances over.

"So," she says, keeping it casual, "was today any easier?"

I let out a small chuckle, but it comes out wrong. Stiff. Like my body forgot how to laugh and is just mimicking it by sound alone.

"Yep."

She picks up on it immediately

"You sure?"

"Yeah," I lie, my eyes fixed on the pavement ahead.

She doesn't say anything at first, just walks a little slower. I can feel her glance my way again, but I keep looking forward. The wind kicks up a bit—cooler than earlier—and I focus on the rustling of leaves instead of the static in my skull.

We walk in silence for another block or so before she speaks again.

"…Is it me?" she asks, voice quiet. "Did I do something?"

That gets me. I stop mid-step, turning just enough to see her face. There's nothing accusatory there—just this kind of hesitant vulnerability that stings a little. Like she's not used to being unsure.

"No," I say too fast. Too flat. My throat tightens.

I clear it. Try again.

"No. You didn't do anything. You were…" I pause, trying to find the words without sounding like a complete dweeb. "Lately, you're one of the few things that feel right… or normal."

Ew, even I'm cringing over what I said.

Silence fills the air between us, and I can practically feel the breath catch in my throat. She looks at me for a second longer than she probably meant to, and then… her expression shifts, just slightly. Her eyes soften around the edges, like whatever tension she had about my distance deflated a little.

Her cheeks get this red tint to them. Shit, is she blushing right now? Oh you're kidding me, right?

And then, without a word, she bumps her shoulder gently into mine.

It's not much, barely more than a nudge. But it says more than most people ever do with full sentences.

We keep walking.

The breeze cuts through again, and for a moment I just listen—to the soft thud of our sneakers on the pavement, the rustle of leaves clinging to trees that probably won't hold on much longer, and the way the city always hums with life even when the people in it feel dead on their feet.

I glance over at her. She's watching the sidewalk in front of us, a little wrinkle between her brows like she's still thinking. Her hair shifts with the wind, strands catching the sun in that surreal red-gold way that feels like it belongs in a movie, not real life.

I don't say anything. I just keep moving beside her, and I let the silence stretch—not because I don't want to talk, but because it's nice not having to fill every second with noise.

Except…

My brain isn't really letting me off the hook today.

It's buzzing with static again. A thousand different signals on top of each other, no volume control. Norman's sudden absence last night. The way Harry looked when he talked about it. Obadiah Stane is dead. That's a sentence I haven't even processed yet.

The Iron Monger is dead, and I don't think he ever donned the suit. That's going to take some time to get used to.

My fingers twitch around the strap of my backpack.

Let's face it. I'm supposed to be keeping up with Geometry and everything else… and I'm stuck on the death of Iron Man's potential villain. Then again, nothing about my situation is normal, even by Marvel standards.

Died, resurrected into Peter's body, developing super powers, existential crisis, going through puberty again… and on top of it my dumb ass is already having second thoughts about what I want to do.

Despite it all, I do want to help people, but what good is that going to do if I can't even help myself? If my doubts are going to hold me back, how the hell am I supposed to help people?

I sigh—quiet, but heavy. MJ thinks I'm acting weird because of how things have been the last twenty-four hours between us. While she's partially right, that's really not the case overall. She's just one little piece of the puzzle.

"I mean it…" I say, barely louder than the wind. "It's not you, MJ."=

She turns toward me a little, head tilted again, hair catching sunlight again, every time it moves like it's trying to hypnotize me.

"It's just—" I exhale again, trying to wrangle the words that don't want to come out. "I feel like I'm drowning right now. Three weeks gone, and I'm expected to catch up. I don't even know what I missed, or what I'm supposed to even know for that matter."

My hand gestures vaguely as I speak, like motion can help untangle the thought.

"I've got tests, homework, and people that I'm trying to figure out because I feel out of place. Like I'm pretending really well, but any second someone's going to realize I don't belong here."

That last bit comes out faster than I mean it to.

My throat tightens.

"My brain just won't shut up. It's... it's a lot. All at once."

We stop at a crosswalk. The light hasn't changed yet, and there's no traffic, but I don't move. I just… stand there. Backpack hanging low on one shoulder, heart pounding a little harder than it should be from just talking.

For a second, I wish I had my mask on—not the Spider-Man one, the metaphorical one. The one that lets me hide all this.

Then—her hand brushes against mine. My heart practically skips a beat. Was she trying to take my hand, or was it by accident? As nice as that sounds, I'm still not trying to put myself in that position.

"You don't have to explain it," MJ says, voice soft. "But… thanks for telling me."

I look at her. She's not smiling, but there's something in her eyes—like she gets it.

We walk again, and for a few seconds, I almost convince myself things are okay. Just two kids walking home after school. Just noise and sunlight and—

Smoke.

It hits me all at once—thick and acrid, too sharp to be a backyard grill, too heavy to ignore. It rides the wind like it's chasing us, slipping past my nostrils and punching straight into my brain like a warning shot. Not the smoky comfort of woodfire. This is chemical. Black. Wrong.

Sirens howl in the distance. Not uncommon in New York, sure. Could be a mile away, could be on the next block. MJ doesn't say anything, and neither do I. We just keep walking, like we're trying not to invite disaster in by acknowledging it.

Then we turn the corner—and there it is.

A crowd's already gathered—phones up, faces twisted with panic, mouths open in that awful in-between stage where people don't know whether to scream or pray. Some are holding each other like that's going to be enough. Like holding someone close can stop the world from burning down around them.

The smoke is—God, it's thick. It rolls out of the building in waves, not wisps. It's not just black, it's hungry. It claws at the sky like it's trying to block out the sun. Ash is falling like dirty snow, catching in people's hair, clinging to clothes, painting everything in slow-motion dread.

The building's maybe five stories—brick, probably old enough that the wiring hasn't seen an update since the '80s. Metal fire escape on one side, twisted and half-melted already. The windows on the second and third floors are shattered, flames licking out like tongues searching for more air to devour. The top floor? It's practically invisible behind the wall of smoke.

People are still stumbling out—coughing, wheezing, eyes wild. Some of them are crying. Some are just staring at their hands like they forgot how they got there.

The fire isn't contained. It's winning.

And I'm just… standing here.

I could help.

The thought cuts through the noise like a blade. I could help.

If I go in, maybe I could get someone out—find a way up, get them to safety. That's what heroes do, right? That's what he would do.

But—then reality crashes back in.

I don't have a mask. I don't have web shooters. I don't even have a plan.

If it goes wrong in there… if I can't get out, if I can't get them out… if someone sees something they shouldn't…

I'd be putting myself in danger. I'd be exposing everything. There's a thousand reasons I should stay out of it.

And then there's that other voice. The quieter one. The one that sounds like every missed moment in my life.

This is what you always do.

You freeze. You wait.

You let someone else step in.

Why would it be different now? Even with powers, you're still just... you.

And for a second, I almost listen to it.

Then I hear the scream.

It's not coming from the building. It's coming from the crowd.

"Oh my God, our kids—our kids are still up there!"

My head snaps to the voice. A woman's crying into her husband's chest, her words frantic, barely forming.

"What floor?" I ask.

"Fourth floor," the man says. "They were watching television while we went to the bodega!"

Fourth floor?

I don't know what happens in my brain next. It's not logical. It's not even conscious. It's like someone pulled a lever and the whole machine just launched into motion.

The bag slides off my shoulder and hits the ground with a thud that feels final. My feet are moving before I can think. MJ calls my name, sharp and panicked.

"PETER!"

The world blurs at the edges as I sprint forward toward the building. If I waited, those kids were going to die. I wasn't going to let that happen.

People are scrambling past me—covered in soot, coughing, crying, grabbing onto whoever they can as they spill out the doorway like a dam finally gave out. I push against the current, ducking low and weaving through, a shoulder here, a twist there, until I'm inside.

The heat hits me like a truck.

It's suffocating. There's no ramp-up—no gentle warmth or warning wave. It's like stepping into the mouth of something alive and angry. The smoke is thick, cloying, and immediate. My eyes start to sting, watering so fast I can barely see past a few feet. It burns my lungs before I can even cough. Every breath feels like dragging in razors.

The lobby is already lit up—pillars of flame curling along the edges of the staircase, wallpaper bubbling, glass cracking from the heat. Everything groans around me, like the building knows it's dying and wants me to hear it.

I don't see anyone left. Just the damage they left behind—the signs of panic, of people who got out just in time.

I charge for the stairs, skipping two at a time—until a wave of smoke cuts off my vision and forces me to duck. I grab the railing, plant one foot, and launch myself up to the next landing—

SNAP.

The railing gives out under my grip, splintering in my hand like it was made of balsa wood. I barely catch myself as I hit the floor hard, shoulder-first. Pain spikes through my arm, but I grit my teeth and roll to my feet again.

"Fourth floor," I hiss. "Just keep… moving!"

I sprint upward again, faster now, my body almost surging. My heartbeat is hammering in my ears, so fast it should slow me down, but instead—

Everything else starts to slow.

The flicker of flames becomes lazy. The groans of stressed steel echo out like they're underwater. The smoke feels… lighter, almost like I'm ahead of it. I don't understand it—not really—but I'm moving through the world like it's stuck buffering and I'm not. My reflexes, my speed—everything feels like it just kicked into overdrive.

My feet hit the landing of the fourth floor with a force that makes the boards creak and splinter. The hallway ahead of me is half-gone—sections already collapsed, ceiling scorched black, doorways glowing like eyes. I whip my head side to side, trying to listen through the roar of fire.

Then I hear it.

Crying.

Faint. Choked. But definitely there.

I bolt toward the sound.

The door in front of me is closed—charred, but intact. Locked.

Of course it's locked. Probably thought they were being safe. Probably didn't think they'd leave and come back to this.

I don't hesitate.

"HANG ON!" I yell, voice cracked from the smoke. "I'M COMING!"

I slam a foot into the door—and the frame explodes inward. Thank you, spider powers… also, that had to look badass.

I stumble inside, choking on the surge of heat that blasts out to meet me. The apartment's in ruins—smoke curling along the ceiling, flames consuming the kitchen tiles, curtains melting into fire. Photographs are blackening on the wall, faces disappearing into soot. I cover my mouth with my arm and scan every corner of the room.

Nothing.

"Where are you?!" I shout, already moving.

And then I hear it.

"In here!"

The voice is small, hoarse, but alive.

I dive into the hallway, turning into the first door I see—bedroom. The smoke's thinner in here, somehow, but not by much. My eyes sweep the space—bed, dresser, toys scorched and smoking.

Then I spot the closet.

I run to it and rip it open.

There—two kids. A boy and a girl. Maybe five, maybe six. Blankets pulled over their faces, curled up as far from the heat as they can get. The girl clutches a stuffed animal with one arm, the boy has his free hand curled into a fist like he's ready to fight the fire himself if he has to.

They look up at me, blinking through tears.

"Hey," I say, crouching down, trying not to sound like I'm about to panic. "Let's get you to your mom and dad."

I scoop them both up—one in each arm, careful as I can be, but I'm still moving. No time for explanations. No time for anything, really. The girl clings to me instinctively, and the boy stiffens at first, then wraps his arms around my neck like he's afraid of letting go.

"Hold on," I say, hoarse, as I step out into the hallway again.

The heat outside the room has tripled. Flames lick along the ceiling, crawling across the cracked plaster like veins. The apartment is groaning louder now—wood straining, pipes popping from the inside out. This place is seconds away from becoming a funeral pyre.

I'm just about to make a break for the stairs—when I hear it.

That sound… like someone ripping the air in half. Snapping, cracking, and groaning.

I look up just in time to see the ceiling above us start to collapse.

"Oh no…" I barely let the words slip out of my mouth, as I pull the kids off of me and push them out of the way. They stumble forward, watching in horror as it comes crashing down. I lunge forward, throwing my arms up and catching the falling slab of ceiling with everything I've got.

The force of it drives me down to one knee. Fire blooms across the surface, heat rolling into my skin like molten breath. My hands scream. My shoulders shake like they're about to tear apart.

I should be crushed.

I shouldn't be able to hold this up.

And yet—somehow—I am.

Barely.

The wood and drywall grind against my palms, heat blistering through my skin, and I feel my entire body tremble under the weight. I grit my teeth so hard I taste metal. My whole chest seizes up as I fight back a sound—a scream or a sob or something in between.

The kids.

Get them out first.

I peek over my shoulder. They're frozen in the hallway, staring back at me with wide, terrified eyes.

"GO!" I choke out. "Run!"

The girl stumbles back, tugging the boy's hand. He follows, half in shock, but their feet finally start to move.

"Don't look back!" I call, voice barely holding together. "Keep going! Get to the stairs!"

I can't see if they listen.

But I feel the floor shift under me.

Everything's giving way.

I can't hold this much longer.

My elbows start to buckle. The ceiling hisses, alive with fire, and my grip slips just an inch—

And then I let go.

I throw myself sideways, rolling just as the whole section crashes down behind me in an explosion of embers and wood. My lungs seize from the smoke, my vision flickers, but I'm up again, grabbing the kids and hauling them both into my arms.

We're running before I even know where we're going.

The stairwell.

We reach it—

Just as it collapses.

Gone. Just like that.

It's like the building decided to pull the rug out from under me, and what's left is smoke and flame and nothing beneath us.

I freeze.

That part of me that's never done anything like this, the powerless part of me—he's already calling it quits.

We're screwed.

But then there's that other part.

The one that doesn't accept that.

The one that's whispering in my head that there's another way. That I can do something now I couldn't before. That I'm not powerless anymore.

I look down at the kids, clinging to me like they already know how close they are to never making it out of here. The girl's crying now, soft and scared, burying her face into my chest. The boy's shaking, but trying to be brave. He meets my eyes.

"You guys…" I swallow hard, stepping back from the missing staircase. "You like superheroes?"

He nods—barely—but it's enough.

I smile, even through the soot and pain.

"Well," I say, flexing my grip around them, "guess today's your lucky day."

And then I turn—and I jump.

Not down.

Sideways.

My feet slam against the nearest wall—and stick.

The kids gasp—one sharp breath each—as I crouch, pressed horizontal against the burning wall, just like I've done a hundred times in dreams, in comics, in games.

Only now… it's real.

"Hang on!"

I start to move—fast and controlled. Down one wall, across the next. I drop, flip, shift weight—every step more confident than the last. It's like I've done this before. Like my body knows something I don't. The heat still scorches, the smoke still chokes—but I'm cutting through it now.

We burst through the second floor.

The floor was already giving out, but I used it to my advantage. I used one of the falling pieces as a springboard to make the final leap to the first floor.

The front entrance is a blur. I vault over the wreckage, spin mid-air, twist to protect the kids as we hit the ground just outside the burning doors.

I crash into the pavement on my side, roll, and come up still holding them both.

The first thing I do is look at the kids. They're alive… all three of us are.

The roar of the fire behind us screams like it's angry we made it out.

People are shouting. MJ's voice cuts through it—my name, over and over again—but I can't answer yet. My heart's pounding too loud. My hands are shaking. My face is soaked in sweat and soot and tears I didn't even feel fall.

The boy looks up at me.

"Are you… a superhero?"

I just stare at him.

I don't know the answer, but I nod anyway.

"Awesome…"

I stumble back to my feet, chest heaving, knees shaking like they've forgotten what solid ground feels like. The kids are still in my arms, coughing into my shirt, but they're clinging tight—and I don't think they're planning to let go until I make them.

Their parents spot us first.

The moment the mother sees her kids, she screams—and not the panicked kind. The kind that's so full of relief it sounds like it hurts to let it out. She rushes forward, the father right behind her, both of them wide-eyed and barely holding it together. They practically collapse as I kneel to set the kids down.

"Mommy!" the girl sobs, flinging herself into her mother's arms.

The boy hesitates for just a second before running to his dad, still coughing but smiling faintly.

And then—

He turns his head.

Just enough to look at me.

There's soot all over his face, cheeks streaked with ash and tears, but he smiles—really smiles—and it's that kind of quiet understanding you don't expect from a kid that age. He doesn't say anything. Doesn't point. Doesn't even hint at what I did.

And I know, right then, he's not going to tell them.

They're not going to tell anyone.

The mom throws her arms around both kids, pulling them in so tight it's like she's afraid they'll disappear if she lets go. Her sobs come sharp and uncontrollable, burying her face into her son's hair. The dad's hands are shaking as he touches their shoulders, their cheeks, like he's still trying to believe they're real—like they're not just smoke-shaped memories.

He looks at me, and for a second, I see every possible version of grief he thought he was about to live through flash across his face. But it fades—melts into something else. Gratitude. Disbelief. Awe.

"You saved them," he says, voice thick and hoarse, cracking like burnt timber. "I don't—I don't know how you did it. Thank you. Thank you."

I open my mouth to say something, anything, but nothing comes out.

The words lodge in my throat like ash and glass.

I try to nod, to give him some kind of acknowledgment, but I can't. My chest tightens—violently—and suddenly I'm coughing so hard I can barely breathe. My lungs seize like they've been wrung out and lit on fire.

My knees buckle.

I hit the ground before I even realize I'm falling, the pavement slamming into me in a way that feels distant and underwater.

The heat's finally caught up to me. The adrenaline's leaving. And all that's left is the smoke.

"Peter!" MJ's voice slices through the noise.

And then she's there—arms around me, hands on my shoulders, trying to steady me.

I cough again, this time so hard it feels like my ribs are trying to break out of my chest. My eyes sting. Smoke, adrenaline, fear—take your pick. My hands won't stop shaking.

"Breathe," MJ says quietly, like she's reminding both of us.

I try.

In. Out.

Shaky. Ragged. Like breathing through broken glass.

The fire's still roaring behind us, distant but relentless. But here, in this moment, all I can hear is her—her breathing, her voice, her heartbeat pounding near mine.

"What were you thinking?" she asks, voice shaking, her fingers brushing ash off my face like that's going to make any of this make sense. "You ran into a burning building, Peter!"

"I'm okay," I rasp, even though I'm anything but.

"No, you're not." Her hands press against my chest like she's checking for damage, or maybe just reassurance. "You're not okay. You could've died."

I don't argue. I can't. The truth is: she's right.

And I look at her—really look. Her eyes are glassy, wide. Her cheeks are flushed from the heat or from the panic or maybe both. She's holding me like she doesn't know how else to process this.

Sure, maybe she doesn't realize how close I actually was to that happening, but none of that matters right now.

Because all I can say—all that's left inside me—is:

"I couldn't let them die, MJ…"

I didn't go in there thinking I'd make it out. Honestly? A part of me still isn't sure I have.

But when I heard them scream, everything else—the fear, the logic, the me that still thinks he's just a guy pretending to be someone better—it all vanished.

All I could think was: they need someone.

And for once, I didn't wait for that someone to show up.

Her arms tighten around me like she's afraid I'll disappear again, like those three weeks in a coma still haunt her in the back of her mind. She doesn't say anything. She doesn't have to.

And for a second, I let myself sink into that silence.

For the first time in my life, I actually feel good about myself…

Arsenal597 · 2025-12-03T22:58:10+0000

The fire is mostly out now, but my heart is still pounding against my ribs. I'm sitting on the back bumper of the ambulance, with an oxygen mask to my mouth and one of those stiff gray blankets wrapped around my shoulders watching the last of the flames get snuffed out. There were some obvious questions raised from the get-go.

Why did I run into the burning building without a second thought?

How did I get the kids out of there?

What was I thinking?

I've had plenty of time to think about it, and I gotta say… I meant what I told MJ. I couldn't stand there and let those kids die. No matter how angry I got, how much I hated the world in my lowest moments, I could never let someone die like that.

It takes me back to high school. There was a threat called in—someone claiming they were going to shoot the place up. It was fake, obviously. Some kid wanted out of school and had one of their online friends from another country make the call. It happened a few times over the course of maybe three weeks? Got traced pretty quick, and the kid got dealt with. Pretty sure the friend did, too.

But what I remember most was a conversation I had with my mom during all that. I was a kid with a wild imagination, always wanting to be like the heroes I grew up with. Mom told me not to be a hero, and you know, I told her… what good would I do trying to help? I couldn't be bothered to protect myself, so why would I try. She summed it pretty well.

I didn't care about myself as long as everyone else was alright. It's one of my family traits, being stubborn as hell, going out of my way to help people even if it meant getting hurt.

I didn't break up fights at school because I didn't want to get in trouble with the staff. I could have, but I was too scared of repercussions…

But if there was no chance of getting in trouble from it…

If there was a moment where I could genuinely help someone in danger, I would do it. I suppose in the end, she was right.

I want to help people, and for the first time in my life I had the chance to do that. When I said I felt alive, I was honest.

For so long, I felt stuck. I wasn't good enough. Since waking up as Peter, I'll admit, I felt out of place—disjointed, playing the part of someone I shouldn't be. With each morning I wake up, it feels more like this is the life I should have had. I love my family, the one I was born into… but this, it makes me feel complete. It's something I wasn't able to feel, even with them.

Has it been enough time to say that? No, probably not. It's only been about two weeks now, but… I can't help the feeling.

Now, back to the point at hand.

Right… my hands.

They hurt like hell—burned and raw, the skin flushed red where the heat kissed too close. They're wrapped in fresh bandages, now. The EMT said I should be fine as long as I take care of them, but honestly? The burns are nothing compared to what I'm feeling.

The firefighters were shocked I made it to the fourth floor with how unstable the building was. I told them I got lucky—that if I'd been a minute slower, I wouldn't have made it. It wasn't really a lie.

And the whole time I'm sitting there, I can't stop watching the kids with their parents—safe and alive, exactly where they're supposed to be. There's this quiet swell of pride in my chest I don't know what to do with. The look on the boy's face when we got out… it's burned into my brain in the best possible way.

It wasn't shock, or even full-on joy. It was this weird mix of disbelief and awe—like for a second, he thought he was in a movie, and then realized it was real. His eyes locked onto mine like I was more than a person, like I was something worth believing in…

That look…

God.

It was everything.

I'm still thinking about it when I hear footsteps crunching softly on the gravel behind me. I don't even have to look.

"Hey," MJ says, quiet, but not fragile. There's a careful sort of calm to her voice—like she's trying to not spook me. "You okay?"

I nod into the mask, then slide it down under my chin and turn to her.

"Yeah," I say. My voice comes out a little hoarse, like I've been screaming for hours. "Yeah, I'm great."

She arches her brow.

"Great?"

"I mean, my hands are burned, I probably look like I lost a fight with a chimney, and tomorrow I'll feel like I got hit by a truck," I say, trying not to sound too proud of myself. "But I'm great."

MJ lets out a soft laugh—short, but genuine. There's ash in her hair, smudged on her cheek, and for some reason she still looks more put together than I do.

"You scared the crap out of me," she says, crossing her arms. "Next time, maybe give me a heads-up before you go all... I dunno, action hero."

"I'll put it on the list," I offer a tired grin. "Right after, don't die in a fire."

Her smile fades just a little as she looks at my hands.

"Does it hurt?"

I glance down.

"Yeah," I nod, before laughing dryly. "But you know, this gives me an excuse to not do any homework tonight."

She doesn't say anything for a second, and I can feel her debating something. Then, carefully, she sits down beside me on the bumper.

"Everyone's saying you saved their lives," she says, nudging her knee against mine. "Their mom was crying when she saw you. Said she didn't know how to thank you."

I shrug, eyes drifting back to the family across the street.

"They don't have to."

"Still." Her voice softens. "It was brave. And stupid. And reckless. But... brave."

I don't know how long we sit there, the chaos winding down around us while the adrenaline slowly drains out of my system. Sirens are quieter now. The building's still smoking, but the real danger's passed. The real danger already happened.

I take one more breath through the mask and start to push myself up from the bumper. My legs wobble under me like they're trying to remember how gravity works, and for a second, the whole street tilts sideways.

MJ's hand snaps out, steadying me.

"Whoa—hey. Easy there, Tiger…"

Hearing the nickname felt like getting struck by lightning. My eyes widen before I can stop myself. It sounds weird, out of place—and yet for some reason, it had never occurred to me that MJ would end up calling me Tiger.

It's not a bad thing, though. If anything, it feels like something I didn't know I'd been missing.

"Tiger?" I echo, flashing her a crooked, soot-covered smirk.

She grimaces a little, already regretting it.

"Was that weird? That was weird. I don't even know why I said it—it just kind of—"

"Actually," I cut in, still smiling. "No. I like it."

Her shoulders ease a little, and she looks at me like she's trying not to smile too much.

"Yeah?" she says. "Well, don't get used to it."

"No promises," I say, still leaning on her a bit. "I kind of like it… makes me feel cool."

"You literally ran into a burning building," she deadpans. "I think you've met your cool quota for the week."

I snort and glance back at the flashing lights.

"Yeah, well… might've peaked early."

"You're such a dork," she says, but there's something soft about it.

"Hey, you like dorks, remember?" I lean back just enough to give her space to deny it.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," she says, elbowing my arm.

We're still sitting there, the tail end of her smile playing on both our faces, when I hear my name.

"Peter!"

Ben's voice cuts through the noise. We both turn toward the street where a barricade's been half-parted to let them through. May's hurrying right behind him, her hands clutched tight in front of her chest like she can't decide if she's about to pray or throw herself at me.

MJ straightens beside me just as they get close, but before either of them even look at me, May wraps her arms around her.

"MJ, dear… are you alright?"

MJ blinks like she didn't expect to be the one caught up in a hug, and her voice stumbles just slightly.

"Yeah, I'm okay." Then she glances over at me, one brow raised like, why am I the one getting fussed over right now? "Did Aunt Anna call you?"

Ben steps in, arms already going around me in a hug that's firm enough to hurt if I weren't already numb from everything else. He smells like coffee and the old leather jacket I always associate with him. It hits harder than I want to admit.

"She did," he says. "She told us what happened."

I blink a few times, trying to put it together. MJ must've called after I got out. She didn't tell me she had—but, then again, I guess she didn't have to.

"She's supposed to check in whenever she's going to be late coming home," Ben adds, glancing at her with a smile that's more grateful than reprimanding. "Soon as she told Anna what happened, we were out the door."

"We were watching the news when the call came in," May says, her voice a little thinner now. "And when we saw the building—my god, Peter. We got here as fast as we could."

I nod, slowly. I can feel their eyes searching me, taking in the soot and the bandages, the ruined clothes and half-finished bottle of water on the bumper. I half expect May to scold me, or Ben to give me that quiet disappointed look—the one that always felt worse than yelling. But instead, there's only this… soft ache behind their worry. It settles into the space between us like warm air after a long winter.

Ben's the one who breaks the silence first.

"Peter… what were you thinking?"

I take a breath, already knowing the answer. "There were kids stuck in there. I couldn't just stand there and do nothing."

He holds my gaze for a long moment, like he's weighing that answer, trying to find the edges of what I'm not saying. Then his eyes soften, and he just nods.

Neither of them say "You shouldn't have." Neither of them ask if I regret it. They're not mad—not even a little. If anything, they look a little stunned. Maybe even… proud. That's the part I didn't expect.

I shift awkwardly, rubbing the back of my neck with the arm that doesn't hurt as much.

"I know it was reckless. But I had to."

May steps in then and puts a hand on my cheek—gentle, thumb brushing some of the soot away.

"You scared the life out of me, sweetheart. But you're okay. That's all that matters."

It should feel patronizing. I nearly died, and all they care about is that I came back in one piece. But somehow, it doesn't feel like they're dismissing it. It feels like they see it—what I did, what it cost—and they're choosing to hold me closer because of it, not in spite of it.

MJ's quiet beside us. I catch her watching me out of the corner of my eye, something unreadable on her face. Not awe, not worry. Just... something. Whatever it is, it doesn't feel bad. It feels like I did something right.

Ben puts a hand on my shoulder.

"We're proud of you, Peter."

That hits harder than the smoke ever could. I look down for a second, jaw clenched to keep from getting misty in front of everyone.

"Thanks," I say quietly, because it's all I can get out.

The EMT gives me the all-clear after checking my vitals one last time, double-clarifying that I'm not about to keel over. I nod, thank him, and try to avoid the moment where he gives me that vaguely impressed look again. I've had enough of those tonight.

Ben offers MJ a ride home, and she hesitates for a second before nodding. I half expect her to decline—maybe say she'll walk—but she surprises me.

"I wouldn't mind," she says, and follows us toward the car.

May helps me into the backseat, fussing with the seatbelt like I'm helpless even though I could do it myself. My body protests as I slump down, every muscle screaming. I try to make myself smaller than the pain I'm carrying.

I shift once, twice, searching for a position that doesn't send burning reminders down my arms or stabbing jolts into my ribs, but there's no winning. The blanket's still around me — soft enough, but my body doesn't know how to relax anymore. Every time I breathe too deep, something flares. My hands burn under the bandages. My legs feel like wet sandbags. I swear even my eyelids ache.

The heater hums gently, which should help. It should. But instead, it just makes the car feel too warm, like I never really left the fire behind. My skin prickles. My brain keeps smelling smoke, even though there's none here.

MJ settles in beside me — close, but not pressed. Still, it's enough. I notice the warmth of her coat sleeve brushing mine, the faint scent of her shampoo beneath the burnt-plastic stench I can't scrub from my nose. My body screams for space, for air, for anything to take the edge off.

But I don't pull away. God help me, I don't want to.

Her presence is grounding in a way that almost hurts — like holding onto a live wire, but it's the only thing keeping me from falling off the edge.

My head dips back against the window. My eyes flutter closed for a second, and suddenly it all hits me again — the fire, the heat, the smoke thick as fog. My shoes crunching glass, the boy coughing in my ear as I dropped down the stairwell with both kids in my arms. The burst of heat against my face. The flash of fear that I'd miscalculated the jump. The rush of air. The moment we landed, hard but whole, on the first floor.

It was all real.

The pulse of it still hums under my skin like an aftershock.

Then — just barely — MJ's knee bumps mine.

It's nothing. Barely a tap. But my brain latches onto it like she just shouted in my ear. Suddenly I'm hyperaware of how close she is — the shape of her shoulder, the press of her sneaker on the floor, the curve of her fingers resting near mine on the seat.

And I feel it again — that dizzy, breath-catching vertigo.

Not because I'm crushing on her. Hell no.

It's just that around her, I don't have to pretend. I don't have to hold back or play a part. She genuinely sees me.

I wonder… would I be able to tell her the truth? Not the crazy part that I'm not really Peter Parker, but the part where I have superpowers. Everyone needs a confidant they can trust. Back with my old friends, I might have trusted Griff, Hunter, Gavin, or maybe one of my online friends like Mand, Jax, or Zod.

Here… I don't know.

Let's face it, MJ feels like the safest bet.

Harry's tricky — his father finding out could cause problems, and if something happened between us, I'm not sure he'd respect my reasons. He's his own person. I can't rely on what I think I know.

Ben and May? They'd freak if they knew I had powers. Sure, May might find out Peter's Spidey later on, but that always made things rough between us. I don't know if I could handle that kind of distance now.

Ben… that's a whole other story. Do I tell him, only to have fate intervene and take him away?

He's always the one who dies to kickstart Peter's transformation into Spider-Man.

I want to keep him safe. But can I do that without telling him the truth?

May clears her throat softly, cutting through the fog in my head.

"So, MJ, how are you settling?"

My mind's still tangled with the fire and everything that happened, but then—MJ's hand brushes mine. It's accidental, light, but it jolts me out of my thoughts. I freeze for a second, heart doing that weird skip, and my eyes catch hers. She doesn't pull away, just lets her fingers linger a moment before moving off like it was nothing.

My breath hitches.

May's voice brings me back, gentle but curious.

"Queens is a big change from the city. Must take some getting used to."

MJ nods, glancing toward me, a soft smile playing on her lips.

"It's been good," she says. "Definitely different. There's a lot more walking involved, and I'm still getting used to the fact that the bodega guy knows my name already."

May laughs.

"That means he likes you."

"I guess that's a good sign, then," MJ smiles. "It's weird—living in Forest Hills, I mean. It's quieter than what I'm used to, but… not in a bad way. Honestly, it's kind of nice having people I can count on." She says it casually, but there's a small glance my way mid-sentence, just enough to make my ears burn again.

I clear my throat and shift slightly, pretending to scratch at my neck.

MJ doesn't look away.

May hums approvingly.

"I'm glad to hear that. I've actually been trying to get Peter to meet you for a while now."

I immediately groan, dropping my head against the back of the seat with a dull thunk.

"May, please don't."

Ben makes a noise that's suspiciously close to a chuckle.

"What?" she asks, the picture of innocence. "I'm just saying—for all the excuses you gave me, the two of you seem to be getting along pretty well."

MJ raises her brows, turning toward me with mock offense. "Wait… so you didn't want to meet me?"

"I swear I will run into another fire right now," I mutter, scowling at the ceiling.

Ben bites back a smile.

"I think we've had enough emergencies for one day, don't you?"

"Speak for yourself," I say, flopping my head back toward the window. "I look like a roasted marshmallow."

May turns halfway in her seat to glance back.

"It's not that bad. You've got a rugged charm about you right now."

"Yeah," I deadpan. "Right up until someone actually has to smell me."

Ben chuckles again.

"There it is."

MJ stifles a snort behind her hand.

"I mean… she's not wrong. Rugged. Charred. Lightly seasoned."

"Wonderful," I mumble. "Glad to know I'm the perfect choice for a barbecue."

Somewhere between the off-ramps and the streetlights, the tension finally bleeds out. The city isn't racing past us anymore—it's settling in around us like a blanket. MJ shifts again, and this time when her coat brushes mine, I don't move.

I think maybe I like the way it feels, sitting here like this. Like things might finally be okay.

By the time Ben pulls into the driveway, my body's half asleep and my thoughts are tangled somewhere between the comfort of home and the weird high that's still riding out in my chest. The porch light flickers on automatically as the car slows.

MJ leans toward me just before opening her door. Her breath is warm against my cheek.

"Take it easy, Tiger," she says softly—and then she kisses me on the cheek.

It's quick. Barely a second. But I feel it like a lightning bolt straight to my spine. My head whips toward her the moment she pulls back.

"What happened to not calling me that?" I ask, blinking.

"No idea what you're talking about," she replies with a grin, already halfway out the door. "Bye, Mr. and Mrs. Parker!"

"Goodnight, MJ!" May calls after her.

Ben just hums as he shuts off the engine.

I stay sitting there for a second longer, stunned. Like maybe I dreamed the whole thing.

But the kiss still lingers, and I'm still smiling like an idiot.

Steam still clings to my skin as I step out of the bathroom, towel-drying my hair in slow, tired circles. My shoulders ache, my ribs feel like they've been used as a xylophone by a heavyweight boxer, and my hands—well, the less said about them, the better. At least the bandages are redone. Neater. Cleaner. Less soaked in smoke and adrenaline.

I pull on a pair of gym shorts and a tank top, the cotton catching slightly on one of the burns as I move. Everything is sore. The good kind of sore, I think. The kind that tells you you're alive and maybe even did something right.

I don't even make it halfway to my bed before I hear the soft knock.

Ben doesn't wait for a response. He never really does.

The door creaks open, and he steps inside with that careful, measured walk he gets when he knows something needs to be said. He's still in the same jacket from earlier, but the lines around his eyes look deeper now, like the worry finally had time to settle in.

"Hey," he says. "Figured I'd check in before you crash."

"Sure," I say, nodding toward the desk chair. "You can sit."

He doesn't hesitate. Just walks in and lowers himself with a quiet groan, leaning forward, forearms on his knees. The kind of posture that means we're about to have a conversation, kid. Great.

"Peter, I think we need to talk about some things," he says.

A thousand scenarios flash through my mind at once.

"Everything okay?" I ask, playing it as calm as I can.

"Well…" He looks around the room like he's collecting his thoughts. Then he reaches out, gently brushing the wolf pendant hanging from my nightstand lamp. The one I bought the week after I woke up. "You tell me, son."

I shift, standing awkwardly by the bed, towel still in hand. The pendant sways slightly from his touch.

"I know these last few weeks haven't been easy," Ben continues. "Lord knows it's not been easy for your aunt or me either. But you've been through something… hard. And we've tried to give you space to figure it out."

"Yeah, I'm great," I say a little too quickly. I try for a smile, but it doesn't land.

He nods like he hears the gap between my words and what I mean. Like he always does.

"That's good," he says. "Really. But Peter…"

He looks up at me, and the air in the room tightens.

"…is there something you're not telling me?"

I freeze.

Not "is everything okay?"

Not "are you sure you're alright?"

But… "is there something you're not telling me?"

That one hits differently.

My heart stutters in my chest. Not in panic—yet—but in warning. Like I just stepped onto a pressure plate and don't know if it's wired to an alarm or a bomb.

"What do you mean?" I ask, careful. "I wouldn't hide anything from you or May."

Ben gives me a long, steady look. Not angry. Not accusing. Just… searching.

"I know you wouldn't lie to us. But I also know you, Peter. You're practically my son. Have been since the day you came to live with us. I know how you talk when you're dodging something. And I've seen it more than once lately."

I look down. My fingers twitch at my sides.

"And," he adds, "you're not wearing your glasses."

I blink.

It's such a small thing. Stupid, even. But there it is—proof he's been paying attention, maybe even more than I realized.

I haven't worn them since the morning after the bite. I don't need them anymore. But we all just… didn't mention it. May chalked it up to the doctors adjusting something. I gave vague shrugs. Nobody really pushed.

Until now.

"I… I guess I haven't needed them," I say, slow. "Since I woke up. The doctors didn't really say anything about it, so I figured—"

He holds up a hand.

"Peter, I'm not accusing you. I'm not even saying it's a bad thing. I'm just saying… something clearly has changed, and I just want to help you if you want it."

I look at him—and for a second, I want to tell him everything. The spider, the powers, the way the world doesn't quite feel like the one I left behind… but I'm not sure if I should.

"I'll always want you there, Ben. Nothing will ever change that."

"Okay," Ben smiles at me. "I won't pressure you, but if you want to talk about whatever's going on… I'll be here."

Ben starts to rise, pushing himself up from the chair with a grunt.

"I won't pressure you," he says again. "But if you want to talk about whatever's going on… I'll be here."

I almost let him go.

Almost.

But my mouth moves before I can stop it.

"Uncle Ben."

He pauses, half-turned toward the door. "Yeah, kiddo?"

I don't look at him yet. My eyes are on the floor, my voice barely above a whisper.

"I didn't just run into that building because I couldn't let those kids die. It's because… I knew I was the only one who could get them out."

He blinks, confused.

"What?"

I raise my hand slowly. The one that spider bit me on.

"I know the hospital never figured out what put me in the coma. What happened on that field trip. But I do know, even if I can't remember everything."

Ben's face shifts—uncertainty blooming behind his eyes.

"Peter, what are you—"

"I was bitten by a spider," I say. "At Oscorp. I don't know what they were doing to it, or what they were experimenting with, but something in it… changed me."

The words feel like they're made of lead.

"I have…" I trail off. God, this sounds so dumb when I say it out loud. "I know how it sounds. I know. But it's real."

He doesn't interrupt.

"It's better if I just show you."

I walk to the window and close the blinds, making sure the room is sealed up tight. Then I turn back to him.

"Uncle Ben, whatever you do, please don't freak out. And please—don't tell Aunt May."

He nods slowly, uncertain but open.

And then I crouch low, plant my fingers on the wall, and push off.

In one fluid motion, I leap up—and stick to the ceiling.

I stay there, upside down, heart hammering in my chest as I look down at him.

Ben stares up at me, mouth slightly open, eyes wide as dinner plates. He doesn't move. Just blinks, once, twice, like he's trying to confirm this isn't a trick of the light or a dream he's somehow slipped into.

"Peter… y-you…"

"Yeah," I say quietly. "That spider gave me powers."

He's still staring. Shock. Disbelief. Awe. All of it written across his face in equal measure.

I drop down a moment later, landing lightly on the balls of my feet, just like I practiced.

"I didn't mean for any of this to happen," I say, quieter now. "But it did. And I've been trying to figure it out ever since."

Ben opens his mouth, closes it. Then, finally—

"Holy hell," he breathes. "You're serious."

"I am."

He scrubs a hand down his face, still clearly trying to make sense of it.

"And you used those powers tonight," he says. "To save those kids."

I nod.

"Yeah."

He doesn't say anything for a long time. Then he steps forward and places both hands on my shoulders.

"I don't care how you got them," he says. "I care how you use them. And you used them to help someone."

I swallow hard.

"I didn't know if you'd believe me."

"I didn't either," he says honestly. "But I do. And I'm proud of you. Powers or no powers—you ran into that building because you couldn't walk away. That's who you are."

His hands squeeze my shoulders firmly.

"That doesn't change just because you can stick to ceilings."

I laugh—a little wet, a little shaky. But real.

He pulls me in for a hug, and I let myself lean into it, into him, into the impossible relief of not being alone in this anymore.

Ben exhales against my shoulder, then eases back just enough to look at me.

"Peter," he says softly.

"Yeah, Uncle Ben?"

"You're right… we cannot tell May about this."

I blink.

"She might have a heart attack."

A breath escapes me—half laugh, half groan.

"Okay, yeah. Fair point."

"She still thinks your Game Boy gave you migraines," he says, eyes wide with mock horror. "Imagine what wall-crawling would do to her."

"To be fair, she was probably right about that. The lighting does mess with your eyes."

We both laugh, and he brings me back into the hug.

"I'm proud of you, Peter. I am so proud of you…"

I shut my eyes, letting it sink in—-because hearing those words, like this, right now—after everything—I think it's the first time I've ever really believed them.

We sit down on the edge of the bed, still kind of caught between the surreal and the stupidly normal. My feet are flat on the carpet, his hands are clasped in front of him like he's still trying to make sense of what he just saw. He looks at me for a long second.

"So," he says. "The glasses?"

I shrug.

"I don't need them anymore. I mean it. I can see better now than I ever could. Everything's sharp—like, way sharp."

He nods slowly, processing.

"Okay… are people asking about it?"

"Honestly, not yet. I think they're still giving me time to adjust because of the whole amnesia thing. But I've got a fallback ready—if it comes up, I'll just say I got contacts."

"At least it's believable," Ben says, and leans back a little. "So. You can stick to walls. Your vision's perfect now. What else can you do?"

"Uh…" I rub at my neck, suddenly realizing how weird this is going to sound out loud. "It's a little hard to explain."

Ben raises an eyebrow, silently encouraging me to try anyway.

"You know those jokes about people having eyes in the back of their head?" I say. "Where they just seem to sense people coming?"

"Please don't tell me you have extra eyes."

"No-ho," I laugh. "That'd be—ugh, so uncomfortable. Like, how would you even wear a hat?"

Ben snorts. "Fair point."

"I'm thinking of calling it my spider sense," I say. "It's like... this instinct. A warning system. It tells me if I'm in danger, or if something bad's about to happen."

Ben leans in slightly, a crease forming between his brows. "And that's how you knew to get out of the building?"

"Kind of," I nod. "In the fire… the ceiling gave out while I was carrying the kids. I didn't see it. Didn't hear it. But I felt it—like this pulse in the back of my skull."

Ben exhales slowly, his lips tightening in something halfway between concern and awe.

"There's more," I admit. "I, uh… I'm strong now. Like, really strong."

"How strong?" he asks, and there's no judgment—just curiosity. Just the calm voice of someone trying to build a mental checklist.

"I held the ceiling up," I say quietly. "Just long enough for them to get past me."

Ben stares at me for a moment. No words. Just… taking that in.

"Oh," he says finally, with a blink. "You held the ceiling up."

I nod again. "Yeah. I didn't think. I just… did it."

He runs a hand through his hair, the way he does when something is so far outside his worldview that he needs a minute to reorganize the filing cabinet of reality.

Ben chuckles under his breath, shaking his head like he can't decide if he's amused or mildly terrified.

"Well," he mutters, "I suppose it's official."

"What is?" I ask, half-expecting some Hallmark moment.

"I'm finally going to start drinking because of the stress you give me, son."

I snort.

"You don't even like alcohol."

"Didn't," he corrects, dry as a desert. "That was before my nephew turned into a one-man Cirque du Soleil act."

I grin, the tension cracking a little.

"Hey, technically, I'm more like a Cirque du Arachnid act."

Ben gives me that long-suffering look he usually reserves for tax season or clogged drains.

"You are not putting that on a résumé."

"Hey, it's catchy."

"Jokes aside," he says, softer now, "this changes things, Peter. You know that, right?"

I nod.

"Yeah. I know."

"Your father, he uh... he had this philosophy... it shaped the way he lived his life, and hoped it would help make your life better by association. It's similar to your aunt's belief that if you help someone..."

"You help everyone," I finish the line, remembering it from the Insomniac game.

"Exactly... this philosophy isn't far off. If you have the ability to do something good, it wasn't an option... you had an obligation to do so."

My chest tightened. No, you're fucking kidding me right now. Ben, do not say what I think you're about to say.

Ben watches me for a second, like he's waiting to see if it lands. Like he's not sure if I already know where this is going.

And yeah… I do. The moment he said your father, the moment he started into all that philosophy talk—my stomach dropped. My chest tightened. My brain screamed no, no, no, not yet, don't say it, because I know what line is coming next.

But of course he says it.

"With great power," he says gently, like it's just something that's always been true, something passed down like a family recipe, "there must also come great responsibility."

And there it is.

The words that are supposed to break Peter Parker open.

The words that are supposed to come too late—that are meant to haunt him. But now… now they're here early. Before the grief. Before the loss.

They're being offered as guidance, not punishment.

I sit there, frozen for a second, unsure what to do with the fact that I've heard this line a hundred times before—comics, movies, video games, lectures burned into pop culture like commandments. It's iconic. Mythic, even.

It's up there with iconic lines in superhero mythos.

Somehow, despite the fact Ben is safe and sound in front of me right now, there's something bubbling in the pit of my stomach that's telling me otherwise.

I tell myself it's just nerves. Just everything catching up to me. But somewhere, deep in the back of my skull... something buzzes.

"You really believe that?" I ask, voice quieter than I meant it to be.

He nods. No hesitation.

"I do. I always have. And so did your dad. It wasn't about ego, or glory. It was about doing right by the people around you, even if no one saw it. Especially if no one saw it."

I glance down at my hands. Bandaged. Burned. Still trembling a little from everything I did today.

"Then I guess I've got a lot to live up to," I say.

Ben leans back, expression unreadable for a second. Then he smiles.

"Maybe. Or maybe… you're already doing it."

Ben stands slowly, the quiet creak of his knees almost louder than his voice had been a moment ago. His eyes linger on me with something I haven't seen from him in a while—something steadier than concern. It's pride. Not the kind people throw around in PTA meetings or at graduation ceremonies. The real kind. The kind that sits behind the eyes and makes a man straighten his back even when the weight of the world's still on it.

He places a hand briefly on my shoulder again—less for me this time, more for himself.

"We can talk about your… abilities more tomorrow, if you'd like," he says, smiling with just a hint of wear in it. "Though, I got one last thing to ask."

I raise a brow.

"Shoot."

He pauses—just long enough to make me nervous.

"Does MJ know?"

My heart skips, stalls, maybe even flips over entirely.

"…About the powers?" I ask, carefully.

Ben lifts an eyebrow in return.

"Yes, the powers…"

"No, I don't want to freak her out." I explain, but the truth is I'm afraid of bringing her into the crossfire if I put that mask on.

Ben hums thoughtfully, then taps the side of his head.

"When the time's right, trust her. Not just because she's your friend… but because carrying this alone is going to wear you down faster than whatever that spider gave you lifts you up."

He takes a step back, then gestures at me with the faintest smirk.

"And besides," he says, "I have a feeling she'd handle it better than I did."

"What do you mean? I've got you, Ben."

"Sure, but you're not always going to. She'll be around a lot longer than I will, Pete."

That hits me harder than it should.

I blink, like maybe I misheard him, or maybe if I don't react, the words will un-say themselves. But they just hang there—casual and quiet and undeniable.

"You're not dying," I say too quickly.

Ben smiles. Not a sad smile, not quite. But not a reassuring one either. Just… honest. Like he's known something for a while that I haven't been ready to face.

"Everybody's dying, kiddo," he says. "But no, this isn't a hospital bed speech. I'm just saying—there'll come a day when I won't be here to remind you of who you are. Of what you're capable of."

I don't like where this is going. I don't like it one bit.

"You're talking like you've got a calendar with a date circled."

He shrugs.

"Don't need one. Just… I've lived a lot of life already. And I've seen how fast things can change. So if there's someone out there who gets you—even a little—don't keep her at arm's length forever just because you're scared she'll see too much."

I rub my palm over my face, trying to process the sudden knot in my chest.

"It's not just about her seeing me," I say. "It's about what she'd be walking into… I don't want to put her in danger just for knowing me."

Ben considers that for a second. Then:

"You think your Aunt May wasn't scared when she married me? That she didn't worry about what might happen to her family? Loving someone doesn't come with guarantees, Peter. But it does come with choice. Let her make that choice. You don't get to decide what's best for her without even letting her in."

I let out a long, tired breath. The kind you don't realize you've been holding until your ribs ache from it.

I wasn't talking about love, Ben. For fuck's sake, I've only known her for about a week.

Ben raises an eyebrow, catching the tone even if I didn't say it out loud.

"You weren't talking about love," he says, like he's reading my thoughts off a teleprompter. "I know."

He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed now, voice gentler.

"But let me ask you something, Peter… if it wasn't love—if it was just about protecting a friend—wouldn't that be more of a reason to let her in, not less?"

I open my mouth, then close it again. Damn it. He's too good at this.

"I'm not saying she needs to know everything tomorrow," he adds. "And I'm definitely not saying she needs to know it because you need to unburden yourself. I'm saying… trust isn't always about spilling your guts. Sometimes it's about letting someone see what you're trying so hard to carry alone."

I stare down at the carpet, picking at a thread with my toe.

"Like I said," he finishes, straightening up. "Just think about it. Goodnight, kiddo."

He disappears down the hall, his footsteps soft, deliberate.

And I sit there, in the hush that follows, wondering if maybe—just maybe—he's right.

"Goodnight, Ben."

Arsenal597 · 2025-12-03T22:59:24+0000

The next few days were full of surprises. Not only did Harry call me up about the fire—because of course that wasn't going to stay under the radar—but he called me a hero. I told him it wasn't anything special. I did what needed to be done. He said that's exactly why it is special, which… yeah, okay, maybe he had a point, but I didn't really want to admit that over speakerphone while also trying to change a tire with Ben.

MJ and I talk now in the middle of the night, usually while I'm listening to podcasts on chemistry, U.S. history, or whatever subject my brain is currently trying to speedrun. It's easier than reading the textbook. Sometimes she tells me what she remembers about the assignments, and sometimes we don't talk about school at all. Just music. Movies. Random stuff. It's nice.

Our morning runs have somehow become a staple. Don't get me wrong—they still suck—but they suck a little less now. That burning-in-the-lungs, shin-splinting kind of misery is getting replaced by something that almost resembles rhythm. The city feels different at that hour too. Quieter. Like the volume's been turned down and I can actually think.

As for Ben… things between us are different now. Not just better—closer. Telling him about the powers took a weight off my chest I didn't even realize I'd been carrying. May's noticed too. She asked what we've been up to lately because we've been in the garage most afternoons, messing with the old van and trying to get the station wagon to stop making that possessed blender noise when it shifts gears.

I'd taken auto body back in Junior and Senior year, but it didn't stick so well. With Ben though, it's different. He explains things the way I get them, and he doesn't care if I need to hear it twice—or six times. He just shows me again, and somehow, it clicks.

It's Saturday morning now. The sun's barely finished rising, and my legs feel like lead as I drag myself through the door, hoodie sticking to my back from the last half-mile sprint MJ challenged me to. (Yes, she won. No, I don't want to talk about it.)

The smell of coffee hits me before I even reach the kitchen, and I hear the clink of ceramic before I round the corner.

Ben's already dressed—jeans, flannel, boots laced. Not just up early. Ready. And he's sitting there at the kitchen table, holding his mug like a man who's been waiting to drop a punchline.

"Sleep well," he asks casually, not looking up yet, "or did you have to hang upside down to get comfortable?"

I snort, tossing my beanie on the counter as I grab a glass of water.

"That joke's never gonna get old for you, is it?"

"Not while you keep doing acrobatics in your sleep. You should see your bedsheets—they look like they lost a fight."

I shrug, still catching my breath.

"What can I say? I dream in webs."

Ben smirks over his mug, then nods at the fridge.

"You want eggs, they're in there. Otherwise, sit for a second."

I do. Still sweaty, still flushed from the run, but I sit—because something about his tone tells me he was waiting for me.

"I've been thinking," I say. "I want to do more."

Ben's brow rises just a little. "More?"

"Yeah. With the powers." I lean forward, arms resting on the table. "I mean… I've got them for a reason, right? Feels wrong to just go to school, come home, and pretend I don't feel everything I do now."

For a second, Ben doesn't say anything. Then he sets down his mug and gives me that half-smile—the one that means he's proud, but also probably about to make me do something that hurts a little.

"Good," he says. "Don't change."

I blink.

"Wait. Don't change?"

He nods once.

"I've got a place for us to go to. You'll want to be able to move freely."

I tilt my head, suddenly suspicious.

"Why do I feel like you're planning to throw me off a roof?"

Ben just stands, grabbing his keys off the hook.

"Because you're paranoid."

"And you're too calm."

He laughs.

"Come on, slugger. Let's go see what you can really do."

Ben pulls the car up close to a rust-stained chain-link fence, its gate hanging open like a broken jaw. The warehouse looms beyond it—four stories of steel bones and shattered windows, vines crawling up its side like nature's last-ditch effort to reclaim it. Graffiti coats the brickwork in layers, old tags buried beneath new ones. The words PROPERTY OF FISK INDUSTRIES are still faintly visible above the loading bay, though someone had helpfully spray-painted a mustache on the logo.

I hop out of the passenger seat, sneakers crunching against cracked pavement. The place smells like rust and stagnant water.

MJ and I run past it every morning, and somehow, it always felt like it was watching us. Or maybe that was just me projecting. Either way, seeing it up close makes the feeling worse.

Ben stands beside me, arms crossed, eyes taking it in like he's seeing a ghost from his twenties.

"This where you learned to be a mechanic?" I ask.

"Yeah." He smiles, but there's something wistful there. "Used to be a shipping hub for engine parts. Grew up fast in this place. Got grease in my soul and two dislocated shoulders for my trouble."

I raise an eyebrow.

"Sounds inspiring."

"Yeah, well, you try working under a deadline with a busted hoist and a supervisor named 'Meatloaf Joe.'" He gestures toward the side entrance. "C'mon. Door's always been janky."

We step through the warped frame into a hushed, cavernous interior. Sunlight filters in through holes in the roof, catching the dust in golden beams. It's like walking into a frozen memory—conveyor belts stalled mid-process, crates long since looted or left to decay. Nature's already started creeping in. Moss, weeds, even a small sapling growing up through the cracked concrete near the old breakroom.

"This place is like one good windstorm from collapsing," I mutter, eyeing a rusted support beam that's sagging just a little too dramatically.

"That's what makes it fun," Ben says, patting a support column like it's an old friend. "Don't worry. Structurally, it's sound enough for what we need."

"Which is…?"

Ben looks at me, then gestures to the vast, open stretch of warehouse floor.

"Whatever you want it to be."

I blink at him.

"Wait, seriously?"

"You said you wanted to do more. So let's figure out what 'more' looks like." He starts walking toward one of the cleaner areas, boots echoing. "You've got all these new abilities—don't you want to know how far they go?"

I pause. I hadn't really thought about that part yet—not in a structured way. I've been reacting. Surviving. Running on instinct. But now, staring out at this wide, empty space that used to be someone's entire career… the idea of turning it into something else feels weirdly right.

"Okay," I say, stepping forward. "What do you want me to do?"

Ben grins.

"Show me what you've got, slugger. Impress the old man."

I stretch my arms, already feeling the faint buzz of adrenaline in my chest. And maybe—just maybe—something else too.

Anticipation.

Ben steps back instinctively, hands on his hips, watching with the wary curiosity of someone who's just realized the family dog might actually be a wolf.

"Just don't break the roof," he says. "I'd rather not get impaled by a falling sprinkler."

I plant my feet wide, hand still pressed to the concrete, trying to feel the tension coil in my legs. It's like stretching a rubber band—only the rubber band is my whole body, and the ceiling's about to regret its life choices.

"Oh, I've been waiting for this," I mutter.

It's like firing out of a cannon. My legs explode off the ground and the world blurs past—rusted rafters, hanging chains, the faint outline of a bird's nest somewhere near the girders. The air snaps against my skin, and before I even realize it—

WHAM.

I hit the ceiling. Not full force—my instincts kick in just in time to brace against it with my hands and feet, letting the impact spread out instead of pancake me. I hang there for a moment, crouched upside down, arms trembling from the sudden strain but very much still stuck.

"…Holy crap," I mutter. "That actually worked."

From below, Ben's voice carries up:

"You good up there, Spider-Boy?"

I peek down and laugh.

"I think so. Might have scared the pigeons out of retirement, though."

He lets out a low whistle, pacing in a circle underneath me.

"You really just… jumped twenty feet like it was nothing. Kid, when I was your age I was proud if I cleared the couch without tripping over my own shoelaces."

"I mean, it's not a competition," I say, still clinging to the ceiling like a particularly smug bat.

"No," he nods, "because if it was, I'd already be waving a white flag and asking you to lift the car for me when I get home."

I push off the ceiling and flip midair, landing in a low crouch with a thud. A puff of dust kicks up around my feet, and I grin at him through it.

"So," I ask, still catching my breath. "What's next?"

Ben looks around, sizing up the space like a coach prepping drills.

"Next?" he echoes. "You said you're strong…"

"Bring the car in… I wanna try something."

Ben squints at me, like he's trying to decide if I've officially lost it or if I've just hit that magical teenage mix of overconfidence and comic book bravado.

"…You want me to what, exactly?"

"Bring the car in," I repeat, grinning now. "I wanna try something."

He crosses his arms.

"Peter, if this ends with you embedded in the drywall and me explaining to May why the Corolla has a you-shaped dent in the hood…"

"I'll buy us a new one," I say. "With, like, the seven bucks I have to my name."

Ben groans but shakes his head, already heading toward the rolling garage door at the far end. "I swear, this is why normal kids take up chess."

A few minutes later, the car creaks its way into the warehouse. Ben parks it in the center, shuts it off, and steps out with theatrical flair.

"Behold," he announces, sweeping a hand toward it, "the mighty chariot of the Parker household. May she survive the next sixty seconds."

I walk up to it slowly, heart thumping just a bit faster. I've lifted stuff before—furniture, a chunk of ceiling—but this is different. This is a lot heavier.

I crouch, fingers slipping under the front bumper.

Ben watches, hands in his jacket pockets, but I can tell he's holding his breath.

"Alright," I mutter. "Moment of truth…"

And I lift.

The front wheels leave the ground like they're filled with helium. I rise with it, muscles straining just slightly—more from surprise than effort.

Ben's eyes go wide.

"Holy—"

"Yup," I grunt, now holding the car like a glorified wheelbarrow. "This is happening."

"…You're lifting a whole car."

"Technically, half. But yeah." I look back over my shoulder, grinning through the exertion. "Cool, right?"

Ben doesn't answer for a moment. Then he walks over slowly, taps the raised fender, and says:

"You know, Pete… when I told you that you needed to learn responsibility before we ever got you a dog, I didn't think that meant you'd become the family tow truck."

"Could still charge for it," I offer, arms shaking just slightly. "Parker's Lifting and Hauling?"

He laughs.

Real, genuine, can't-believe-this-is-my-life laughter.

I think about lowering the car, but it occurs to me that I'm only holding the front of the car up. Not the entire thing. Suddenly, I got a really bad idea that I want to try out.

I shift my grip slightly, feel the weight distribute through my legs, and glance at Ben with a grin that probably sets off alarm bells in every responsible adult within a five-mile radius.

"Peter…" he says, sensing the incoming disaster. "What are you thinking?"

"Nothing," I lie, which is the universal prelude to everything.

I move toward the middle of the car, crouch again—hands sliding under the frame this time—and I brace. Ankles planted, back tight, every nerve firing like a drumroll.

Ben steps forward, eyes narrowing.

"No. No, no—Peter, don't—"

I lift.

Not just the front this time.

The entire car.

It rises in my hands like something out of a dream—like physics took a coffee break. My arms tremble a little, my core's doing a full-blown Broadway performance, but the damn thing is off the ground.

"All four wheels," I gasp. "Are you seeing this?!"

This is actually amazing! I wish someone could take a photo of this and send this back to my friends. If they knew what I could do now, they'd freak! Mand, you'd probably try everything in your power to become a god if you learned where I was right now. Hell, I wish I could bring you here. Because I'd love to be able to talk to you and the guys about this.

Ben stares, slack-jawed.

"You're holding twelve thousand dollars in your hands like it's a folding chair."

"Feels more like a couch," I mutter, taking one shaky step in place.

"Put it down… before I have to explain why we need a new car," Ben says, both horrified and weirdly proud. "Please. You've proven your point. I'll buy the dog."

I ease it down carefully—no screeches, no bounce, just the thunk of rubber kissing concrete.

I breathe. Hard.

Then look over at him.

"Okay," I pant. "That was stupid."

Ben nods.

"Incredibly."

"But also kinda awesome?"

He breaks into a grin.

"One hundred percent."

"By the way, I totally want the dog!" I reply.

The next few days blur together in a whirlwind of motion, sweat, and the kind of sore that makes you question every life choice that led to it.

Ben turns the warehouse into an impromptu obstacle course. Not official or anything—he's not exactly running drills like some kind of super soldier—but there's enough loose scaffolding, hanging chains, busted crates, and varying levels of floor stability to make it work.

At first, it's chaos. I move like someone trying to play parkour tag with gravity itself. There's crawling, running, rolling, ceiling-clinging, wall-kicking… and a lot of awkward landings.

But eventually? Something starts to click.

The momentum becomes muscle memory. I learn how to fall right. How to pivot on a dime. How to push myself just enough without blacking out or vomiting. (A real concern, by the way. My equilibrium may be enhanced, but that doesn't mean doing three corkscrews through the rafters doesn't scramble my guts a little.)

Ben watches it all like a proud dad filming his kid's first T-ball game—except if the kid was launching himself across support beams thirty feet up.

He doesn't say much. But I can feel how he looks at me. Not like I'm some weird mutant. Not like I'm broken.

Like he's proud.

And that?

That might be the part that means the most.

Sunday evening, we end up at this little diner May likes. Chrome booths, cracked menus, and the smell of burnt coffee and grilled cheese in the air. She's already waiting when we get there, her hands wrapped around a mug like she's holding court.

"So," she says between sips, one eyebrow raised. "You two have been off the radar since Friday. Should I be worried?"

We exchange looks as I slide into the booth across from her, still half-sore from the last two days.

She gives me the look—you know the one. The silent, motherly interrogation laser.

"Not much. Besides working in the garage, Ben's been helping me look into a few gyms around town."

"A gym? Peter, you know we don't have a lot of money for that."

"I know! Honestly, there's a few that are extremely cheap." I explain. Yes, I had been looking into it on my own time, but I figure this is a better excuse than whatever Ben's thinking of. "Besides, I'm not going for it yet. I want to get a job before I do—it'd be nice to have a few options before then."

"What about your science experiments?" she asks, and I sigh softly.

"Don't get me wrong, May. I love science, I still do… it's just that it's not clicking like it used to. Whatever passion I had for it, it's not the same. Ever since the coma, it's just not been something that I've been hooked on."

May stirs her coffee slowly, watching the swirl of cream as if it might give her answers.

"That's understandable," she says finally. Her voice is careful—not disappointed, not dismissive. Just… patient. "You've been through a lot. And passions can change. Sometimes they come back. Sometimes they don't."

She sips again, then sets the mug down and looks at me fully.

"But if something else is clicking for you now… make sure it's not just adrenaline and avoidance. You're allowed to change. Just don't lose what made you you in the process."

I nod, but it sticks in my chest more than I thought it would. Because she's not wrong. I am changing. I feel it every time I move now. Every time I hear a sound a block away. Every time I jump twenty feet and land like it's nothing.

But I also don't feel like I'm losing myself.

Ben gives her a sideways glance.

"He's not gonna turn into Rocky, if that's what you're worried about."

She smirks.

"I'd settle for him not breaking his nose trying to prove a point."

"I'm right here," I deadpan. "And I'm not looking for a fight with anyone. I'm just tired of sitting around. It's not like Flash is the only one in Queens that can exercise."

"I never said you couldn't exercise. I just don't want you doing something you'll regret."

I've thought about why I wanted to exercise in the first place. It's not just because I want to be better, or make it easier to be Spider-Man, if I ever put the mask on… it's because when I do it, it reminds me of Mand and Griff.

Griffin had worked out with me before in my old life. Mand, he's a machine and I hadn't gotten the honor to meet the crazy bastard. Those two have left quite the effect on me, whether they would ever realize it or not.

Before waking up in Peter's body, things were finally starting to feel a bit better. I had just gotten a proper doctor, got prescribed an antidepressant to help my mood swings, and had even started thinking about working out again. Start it off slow, walking on the weekends when I was off work.

Now, even though I'm in a body that is arguably in way better shape than my previous one, those two are inadvertently driving me to be better. I just hope they know how much those assholes meant to me. Even when they pissed me off, they were some of my best friends.

"May, this isn't something I regret. If I can better myself, then that is what I want to do. It took me nearly dying to get through my head, but I don't want to sit still."

She looks at me, and for a moment I can tell she was stuck on the 'nearly dying' aspect. Even though I can't be completely honest, the fact of the matter is Peter did nearly die in that coma. Whether he's in my old body, or he's somewhere else… Peter is still alive through me.

"Peter, don't talk like that…" Ben pats my shoulder. "We don't want to think about the possibility of ever losing you."

"I'm sorry," I frown softly. "It's just, after being asleep for three weeks, I want to get up and do something productive… and hey, it got me to meet MJ, so—maybe consider it a win-win situation?"

"How are things going with her?" May asks, brightening up suddenly at the mention of her. "You know, I've heard quite a bit of chatter coming from your room late at night."

"Oh," I bite my lower lip. "Well, about that."

Ben crosses his arms, turning to face me fully.

"I can't wait to hear this."

"She's helping me study."

"With all that laughter? Sure," she smiles warmly. "I don't know, the two of you seem awfully close."

"May, please… she's just helping me study."

Ben takes a bite of his sandwich, but I can see the smile he's suppressing behind the meal. He's going to pay for this betrayal.

May's eyes gleam as she leans forward.

"So," she says, stirring the last of her coffee with a knowing little smirk. "-this girl that you're not dating, but definitely studying with, talking at all hours of the night, doing so much together… what's she like?"

"May, you know her! Why are you asking me?" I throw my hands up mockingly.

"Everyone has their own opinion, dear." she smiles into her coffee.

Ugh, she's not going to let this go, is she? She's about as bad as Mand saying I'm forgetful for not remembering something we discussed once and for barely ten minutes. You know what, asshole… I might just learn magic to mess with you from another dimension.

"She's cool," I say carefully, because that's neutral enough not to sound like a confession. "Funny. Smart. Stays with me when we run. Which is either terrifying or inspiring, I haven't decided yet."

Ben snorts into his soda.

May hums thoughtfully.

"You've got that look."

"What look?" I ask, very aware of both of them now.

"The same one your uncle had when he talked about me to his buddies," she says, and Ben just raises a hand like guilty as charged.

"Oh my God, would you both stop?" I groan, sinking a little in the booth. "She's just a friend…"

"Your aunt was just a friend, too."

"NOOOO!" I groan, covering my face, sliding further down into my seat as though it'll save me from this awkward bullshit. My mother is right, I do not have the confidence or backbone I should have. But then again, I'm easily embarrassed, and I'm pretty sure I'm as red as the fabric of these seat cushions.

Ben chuckles through a mouthful of fries.

"We're just saying, kiddo, if it looks like a duck and quacks like a duck…"

"I swear to God, if one of you says the word 'lovebird' I'm jumping out the window."

May just sips her coffee like she's too classy to say it—but not too classy to think it. I can see it. She's got it chambered behind her eyes, locked and loaded.

Ben leans back and stretches, clearly enjoying himself way too much.

"Hey, I'm not judging. I'm just saying it's nice seeing you smile this much."

I pause at that. Because… yeah. He's not wrong.

It's been easier, lately. Not easy—God no—but easier. Like the world isn't quite so heavy when I've got someone who texts me links to bad ska bands at 2 a.m. or challenges me to races at the worst possible moments. Someone who doesn't treat me like I'm breakable.

And if smiling is a side effect of that? I guess I can live with it.

Still.

"I'm gonna die of secondhand embarrassment before I ever admit anything to you two," I mutter, poking at a piece of lettuce like it personally offended me.

"Oh come on," May says, her voice softening, "we're just teasing. Mostly. But it's good to see you come back to life a little. You've been through a lot."

I glance at Ben. He's quieter now, like May just said something heavier than she meant to. He gives a small nod. Doesn't add anything. Just… lets it land.

I nod too. Just once.

"Yeah," I say. "Still figuring some of it out."

They both smile. And for once, it's not teasing. It's warm. It's family. And even if they don't know the full story—even if they can't—this moment still feels like a truce with the universe.

Although, something comes back to me as I adjust in the seat. Oh, I'm turning the tables on these guys.

"Hey May, what's this I hear about the two of you making a bet about me and MJ?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about, Peter." she turns her head away. "I would never partake in something like that."

"Then why are you looking away?!"

"May, don't pretend like we didn't. I told him the morning he met MJ."
"Benjamin Parker!" she gasps. "YOU DID NOT!"

Ben raises both hands like he's just been accused of war crimes.

"Hey, hey! Don't act like you weren't the one who instigated it!"

"I merely suggested the possibility that he might run into her," May huffs, but the smirk creeping onto her face ruins any attempt at innocence.

"You literally said I wouldn't be able to help myself once I got a look at her," I remind her, pointing like I'm presenting evidence in a courtroom. "Ben said I'd chicken out. You bet five bucks I'd talk to her. You bet money on my social life."

"You did talk to her," she says, not even trying to hide how smug she sounds now.

Ben snorts.

"You didn't just talk. You showed up breathless, looking like you got hit by Cupid's dump truck."

"Oh my God," I groan again, this time collapsing forward and thumping my forehead against the table. "Why are you both like this?!"

"Because we love you," May says sweetly.

"And because you're incredibly easy to fluster," Ben adds.

I peek up at them through my fingers.

"You know this is basically emotional warfare, right?"

May just pats my hand like I'm being dramatic.

"I can't believe you actually placed bets," I mutter, sitting up again and trying to regain some semblance of dignity.

"Oh please," Ben grins. "It was the most wholesome gambling I've ever done."

"Also the most accurate," May says, finishing her coffee and sliding the mug to the edge of the table like a mic drop.

"You guys are impossible," I say, but I'm already smiling. Despite everything—despite the awkwardness, the embarrassment, the way they team up like it's a tag match—I can't help but feel lucky.

I've got two people in my corner who care enough to make fun of me and bet on my emotional growth. That's… kinda rare.

And the worst part?

They were right. About MJ. About me not being able to help myself.

I hate how well they know me.

Still, I eye them suspiciously.

"Just for the record… if you ever make a bet about how long it takes me to kiss her, I will go full vigilante on both of you."

Ben doesn't even flinch.

"Too late."

"BEN!"

May bursts out laughing.

God help me. This family.

It's officially been almost three weeks since I woke up in Peter's body. And while things don't exactly feel normal—whatever that means—I can say this:

Peter, if you're out there somewhere… I hope you can hear me.

I didn't ask for this. I didn't want to take you away from your family, your life, your future. I don't want to be the one standing in the shadow of the legacy you were supposed to build.

These powers are yours. This family is yours. It should be you sitting here, not me.

I don't know why I ended up here… but I do know this much:

I consider myself lucky.

And if you can hear me—just know, I'm not going to hurt them. I swear it. I'm going to protect them, and hopefully make you proud.

It really did take dying to finally start living. But now that I'm here? I'll fight to my last breath for the people you—no, we—love.

I'll go down swinging, because I know if you were in my place, you'd do the same for me.

And that's a promise.

A.S.

A.S.

A.S.

The rain had stopped hours ago, but the alley still stank of rot and runoff. Puddles mirrored the soft amber glow of a streetlamp that hadn't been fixed in years, its light sputtering like it might give up at any second.

A woman ran.

Or tried to.

She staggered more than sprinted—one arm bent at a horrific angle, bone threatening to split through skin, blood trailing behind her in a dripping breadcrumb path. Her breaths came sharp and shallow, every footfall a jolt of agony up her side. Her shoes slipped on the wet concrete, skidding as she crashed into a dented dumpster, leaving a smear of red on the rusted metal as she clawed herself upright.

She didn't scream. Screaming took energy. She didn't have much of that left.

The chain-link fence ahead was her only option. She dropped low, ducking under the bent wire where the frame had split. Her good hand tore at the gap, forcing her body through. Her foot cleared the edge just as something stirred behind her—a heavy thud followed by the faint drift of air displacement.

A single feather—black, wide-veined, not from any bird that belonged in this part of the world—floated down to the wet concrete where her heel had just been.

"Where are you going?"

The voice didn't shout.

It didn't need to.

It oozed through the dark like oil across water—mocking, amused. Too close.

The woman whimpered, spinning in place, eyes wide, but there was no one there. Just the street behind her. Empty. Still.

She ran again—this time limping toward the nearest building. A boarded-up office, half its glass shattered. She threw herself through the doorframe, tripping over debris and crashing into the darkness.

Wings flapped.

Not like a bird. Not like anything natural.

Each beat echoed—a wet, leathery sound, like skin over bone. Like something undead testing gravity.

"You can't hide," the voice called again. Closer this time… above.

"I can smell your blood."

She crawled behind an overturned desk, clutching her broken arm, lips trembling.

"Please," she whispered. "I just want to go home…"

There was silence.

Then came the laugh.

Not a chuckle. Not a sneer.

A full, manic, inhuman cackle that scraped against the brick and steel of the hollow building. It filled the space like rot fills lungs.

"Go home?" the voice rasped. "But it's feeding time… and I'm starving."

Glass exploded.

The woman screamed—but only once.

Talons like butcher hooks slammed down through the ceiling and wrenched her upward in a blur of claws and wings. Her body vanished through a broken window, trailing shrieks and shattered dust behind.

Silence reclaimed the block.

And above the skyline, a silhouette passed—briefly outlined against the moon.

Something massive… with wings.

Arsenal597 · 2025-12-03T23:01:27+0000

"Hey, how was your weekend?" MJ asks, jogging up beside me as I stretch out my calves on the curb that next morning. Her hair's tied back in a loose ponytail, a few red strands already fighting their way free in the breeze. The sun isn't even fully up yet—just smears of pale gold bleeding into the clouds—but she's got that half-awake smirk she always wears like armor.

"It wasn't bad, actually." I shrug, the last remnants of sleep clinging to me like a tick. "Spent time with Ben and May. It was nice."

The early morning air is crisp, not quite cold, but enough to make my hoodie feel justified. The streets of Queens are quieter than usual—just the distant hum of buses and a couple of dog walkers out before the rest of the world kicks into gear.

She raises an eyebrow as we start jogging down the block, our footsteps echoing faintly on the pavement.

"Just nice? That means no burning buildings?"

"I know, it's almost disappointing. But no. Ben's been showing me a few things in the garage."

"Oh?" she says, glancing over. "Ben was a mechanic?"

"Yeah. Hopped around a few shops in Queens back in his twenties. I got the whole lowdown—his first pain-in-the-ass boss was a guy called Meatloaf Joe."

She stifles a laugh.

"Meatloaf Joe?"

"Mm-hmm. A six-foot, three-hundred-fifty-pound brick wall with the attitude of a rabid dog. Ben says he was worse than a drill sergeant."

"I'm sorry, I need visual context. Was he named that because he loved meatloaf, or because he looked like one?"

"No clue. Probably both. He once told Ben, 'I don't want to see you breathing unless it's in rhythm with your socket wrench.'"

MJ snorts so hard she almost trips on a crack in the sidewalk.

"Oh my God, that's beautiful."

"I think that might explain why Ben doesn't care for May's meatloaf," I chuckle dryly. "It probably reminds him of Joe."

"Ouch—but you like her meatloaf?"

I laugh.

"No, I love May, but her meatloaf leaves a lot to be desired. Now her dumplings, they're to die for!"

I grin as we turn the corner, falling into that easy, rhythmic silence that comes with two people who've done this enough times not to need to fill every second.

The streets are mostly quiet, just a distant dog barking and the low rumble of a bus down the avenue. Every so often a car drifts by, headlights cutting through the morning fog. I'm still not used to how good my senses are on these runs—how I can hear conversations through windows or pick up the scent of someone's breakfast a full block away.

But MJ's voice cuts through all of it.

"Those late night study sessions working?"

"Honestly?" I glance over at her. "Yeah. I've got the majority of my work caught up, and it doesn't feel like I'm trying to translate a dead language anymore."

"I told you those podcasts were lifesavers."

She says it with a little self-satisfied lilt, like she's been waiting all weekend to claim victory.

I glance over at her, smiling but not saying the rest—that it's mostly her that's been the lifesaver. I don't know what it is, but she's helped keep me focused. The information's actually sticking. I'm even ahead now in biology. Mr. Larson didn't seem too thrilled about my sudden intellectual bounce-back, but let me tell you, it was so worth it to see that scowl.

MJ smirks like she can read my thoughts.

"Alright, Tiger… spill it."

"Hmm?" I hum.

"I can tell you're thinking something, right now. What is it?" she asks, and I shake my head. She sees right through me. I don't know whether to be happy about that or not.

"Fine… Ben and May have been teasing me for the study calls."

"Oh…" she purses her lips together, a light shade of pink shading her cheeks. I try to pretend that I don't notice it, but it lingers in my head for a moment longer than I would have liked. "They do know it's to help you study, right?"

"I tried to tell them that, but you know how they are."

"May and Ben are stubborn, just like you…"

"I hear that's a Parker thing," I shrug in reply. "Either way, I had them corner me at dinner last night about our situation."

"Oh, I am so sorry."

"Not as much as I am."

"What?"

"I told them you were into Flash."

"No! You didn't!"

"Oh, I would never… just wanted to see what you would say," I beam. She elbows me, but her eyes flick sideways a half-second longer than the joke calls for. It only makes me laugh more, despite the lingering eye contact.

It's getting harder to remember why I used to dread mornings like this. The cold, the early wake-up, the aching legs—it all used to feel like punishment. Now it feels… grounding. The whole idea of running doesn't cause the lazy part of my brain to cry in agony anymore.

It still cries over the studying sessions, sure, but it can whine all it wants.

"Still can't believe you didn't want to meet me," MJ shakes her head, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear, her tone mock-wounded as I drop my head in surrender.

"I told you, it wasn't like that!"

"Sure, whatever you say, Peter." She lifts her chin theatrically, turning her face just far enough away to avoid my eyes—like it'll break her to even look at me. "I just thought we…" she lets out an unconvincing sniffle, clutching her chest. "I just thought we had something special."

I stop mid-run, plant my hands on my hips, and level a stare at her.

"Are you in cahoots with them?"

She laughs—one of those real, full-body laughs that makes her ponytail bounce behind her.

"Who even says 'cahoots' anymore?"

"I'm old-fashioned. What can I say?"

"Old-fashioned and dramatic," she grins, falling back into pace beside me.

"Look who's talking," I mutter, and she smirks wider, bumping her shoulder into mine.

We hit the halfway mark and loop around back toward Forest Hills, the streets slowly starting to wake. Porch lights flicker off one by one, morning traffic groans to life in the distance, and someone's dog barks like it's still mad about the concept of Mondays in general.

It's warm enough now that I push my sleeves up. MJ's already down to her tank top—her hoodie tied around her waist like it's been through this a thousand times.

"You're pacing better," she says, slightly out of breath, but not winded. "You used to sound like you were dying halfway through the first mile."

"I still feel like I'm dying, I'm just better at hiding it," I puff, dragging in another breath. "Don't give away my secrets."

She grins, swatting me lightly with the back of her hand as we pass the bakery on 73rd—the one that always smells like fresh bread even when it's probably just the ventilation from the pizzeria next door.

We fall into step again, just a few blocks from home, when she glances sideways.

"So... how's English going?"

And just like that, the bliss is over.

I groan, dragging my hands down my face like that'll somehow erase the grades in my brain.

"I'm not good with poetry, MJ!"

"Uh-huh." She's already laughing. "You say that like it's a moral stance."

"As far as I'm concerned, I shouldn't have to make four different haikus to pass the unit test. Four! That's too many syllables, MJ."

"Or," she says, drawing it out like she's preparing to drop a bomb, "you're just bad at putting your emotions into it."

I gasp. Dramatically. Offended on behalf of all emotionally repressed science nerds everywhere.

"Excuse me? I am very emotional."

"Maybe in person," she shoots back, smirking. "But when it comes to writing? That's completely different."

"I pour my soul into my lab reports."

"Oh, yeah?" Her eyebrows lift. "So what's the poetic symbolism of describing mold growth under a heat lamp for 72 hours?"

"It's an allegory for the modern condition!"

She barks out a laugh that echoes off a nearby stoop.

"No it's not!"

"Yes it is!"

"Peter, you literally wrote, 'fungus expands aggressively in high humidity.' That's not exactly Shakespeare."

I hold up a finger.

"You don't know. Maybe that was a metaphor."

"Mm-hmm. A metaphor for why you're still barely passing that class."

"I'll have you know I had an A in that class before we got to this unit." I keep my finger in the air like it's going to settle the debate by sheer willpower.

She shakes her head, ponytail swinging behind her as we slow to a stop at the corner near her place.

"Peter, you gotta actually try with it."

"I am, though!" I throw my hands up. "Poetry just suuuucks…"

She snorts.

"You sound like a kid who just discovered taxes."

"I just don't get how putting seventeen syllables in a row about leaves falling is supposed to unlock my soul or whatever."

She presses her lips together, clearly holding in a smile. Then she breaks.

"You're the only person I know who complains about poetry with the same energy most people reserve for jury duty."

"Because it's criminal, MJ… and I will die on that hill."

We're both laughing now. And somewhere between the dumb metaphors and the teasing, I forget that school is a thing we actually have to go to. This—whatever this is—it's been the best part of my mornings.

We reach the corner where our paths split—her place to the left, mine straight ahead. The sun's a little higher now, the golden haze shifting into a cooler blue, shadows stretching long and thin across the sidewalk like the city's slowly waking up.

MJ slows to a jog, then a walk, brushing a few loose strands of hair from her face.

"See you in a bit?" she asks, already half-turning toward her street.

"Yeah," I nod, catching my breath. "Try not to laugh too hard when I bomb that poetry quiz."

"No promises, Tiger," she says with a grin, and just like that she's off again—jogging backward for a few steps before turning and slipping into the morning fog like some kind of red-haired specter of academic doom.

I watch her go for maybe a second too long before I turn for home.

Ben's already at the table when I come in, still in his robe, sipping coffee that smells way too strong for this early. The newspaper's spread out across the table like he's about to give a press briefing. May's probably still upstairs. The kitchen smells faintly of toast, burnt at the edges, and there's that creaky silence that old houses carry when most of it's still asleep.

"Morning," I mumble, wiping my shoes on the mat and heading straight for the fridge. I need juice. Or cold pizza. Or both.

"Morning," Ben replies, eyes still on the paper. "You see this?"

"See what?" I shut the fridge with my hip and wander over, carton of orange juice in hand. He taps the headline with the back of his fingers, knuckles stained with newsprint.

"WINGED CREATURE SPOTTED OVER LOWER MANHATTAN"

I blink, leaning in.

The grainy photo shows… something. Hard to make out through the blur and darkness, but it looks like a shape in the air—long wings, sharp angles, not quite human. The article's filled with eyewitness quotes and shaky phone pics, like half the city's still debating whether it was a drone, a mutant, or a publicity stunt.

"Lower Manhattan?" I mutter, mostly to myself. "What the hell is the deal with Lower Manhattan lately?"

Ben glances at me over his glasses.

"When I went to Harry's right after I got out of the hospital, the news was already talking about those 'vampire' killings, right? Leaving bodies drained of blood?" I shake my head, more at the memory than the headline. "Now there's a giant winged creature flying around down there? Yeah. That's exactly what we needed."

Ben says nothing, just sips his coffee like he's seen a hundred headlines worse than this one. Maybe he has.

"Gotta love a world full of superhumans and monsters."

I lean back against the counter, carton of juice still in hand, trying to shrug it off—but it sticks. Lingers. Like a splinter in the corner of my mind that I keep brushing but can't pull out.

Remind me again, why the hell did I ever want to be in a world with superpowers? Like the world wasn't dangerous enough as it was.

Ben glances up from the paper, that familiar crease forming between his brows.

"Hey, at least you can potentially protect yourself with your new gifts, Peter."

I sigh. It's not sarcastic or dramatic—it just leaks out of me, tired and half-frustrated.

"That's why I wanted to look into those gyms," I admit, setting the juice down on the counter. "If I'm gonna do anything with this stuff… I need to be able to fight. Not just flail around and hope I don't get stabbed or shot."

Ben raises an eyebrow, folds the paper slowly in half like he's buying time.

"What happened to that whole speech you gave May?" he asks, tone gentler than the words. "About it not being about fighting?"

"I wasn't lying," I say, and I mean it. "I still believe that. But Ben… I'd be stupid not to learn how to protect myself. I don't want to fight—doesn't mean I shouldn't know how."

He leans back a little in his chair, arms crossing over his chest.

"I don't think that's unreasonable," he says. "So long as you're doing it for the right reasons. Learning how to stand up for yourself isn't the same as looking for a fight."

"So… you agree?"

"I didn't say that." A ghost of a smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. "But if you're going to help people like you've suggested… then yeah. Learning how to fight might be the safest bet—for you and for them."

He has no idea how right he is…

"Yo, Parker!"

Flash's voice cuts through the morning noise like someone throwing a brick through stained glass. I haven't even made it to my locker yet, and here he comes, striding down the hall like we're old pals.

Was he… waiting for me?

Before I can ask—or better yet, duck into a bathroom—he claps a hand on my shoulder. It lands with the kind of force usually reserved for defibrillators and wrestling moves. I don't flinch, but my spine does that startled animal twitch anyway.

"You know, I heard from Osborn that you were getting into fitness lately," he says, like this is a normal thing we talk about. "Thought he was joking. Then I saw you this morning with Red."

He falls into step beside me like we've done this walk a hundred times before.

"I mean, seriously," he adds, half-laughing. "How the hell did you get a girl like that to stick around you?"

I blink at him. "What, MJ?"

He gives me a look—eyebrows raised, lips twisted into a smirk like I just asked him if water was wet.

"Yeah, Red. She doesn't seem like the type to hang out with you, no offense, but yet you're out here doing laps with her. Is that an every day kind of thing?" He asks, half impressed and half confused. "Did that coma give you some kind of chick magnet?"

"Chick magnet? Really? That's the best you got? I expect better from you, Flash." I want to say something clever. Maybe a sarcastic jab. But mostly I'm trying to process the fact that Flash Thompson, serial tormentor, is currently talking to me like I'm one of the guys. "You're seriously giving me crap for running with MJ?"

"Not crap," he says, holding up both hands like I just accused him of kicking my dog. "Just asking. Chill out, man. Why're you acting like I'm a bad guy or something?"

"I'm not… just not used to you talking to me like this."

"What do you mean? We were friends as kids, dork. I know you don't remember it, but you're the reason I got the nickname."

I stop walking. Dead halt in front of my locker. I turn to look at him, eyes narrowing.

"I thought you were kidding about that."

Flash's grin falters. Just a flicker. But it's there. The swagger stumbles.

"Why would I joke about that?"

And just like that… the mask slips.

It's subtle. Barely perceptible if you weren't looking—but I am. His posture softens, his eyes dart for a second too long to the floor. There's no smugness behind it now. Just a kind of fragile honesty, like he said something he thought would land better than it did.

The silence stretches. The hallway noise keeps humming—lockers slamming, someone yelling down the hall—but we're in our own little bubble now.

"I don't know," I say slowly, trying to keep my voice steady. "Maybe to pull a fast one on the guy with amnesia? You tell me."

"I get it," he says. "Yeah, I'm sure a bunch of people told you what I was like the last few years. And look—I'm not proud of all of it, okay? I was a jerk. Probably still am, sometimes—and you know what, I'm sorry. There."

"You're sorry?"

"What do you want me to say, Parker? I can't take back what I've done to ya. I know I haven't been a good friend, but you never took it to heart. I swear, man."

I want to believe him, but truthfully… I've heard that same spiel from a guy I went to school with. His name was Gordon. Dude was an asshole, who used 'bullying' as a way to show he cared. Which, I can understand to a degree. You can mess with your friends, sure, but when all you do is belittle them, it messes with them. It gets under their skin.

As I look at Flash, something happens. There's a flicker—like a projector reel skipping a frame. A memory that isn't mine slams into place.

Peter. Sitting in the courtyard. Drenched. Shivering. His glasses cracked, hair plastered to his face. Flash standing above him on the second floor, laughing like a jackal, holding an empty bucket of water balloons.

And the rage. The humiliation. That hollow ache in his chest like he just wanted to disappear.

This is how you treat your friends, Flash?

It wasn't my voice that said it. I still hear my old voice when I think, but this… this was Peter's voice.

Was I… was I remembering one of Pete's memories? What the fuck?

I blink, and it's gone. The hallway's back. Flash is still standing there, waiting. Looking at me like maybe he didn't expect forgiveness, but he's hoping for something close.

I open my locker. My hands are steady, but my insides feel scrambled. Like someone's been shuffling my memories around behind the curtain.

I grab my books, shut the locker door, and turn to face him.

"Flash," I say, voice quiet but clear, "let me tell you something… it did bother me. I can tell you that much."

He stiffens. Just a little.

I don't say it to hurt him. But I also don't say it to make him feel better.

I say it because Peter deserves to have someone say it for him. Even if that someone's me.

And for once… Flash doesn't joke.

He just nods. One short, ashamed nod. And for the first time since I've known him—really known him—I think I see the guy he used to be.

"I'm… I'm sorry, Peter." he apologizes, and looks toward the ground. "I mean it."

I start to turn away, but stop at the last second.

"Look, Flash… words are one thing, man. Actions speak a lot louder sometimes. If you really mean that, prove it."

Then I walk away.

He doesn't follow.

I walk into class and sit down at the lab bench with barely a glance at anyone. My chair scrapes a little louder than I meant it to. Doesn't matter. My face must still be wearing the whole conversation with Flash, because the second I settle, Harry turns in his seat.

"Hey, you—"

I don't hear the rest. My ears are still in the hallway.

"Hm?" I hum, like I wasn't just a million miles away.

"Are you okay?" he asks again, slower this time. A little more careful. The way he says it irritates me, and I can't really explain why.

I haven't been angry since I woke up in the hospital.

But Flash has me heated. No—scorched. And not because of something he did. Because of who he is. Just the sound of his voice scrapes something raw in me. Like I'm a live wire and he keeps brushing against it. I don't even want to think about him. His existence feels like bugs crawling under my skin.

Not thinking about him is preferable.

It shouldn't bother me. I didn't have a problem with him the last few days, so why now? Is it because of that memory—or whatever that was? Some leftover emotion Peter left behind? I don't know. But it's lit a fire in me.

"Oh yeah," I nod. It's automatic. A lie, neatly folded and ironed.

Harry doesn't buy it. Of course he doesn't.

"Pete," he leans forward, voice lower. "I know you. I can tell when something's bothering you."

"I don't want to talk about it."

"You sure?"

I stare at the fake grain of the desk, the laminate peeling at the corner, revealing compressed sawdust underneath.

"Yeah," I say, not looking up. "I'm sure."

Harry watches me for a second but eventually leans back in his seat. He doesn't say anything else, and I'm honestly grateful for it. I'm not sure how to explain what's bothering me.

I had anger issues when I was younger. Nothing explosive enough to harm anyone—but sometimes I'd get so angry, it felt like my chest might burst outward. My head would pound. My muscles wound so tight I was sure they'd snap if I threw a punch.

That's the bitch of it. When I used to get bullied, I buried everything. All of it. But sometimes it would erupt. Didn't matter who I was with, didn't matter what was going on. You could've done nothing wrong to me that day, but if you talked to me at the wrong time—I'd lash out.

And I'd bring up the past.

Anything you ever did to annoy me, piss me off, hurt me—I'd use it like a weapon. I ruined a lot of friendships that way. It cost me one of my best friends. We'd known each other since Kindergarten. She was already dealing with a lot when it happened, and my blow-up didn't help.

That was the wake-up call. It forced me to grow up. Made me realize my words had weight.

Eventually, I learned how to cool off before I spoke to anyone. To ask for space. Time to breathe.

Harry's only looking out for me. I know that. And I hope I didn't come off like I was mad at him. I'm not.

I just need time to process this.

So, I sit there and pull out my notebook—one of the blank ones May brought home for me last week—and thumb open to the first page. The pen in my hand feels a little clumsy at first, like I'm relearning the rhythm, but eventually the movements come back.

It's been a while since I actually wrote anything steadily.

I suppose, given my circumstances, it's not unsurprising.

I had this novel planned once. Supernatural stuff, but with a kind of superhero flavor. Nothing so bombastic as capes and costumes—but more like ordinary people cursed with something beyond them, using them to help. It was a darker tone, more mature than I expected it to be. It was originally to be the kind of story where the powers hurt more than they help. Though, I suppose that tends to be a massive point for stories with superpowers. Either way, I had the whole premise outlined in my computer, and the back of my brain.

I never really got far, though. Every time I thought I was getting somewhere, I'd reread it and… no. It didn't feel right. Something about the tone, or the voice, or maybe the fact that I didn't believe what I was writing. It always felt off. So I scrapped it. Again and again. Restarted from page one more times than I could count. But hey—suppose I've got plenty of time now to actually follow through.

Could be a hobby again, or something better…

I only had two chapters written out for it before the crash. The second chapter had been bothering me, because of the way I had it flowing. I needed to rewrite it, but I wanted one of my friends to go over it and see if there was anything that required immediate changes. He never got to it, and if he did… I won't be replying to those messages any time soon.

I huff under my breath, not quite a laugh, as I imagine myself trying to juggle superhero training, schoolwork, morning runs, maintaining friendships, and writing a novel like I'm some kind of overachieving cryptid. If I keep adding more to my plate, I'll need to start writing in my sleep. Then again… with these powers, I could probably make the time. Sleep is a suggestion now. I don't need a lot of it, after all.

I go to start writing the prologue, but find myself deciding to write another of my scrapped projects that had potential. I lacked the emotional awareness and knowledge to write it appropriately, but with how things are now, I think I can handle it.

It was a zombie story, well infected, I guess. Call them zombies. Doesn't matter. Anyway, a former criminal is framed for the murder of his wife and is imprisoned. He's fully content with rotting away, but when the outbreak occurs, he breaks out to get his kids to safety, but is bitten during his escape. So, with little time left, he tries to make amends with his past mistakes and get his kids to safety before it's too late.

I was going to call it Undead Redemption, if I had ever gotten through with it. By the time I get through with the first three paragraphs, the bell finally rings.

Mr. Larson walks in carrying his usual thermal mug and a worn folder that's probably older than half the class.

I don't listen much. I try. But my head's in another galaxy.

Words are happening. Diagrams are going up on the board. Something about anaerobic respiration. But I'm still stuck on that moment in the hall. Flash's voice. The way I felt. The weird pressure in my chest that still hasn't quite gone away.

Still, when it's time to do the actual classwork, I put my notebook away and snap back into it. The worksheet isn't bad—just matching terms, a short response, some fill-in-the-blank junk. I actually fly through it. I don't know how. It's like my brain's just... clicking again.

I walk up and hand it in before the bell even hints at ringing.

Larson takes it with a raised brow, flipping the first page. "Ambitious today, are we?"

"Just want to stay caught up with my work, sir," I say, offering a smile that's 80% pretend.

He eyes me for another second—probably surprised I didn't turn in the assignment last second like I did all last week—then gives a nod and turns to the next kid in line.

I head back to my seat and drop into it. Harry looks over at me like I just cracked a secret code.

"You're done already?"

I nod, half to myself.

"I guess it's starting to come back to me."

Harry leans back in mock offense.

"Great… and here I was happy that we were on an intellectual common ground."

"Harry, we're still in the same class."

"Yeah. But we're on opposite sides of the grading spectrum now. You're Einstein. I'm the lab rat who forgot where the cheese is."

I roll my eyes.

"You're not that bad."

"Debatable. But I appreciate it."

I smirk, leaning back just slightly, letting the banter take the edge off.

I'm finally calming down.

Harry, still leaned back in his seat, gives me a side glance.

"You good now?" he asks, not pushy, just curious.

I shrug.

"Getting there."

"Need a distraction?" he offers, turning his notebook so I can see the ridiculous little sketch he's drawn on the corner of the page. It's a stick figure with laser eyes fighting what looks like a mutant mitochondria.

"Is that… me?"

"What, you can't see the resemblance?" Harry smiles, and I let out a tiny, barely audible laugh.

I'll probably tell Harry later, so long as Flash doesn't find me later on or something.

With that, the rest of the class speeds by.

Lunch rolls around, and I make the executive decision to get the hell out of the cafeteria. I'm not in the mood for the chaos today. I've got something better waiting for me anyway.

The courtyard's quieter—enough space to breathe, at least. The air's got that weird in-between vibe: not too hot, not too cold, just humid enough to annoy me when I sit down on the stone bench and feel the warmth seeping through the back of my jeans. I pull my notebook from my bag like it's an old friend, then slide in my new earbuds—Harry picked them up for me this weekend, said I looked like someone "in desperate need of decent audio."

He wasn't wrong.

I scroll through my playlist and land on All Time Low. Familiar, nostalgic—feels like the right headspace for what I'm trying to do. The first few chords kick in, and just like that, I'm gone again, pen hitting paper, words tumbling out faster than I expected. I get caught in it. A rhythm. A flow. The prologue stretches out into page after page, seven full sheets, front and back, before I even think to stop. My hand's cramping. My back's stiff. But I feel good.

Or at least, I did.

Then I hear it.

"Eat it! Eat it!"

Voices, chanting—too loud, too gleeful. It cuts through the music in my ears like a bad frequency, and I frown, pulling the left bud out. I look up. The crowd isn't subtle.

Of course it's Flash.

He's in the middle of a ring of students, holding some poor kid upside down by the ankle, like a cartoon bully straight out of an afterschool special. The kid's tray is on the ground, peas and carrots smeared across it, and Flash is laughing while trying to press the kid's face into the mess like it's a dunk tank.

"Come on, eat your vegetables!" he grins.

The chant grows louder. Everyone's in on it. Laughing, egging him on. Phones are out. I close my notebook and shake my head. I should stay out of it. I wanted to stay out of it. That's the entire reason I walked out here—to clear my head, to get away from him.

But I'm already standing. Bag left behind. Body moving before I can really stop it. Something about this feels… familiar. Too familiar. Not just déjà vu—but muscle memory. Something older than instinct. Something deeper. And I hate that I don't know why.

I move through the crowd, and the scene gets clearer. The kid's squirming, trying to wipe food off his cheek. Flash is laughing harder now, leaning into it. He doesn't even notice me at first—not until I'm close enough that he can't miss me.

Then he sees me. He blinks. And for a second—just a second—he hesitates. Like something in him recognizes the look on my face and doesn't quite know what to do with it.

Then comes the smirk.

"Hey, Parker!" he calls out. "Take a photo!"

I just stare at him.

"I'm not taking the photo, Flash," I say flatly.

He cocks his head, like he didn't hear me.

"Come on, man. You used to love this stuff. Take the shot."

"Really, because that doesn't sound like me."

I glance to the side—Harry and Gwen are stepping out of the building, trays in hand. They're still too far to do anything, but the second Gwen spots the crowd, her eyes lock on mine. I see it—recognition. Concern.

"No," I repeat. "Put him down."

Flash's smile twitches. He doesn't like being told what to do in front of an audience. "I said, take the photo."

"And I said put him down."

My voice is sharper now, not quite yelling—but close. I can feel it in my chest, that pulse again—that heat. The kind that feels like it's buzzing just under the skin, right between anger and adrenaline.

The crowd starts up again, louder this time. I glance around, my lip twitching into a deeper frown.

"Eat it! Eat it!"

God. I hate this. I hate bullies.

"What's the matter, fatass?" I hear a voice whisper in the back of my head. "Don't be such a little bitch. We're just joking with you."

I remember all the times I'd been treated like this kid, and it is making my blood boil.

"I said put him down."

Flash keeps laughing, but it's not as strong now. There's a flicker in his eyes—something twitchy and thin, something unsure—but he's doubling down.

"Flash, you're going to get in trouble!"

"Parker, quit being a bitch and take the photo before you piss me off." Flash says it, and if my blood could have combusted into flames, that would have done it.

So I snap.

"PUT HIM DOWN, EUGENE!"

That gets them. The crowd gasps. Like the name itself was a nuclear trigger.

Flash turns, slowly, his entire body tightening like a wire. His face darkens. And I see it. The shift. The sudden violence behind the eyes. And the kid—he gets dropped. Not gently, but not slammed either. Flash is focused now. On me.

I move toward the kid—wanting to check if he's alright—but the hairs on my neck rise before I even get a foot in. Spider-sense. My whole body tenses.

Here it comes.

The punch.

The world around me slows down, my reflexes speeding up as I see his fist come into view. Normally, I'd just take the hit. Be the punching bag so no one else gets hurt. But not today. Today, I'm not worried about that. I'm angry. I told Flash actions spoke louder than words, and here he is… doing the exact opposite of what he'd said.

Sure, in retrospect I shouldn't have called him by his real name, but I needed to get his attention somehow. Now, though… it doesn't matter. He made the mistake of swinging on me. I'm done being the punching bag.

I don't let it land. I duck—lower than I should've been able to a month ago—and spring up, grabbing Flash by the front of his jacket before he can figure out what just happened. His eyes go wide as I lift him off the ground and slam him, full-force, onto the metal lunch table behind us.

The sound cracks. Echoes. Gasps ripple outward like a blast radius.

"KNOCK IT THE FUCK OFF!" I shout, voice raw. "WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU, HUH?!"

Flash's eyes go wide. His back is still pressed against the metal picnic table, and the sound of my voice is still hanging in the air like an aftershock. Everyone around us takes a collective step back. The shouting stopped. The crowd isn't chanting anymore.

They're quiet now.

I can feel it in my shoulders—the tightness, the coiled energy crawling down into my arms. My heart's racing like it's trying to win something. My hands are still bunched in the fabric of his letterman jacket. His feet aren't even touching the ground anymore.

I can feel the muscles in my arms vibrating like I just bench-pressed a car. The tension is that intense. And yeah, I think the vein in my forehead might actually be visible at this point. There's that heat behind my eyes again, like I'm not even fully here. Like I'm in some dream-version of this scene.

Harry and Gwen are here now, somewhere inside the crowd. I don't look at them. I don't care. I don't even care that I just screamed at one of the most popular guys in school in front of half the student body. I care that this asshole was torturing some poor kid for laughs.

"THIS IS WHY PEOPLE DON'T LIKE YOU!" I shout, voice cracking at the edges. "BECAUSE YOU THINK YOU'RE ABLE TO DO WHATEVER THE HELL YOU WANT!"

"Peter," Harry says my name, and it's not loud, but it's clear. He sounds nervous. Maybe even a little scared.

I don't let go.

"Is this what you mean about being sorry, huh?!" I snarl, face barely inches from Flash's now. "You bully your so-called friends, and wonder why nobody wants to stick around you?!"

"Peter…" Harry tries again. A little firmer this time.

Flash doesn't say anything. Doesn't even flinch. Just stares at me with this completely lost, bewildered look. He's not smirking. He's not yelling. He's not pushing back.

He looks… wrecked. Shaken. Like he doesn't know what just happened. Like he doesn't even know what I just became.

And God help me—I almost swing on him. Just one punch. That's all it would take. One little jab and I know I could shatter a rib. Break his nose. Fracture his jaw. I can feel that heat in my fists, that sick desire to just end the problem. But I don't.

But still, I don't let go.

That's when a hand lands on my shoulder.

It's not rough. It's firm, calm. And when I turn, expecting Harry or maybe even Gwen, it's neither of them.

It's a guy I don't immediately recognize.

"Hey," he says gently. "Let him go, Pete."

I blink. The voice is familiar now that I really look. He's taller than me—way taller. Close-cropped hair. Shoulders like a linebacker. Deep, steady voice like he's not afraid of anyone—but also not trying to scare me either.

And then it hits me.

Lonnie Lincoln.

"You got your point across," Lonnie says again, and now his eyes lock onto mine with this scary kind of calm. "You're better than him."

My heartbeat stutters. The anger's still burning inside me, but it's starting to sputter, confused by the sudden gravity in his words. I'm not sure why it works, but it does.

Slowly, I unclench my fists from Flash's jacket, and let him drop back to his feet.

Flash doesn't say a word.

No one does.

"Come on, let's take a walk," Lonnie says, already guiding me by the arm.

I don't resist.

The crowd parts around us, and it's like walking through fog—silent, dense, full of people too stunned to breathe. I don't look at any of them. Not even Harry, not even Gwen. But I catch the look on Harry's face anyway—just for a second.

He doesn't recognize me.

And that's fair.

Peter Parker wouldn't have done that.

But I'm not the Peter Parker he knew.

We step out past the edge of the courtyard after I grab my bag. The noise fades behind us. I don't say anything, and Lonnie doesn't either—not right away. He's not dragging me, just walking alongside.

The breeze kicks in again. Feels cooler now. Or maybe that's just me cooling down.

As we pass one of the corners of the school, I hear it—distant but unmistakable:

"What are you looking at?!"

Flash's voice, still trying to hold onto what scraps of pride he's got left. No one answers him.

I don't say anything either.

His ego's taken enough of a beating for one day. He'll spin it into some tough-guy story later. Probably make me the psycho, himself the innocent bystander.

Fine. Let him.

I'm not proud of what just happened. But I'm not exactly ashamed either.

"So, I go on vacation and you come out of a coma wanting to throw punches with Flash? What's that all about?" Lonnie asks as we sit down in one of the stairwells.

"It's a lot more complicated than that," I mutter.

"Well, I'm listening." he gives a soft smile.

"Didn't you hear? I don't exactly remember much of anything before the field trip."

"Yeah, I heard… still doesn't give you a reason to go toe to toe with Flash, though."

"Really? He was bullying that kid."

"I know, and you put yourself in his crosshairs."

I exhale, leaning back against the cold concrete of the stairwell. The fluorescent light above us flickers every few seconds, casting little spasms of shadow across the steps.

"Yeah, well. I'm already in his crosshairs, aren't I?"

Lonnie gives a small, dry laugh.

"You've always been in his crosshairs. You just finally looked up and noticed."

I shoot him a look, but he's not wrong.

"He tried to say that he was sorry this morning, and all I could think about was the times he humiliated me." I explained. "How can you say you're friends with something when all you do is bully him?"

"He apologized?" Lonnie raised an eyebrow, before laughing. "Shit, that's new. Never thought I'd see the day. Though, I never thought I'd see you throw Flash around, either."

I shake my head.

"I didn't even mean to do it. It's like—I don't know—my body moved faster than my brain."

It's a lie, but what am I supposed to say? That I fully intended to do that to Flash, and then some?

"Sounds like you might've needed it." Lonnie leans back, folding his arms. "I've seen Flash go at people a hundred times. You think teachers don't notice? They do. I think they just hope he grows out of it before someone sues the school."

"That's comforting."

"Yeah, well. Midtown's got a lot of problems, but you? You might have some coming your way now that you pulled that."

I huff a laugh.

"That's one way to put it."

He glances sideways at me.

"You alright, though? After all that?"

I shrug first. Noncommittal. Hoping the silence will answer for me. But it doesn't.

Eventually, I sigh. "I don't know," I admit. "It felt good. That's what worries me."

Lonnie doesn't respond right away. When he does, his voice is quieter.

"Yeah. I get that."

I look at him.

"You do?"

He gives a tight smile.

"You ever wonder why I stay outta most fights?"

"Because you'd win?"

"Because I wouldn't stop."

He says it like it's something he's known for a long time, and hated just as long.

"People think it's about being tough," Lonnie goes on. "But real strength? That's knowing when to stop yourself. Most people never figure that out. And the ones that do—"

"—are usually the ones who've had to learn the hard way."

We exchange a look.

"I didn't know you were this philosophical," I mutter.

"I'm a man of many mysteries," he says, standing up and stretching. "Now come on. Let's get you to the office before Flash tries to pin this whole thing on you."

"I doubt Flash would be willing to do that. He'd get in trouble."

"But you'd get in trouble, too."

"If that's what it takes for him to get a reality check, then it's probably worth it." I shrug. Either way, we start heading for the main office.

"I doubt your uncle is going to see it that way," Lonnie chuckles. "The old man is going to tear you a new ass when he hears about what you did."

Shit, Uncle Ben. I didn't think about it. With my powers, he's definitely going to chastise me for what I did. I could have really hurt Flash.

I don't say anything right away. The idea of Uncle Ben being disappointed in me cuts sharper than anything Flash could've thrown.

"He's gonna think I lost control," I say, quieter now.

Lonnie glances over. "Did you?"

I don't answer.

That is the answer.

We keep walking, our shoes echoing off the linoleum. Kids part around us like we're radioactive. I get it. I feel radioactive.

"I wasn't trying to hurt him," I mutter, more to myself than anything. "I just… snapped."

Lonnie doesn't say anything at first. Then: "Look, Pete. I'm not your dad, I'm not a teacher—but I've known you a long time. And that? That wasn't you snapping. That was you making a decision."

I stop again.

"What's the difference?"

He stops and turns to face me.

"The difference is, you knew what you were doing. You just didn't think about what came next."

We keep walking. A few teachers pass us, frowning, whispering. I try not to listen. One of them probably already radioed the office.

I feel the weight again—the kind that's not physical but still makes you want to fold.

Uncle Ben's going to be waiting tonight.

And whether he yells or just looks disappointed, I don't know which will be worse.

Either way, I already feel like I lost.

The office smells like stale coffee and old paper — that familiar, institutional scent that clings to everything in here like it's been soaking in disappointment since the Cold War. It's the kind of smell that seeps into your clothes and follows you home, even after you've washed it off. I'm sitting in one of those stiff, metal-framed chairs with the scratched-up plastic seat, head bent low, shoulders heavy like I'm carrying the whole damn day on them. The buzz of the overhead fluorescent lights hums quietly above me, a sterile soundtrack to the silence stretching between now and whenever Uncle Ben's supposed to show up.

The dean's verdict sits with me like a punch to the gut — both Flash and I are suspended for a few days, and after-school detention is lined up for the next three weeks like a personal hell waiting just beyond the final bell. I'm not exactly thrilled at the idea of spending extra hours in a classroom, but it feels small compared to the weight anchoring itself in my chest.

Flash is here too. He's sitting beside me, but he doesn't have that usual cocky swagger radiating off him like cheap cologne. Instead, he's fidgeting — fingers twitching, tapping against his knees, tracing nervous little circles on the vinyl seat like he's trying to work out a knot under his skin he can't quite reach. His eyes flit everywhere but toward me, maybe wondering how the hell we ended up on the same bench after everything.

For once, he's not the loudest thing in the room. That might be the weirdest part of all this.

The door creaks open, and Uncle Ben steps in. No words, just that quiet, heavy kind of presence that fills the room faster than anything he says could. His eyes find me immediately — sharp, piercing. There's anger in them, sure. But deeper than that, it's disappointment that cuts sharper. Like I let down more than just myself today.

He doesn't say a word. Just turns and walks straight into the dean's office down the hall, the door clicking shut behind him like a judge sealing a verdict.

I stay still, waiting. The seconds tick by slow, thick with the kind of silence that makes your skin crawl. Flash shifts beside me again, the quiet scratching of his nervous energy filling the space between us.

"I…" Flash starts, like he's unsure how to say the thing that's on his mind. "I didn't know you had it in you."

I glance over, the corner of my mouth twitching just a little.

"Yeah, well. You shouldn't have thrown that punch."

It's low, not meant to be mean, just a fact. The truth hanging between us like smoke. The door opens again. Uncle Ben steps out, face drawn tight, jaw set in a way that tells me he's holding back more than he wants to. He doesn't look at Flash. Doesn't say anything to me either. Just gives a curt nod — sharp, precise — and starts walking.

I follow. Our footsteps echo down the hall, a rhythmless beat against the scuffed linoleum. Students drift past us in packs, laughing, talking, living lives untouched by what just happened, or maybe pretending not to notice. I feel like I'm walking through fog — every step a little heavier, my bag slung over one shoulder like an afterthought. The silence between us feels louder than any shouting match we've ever had.

We stop at my locker. I grab my stuff, trying to pretend this is just another afternoon. It's not.

"Ben, I…" The words start but don't go anywhere. My voice cracks, and the apology jams in my throat like something too sharp to swallow.

He raises his hand, palm out like a traffic cop who's had enough of your crap for the day.

"Don't," he pauses, looking up at the ceiling like he's praying for patience. "Don't you dare apologize to me."

The chill in his voice cuts through me. It's not just about today. It's about everything — all the chances he thought I had, all the better choices I should've made. I sigh, bitter and hollow, a breath that tastes like guilt and stubbornness.

But you didn't raise me, Ben. You raised Peter.

The air between us feels thick, like we're each dragging our own ghosts behind us. And maybe that's the hardest part — not the yelling, not the punishment — but realizing the man in front of me isn't just disappointed in what I did. He's starting to question who I'm becoming.

"You could have killed that boy," Ben says, low but hard. "You know better… and you want to learn how to fight? Are you kidding me?"

"Ben, it's not—" I stop myself. "It's not like that. He was bullying this kid, and he swung on me…"

"So that gives you the right to throw him around?" His tone tightens like a noose.

"I had to calm him down! It was the only thing I could do that—" I glance around, lowering my voice. "It was the only thing I could do that wouldn't have hurt him."

"Peter, don't stand there and lie to me!" he snaps, gesturing to the side of my face. "I can see it. So tell me the truth."

"I stepped in to stop him! He threw a punch at me, and I pinned him to the table! Ben, I didn't want to. But after everything… he deserved it."

Ben steps back slightly, breath puffing out in disbelief.

"He deserved it?"

"I didn't mean it like that."

"No," he mutters, shaking his head, pacing a little now. "I know what you meant." His voice is more tired than angry now. "You don't think I've paid attention to your phone calls, or the little comments under your breath? I know what Flash has done to you recently. And yeah, it's abysmal. It's garbage. But that doesn't give you permission to stoop to his level."

"I—"

"So, you humiliated him in front of everyone. Is that right?"

"Y-yeah," I mumble, looking down at the ground like the tiles might offer me some kind of way out.

"Is that what this was really about?" he asks. "Getting back at him? I suppose that makes you feel pretty good right about now?"

"Yes!" I say, louder than I meant to. "I do feel good, but not because I hurt him. I feel good because for the first time in my life, I stood up for myself!"

Ben doesn't respond. Just shakes his head, quietly, like he's disappointed all over again. He turns, starts walking toward the exit without saying anything else. I follow. The tension is building up inside the car long before we even reach it.

As we reach the parking lot, Ben stops beside the car, one hand gripping the door handle, the other pointing at me. His voice is steady, but there's a fire simmering under it now — the kind that burns slow but deep.

"Peter, after our talk that night… when you told me what you could do…" He opens the door, hesitating, almost like he's reconsidering whether to even finish the sentence. Then his voice drops, tighter. "I thought you understood that your choices have consequences."

He doesn't shout that part. He just says it, softer than before — like it hurts him to even say it out loud.

"I do!" I protest, but he cuts me off before the words are fully formed.

"I need you to listen to me!" he snaps, and it lands like a slap in the air between us. "You can't go around doing whatever you want just because someone deserves it or not. If you can't even control yourself from getting into fights with your classmates, how are you supposed to help people?"

That one hits. Hard. Not because he's wrong, but because I've asked myself the same question a hundred times. And maybe I thought I had an answer — maybe I thought restraint meant not punching Flash into next week — but apparently, that's not enough.

"How about you listen to me?!" I bark back, the words hotter than I meant them to be. "I did control myself. I wanted to hit him, Ben…" I toss my bag into the back seat with more force than necessary, but I don't get in. "Sure, I shouldn't have put my hands on him. Regardless of whether I think he deserved it, I held back!"

Ben pauses, standing there with his hand still on the car door, eyes locked on me. It's hard to tell what he's thinking — if he's finally hearing me or if he's just too tired to keep arguing. But I know what I'm thinking. I need air. I need space. I need to move.

"You know what?" I say, voice low now, and breath short. "I'll meet you at the house."

I start walking toward the street. He watches me for a second, then calls out, "Where are you going?"

I don't answer. I shove my hands into my pockets and just keep walking.

"Peter!"

I don't turn around.

If I do, I might stay.

And I don't know if that would make things better… or worse.

A.S

A.S.

A.S.

The elevator doors opened with a hiss that felt too clean—too routine for the day he'd just lived through. Norman stepped out alone, the silence of the hallway pressing close, almost reverent. He looked every bit the grieving mogul: black suit sharp at the seams, shoulders squared by years of habit, but his eyes… they didn't quite belong to the man who built an empire. Not anymore. They belonged to a man coming undone, piece by piece.

Obadiah Stane was in the ground now. They said he was killed in an accident at Stark Tower. Nothing that had been said made sense to him. Obadiah was many things, but clumsy? No, he was far from it. Stark was renowned for safety above all else. How did Obadiah get sent through a window to his death like that?

It didn't sit right with him.

He reached the tall bone-white doors at the end of the hall, hesitated, and pushed them open with a single hand.

The smell hit first.

Not the rich notes of cedar and old leather that usually clung to the air like cologne, but something else now—burnt ozone and broken drywall, metal dust and the faintest whiff of blood. It was wrong. Everything was wrong.

He stepped in slowly, eyes sweeping the entryway.

Ravaged.

The word settled in his chest like a second heartbeat. Furniture overturned. Marble cracked in spiderweb patterns. The ornate light fixture that once hung over the main staircase now lay shattered, shards glinting faintly in the low amber lighting. One of the suits of armor—French, 15th century, worth more than some condos—was missing its helmet. Another had been driven through with a spear, cracked clean down the chestplate.

Norman didn't speak. He moved through the penthouse like a man walking through the ruins of his own memory. The air was heavy with dust and dread. He passed the wine room—door wrenched open, bottles smashed, deep red stains seeping into the grout. The fireplace had gone cold, the hearth scorched black along one side like something had burned too hot, too fast.

His pace quickened.

By the time he reached the curved stairwell, his fingers were curled tight around the brass railing. Upstairs, the damage only worsened. Paintings slashed. Cabinets broken open. Paper trails left behind like breadcrumbs leading nowhere.

Just as he was about to reach his office, the sound of glass shattering echoed throughout the penthouse.

No…

He rushed forward, and slid to a stop as he saw the door to his office.

It had been kicked in. Wood splintered near the handle, hinges bent like silly putty. He stepped inside slowly, the soles of his shoes crunching against something—glass, maybe, or porcelain. The room was dim, lit only by the flicker of a single monitor. It was his personal computer.

It was left on—a singular still image frozen on the screen.

Stepping closer, Norman's heart dropped as he saw the giant hole in the windows behind the desk. The glass had been broken outward. Not a single shard from it was on the inside of the room.

Whoever, or whatever, had done this… had gone through the window. Perhaps they had heard him coming.

He'd find out one way or another who was behind this, and when he did…

They would pay.

Though, the thought immediately left his mind as he saw the image clearly for the first time. His heart dropped into his stomach.

It was Peter.

Him standing next to Otto during the field trip, when the spider bit him.

A deep sound built in Norman's throat. Not quite a growl. Not quite a groan. It was a noise made by someone too tired to scream and too proud to collapse. He turned from the screen, running a hand down his face. Sweat traced the groove of his temple. His other hand braced against the desk for support.

And that's when he noticed it.

Something drifted past his peripheral vision. A gentle motion—like a snowflake caught in slow gravity. He turned his head, following the movement.

A feather.

It spiraled downward, dancing through the air, caught in the faintest updraft from the broken window.

Large. Iridescent. Green shot through with black. Not the kind of feather you'd find in nature. Not in this part of the world. Not even in this century.

He moved toward it slowly, cautiously. Kneeling, he plucked it from the marble. The barbs were stiff, almost synthetic. Barbed. Like it had once belonged to a creature with no business flying, let alone hunting.

Then the phone rang.

Norman flinched, startled. The feather slipped from his hand.

His phone lit up in his pocket. Unknown number. No name.

He stared at it for a beat too long, then answered.

No greeting.

Just the voice.

Low. Crackling. As if passed through a dying radio.

"I warned you, Norman…"

Norman's grip tightened around the phone. His breath held.

"…we get what we want."

The line went dead.

Nothing. Just the cold, electronic click of finality.

He stood in place, staring out through the broken window at the city that stretched far below. Wind blew in gently now, tugging at the curtain, nudging the broken glass with a soft, crystalline chime.

Behind him, the feather drifted to the floor—silent, final, like a signature scrawled in bloodless ink, and along with it, a name surfaced through the fog of his thoughts…

Walter Hardy.

"No." he huffed, turning his screen back on and dialing Walter's number. "Answer, Walter…" The line continued ringing. "Come on."

Voicemail.

"DAMMIT!"

Arsenal597 · 2025-12-03T23:03:56+0000

I don't know where I'm going exactly, but I do know it's going to be off the street. If Ben is looking for me, I don't want to make it easy for him. So, I scale the building, and rest on a rooftop overlooking the river. I shouldn't have left like that. May's going to be upset with me over it, and I'll need to apologize to Ben for how I acted.

The wind's cooler up here. Not cold, not biting — just enough to take the edge off everything boiling under my skin. I crouch low against the lip of the building, elbows on my knees, watching the water move like it's got somewhere to be. At least one of us does.

The sun's starting to dip behind the skyline, dragging the gold out of the sky and leaving behind a pale gray wash, like the world's being erased one soft stroke at a time. There's a tug in my chest, low and stubborn. I don't know if it's guilt or just gravity, but either way, it's pulling.

I replay the argument again, like I've got a choice. Every word. Every glance. The way Ben looked at me — like he wasn't seeing the kid he raised, but someone he couldn't quite reach anymore.

You could have killed that boy.

Ben's right—I could have.

I'm not even sure what scared me more — that I got that angry, or that part of me didn't feel bad about it. Not right away. Not until after. Not until Ben's voice cracked around the edges.

And even now, thinking about Flash's face — the way it changed when I pinned him down — it makes my stomach twist. It wasn't fear, not really. It was the confusion. The shock. Like I'd flipped a switch inside him, shown him something he didn't expect to see in me.

Maybe I didn't expect it either.

For a second — just a second — I had complete control. He couldn't move. He couldn't fight back. And I knew it. I knew it, and I held him there anyway. Not because I had to. Because I could.

That power... it felt good.

That's the part that really gets me. That's the part that scares the hell out of me. Not the strength. Not the speed. The fact that, deep down, some corner of me liked it.

And Ben saw that, too.

He saw the worst version of me — not in what I did, but in how easily I let it happen. His concerns weren't just valid. They were necessary. He's trying to keep me from becoming someone I don't even want to meet.

I think about Gwen — the way she looked at me after it happened. She didn't flinch. She didn't yell. She just stared. Quiet. Like she was trying to figure out if the guy standing in front of her was the same one she'd walked to class with.

And Harry… Harry looked at me like he didn't recognize who I was anymore.

That hurt more than I want to admit.

Actions have consequences.

Ben's right. Always has been. And I've got to start owning that. Not with half-measures. Not with excuses. If I want to be better — if I want to be him, even in part — I've got to stop pretending I know better.

And just like that… it hits me.

The courtyard—the crowd, Flash holding the kid upside down. I know why it felt so familiar.

"Put him down, EUGENE!"

That's what happened in The Amazing Spider-Man film. Only difference being that unlike Peter, I didn't get hit.

Oh no… Ben.

What the hell am I doing?!

How stupid could I be?!

My phone's in my pocket, and in my panic, I nearly drop it straight off of the rooftop. If I didn't know better, I would just hold off and cool off. I'd go home once I settled down, and would properly apologize.

But I do.

I know how it went down with Ben. The shouting match, walking away from Ben, and then he follows.

I call him.

The ring is short. One and a half, maybe two before I hear his voice.

"Peter?"

My breath catches, but I speak before I can overthink it.

"Where are you?"

"I'm at the convenience store across from Gio's Deli... are you okay?"

"Y-yeah, stay there. I'm on my way," I say.

"Okay," Ben replies.

But something's off. His voice doesn't sound right. There's a hitch in his voice. Like he'd been holding his breath too long, or something was caught in his throat. Was he crying?

No, Ben wouldn't cry.

…Right?

Did I upset him that much?

I stand up, jaw tight, and leap off the building without thinking. The wind hits me like a wake-up call. I land hard on the sidewalk below, the impact rippling through my knees, but my body just absorbs it — fluid, instinctive, like muscle memory I didn't know I had. I roll with it, push off, and break into a run.

I tear through the streets, weaving past late commuters and corner vendors and clusters of people who don't know anything's wrong. And maybe nothing is. Maybe I'm just being paranoid. But there's something gnawing at the back of my skull, deeper than instinct, colder than fear.

It's not my spider-sense.

It's something heavier.

That fight… It feels like an omen now.

I don't know how else to describe it.

Every time Peter got into it with Ben — the real Peter — something bad followed. A slammed door. A missed chance. A goodbye you didn't know was a goodbye.

And the fact that he was talking about responsibility?

God.

It terrifies me.

Because if there's one thing this world seems hellbent on doing, it's making sure Peter Parker learns about responsibility the hard way.

I cut through an alley, feet splashing through puddles without slowing. A siren wails in the distance. A dog barks somewhere behind me. Everything's normal. Everything's fine.

But my chest is tight. My breath won't settle. And every step toward Gio's Deli feels like I'm racing the clock without knowing how much time is left.

By the time I reach Gio's, my chest is burning — not from the sprint, but from something deeper, something I haven't figured out how to name yet. I slow as I reach the corner, footsteps finally catching up to the speed of my thoughts.

Ben's there.

He's standing next to the car, one hand on the roof, the other shoved deep into his coat pocket. He's scanning the street like he's looking for someone — or maybe just hoping to see me.

He looks fine.

Perfectly fine.

The knot in my stomach doesn't let go, but it shifts. Loosens just a little. Like a fist unclenching halfway. My pace slows, just enough to take in the scene around me — cars rolling past, horns honking, the neon deli sign buzzing faintly overhead. A guy with a bag of groceries brushes past me, grumbling about the temperature. Everything feels aggressively normal.

I cross the intersection.

Ben spots me. His head turns, and his eyes lock onto mine. I see his shoulders rise with a breath — maybe relief. Maybe something else.

"Peter?"

I don't answer.

I just walk up to him and wrap my arms around him — tight, sudden, like if I let go, he might vanish. My face presses into the side of his jacket, the fabric rough against my cheek. He smells like coffee and aftershave and that clean warmth that clings to him like old flannel.

"Peter?" he says again, more gently this time.

"I'm sorry, Ben… I'm so sorry…" My voice nearly breaks, thin and shaking. "I shouldn't have walked away like that."

There's a pause. Then I feel his hand settle on the back of my head — steady, warm, reassuring in a way words never could be. He doesn't say anything at first — just pulls me in tighter, like he knows I need a minute to fall apart quietly.

"It's okay, kiddo," he finally murmurs. "I'm not going anywhere. C'mon — let's get in the car. We'll go home."

He opens the passenger door.

But I don't get in.

Not yet.

I stop just short of the seat, one hand gripping the top of the doorframe, the other still clenched at my side. The spider-sense is buzzing again. Louder this time. Not sharp. Not a jolt. Just a steady hum, like a power line overhead — constant, low, unsettling.

I glance up at the rooftops across the street. Scan the alley beside the deli. Traffic's light, pedestrian flow even lighter. There's nothing.

But it's not nothing.

The buzzing gets stronger. Like a warning that's stopped being polite.

And then — faint, almost too faint to trust — I swear I hear it.

Not birds. Not bats.

Something bigger.

Something heavier.

A low, almost leathery flapping, caught between wind and whisper, gone before I can even locate where it came from.

My head snaps toward the alley. Still nothing. Just a crumpled soda can and a trash bin with the lid blown halfway off. A breeze drifts through, innocent as ever.

"Peter?" Ben says, voice closer now. "You okay?"

I glance at him.

He's looking at me, really looking, concern etched deep into the corners of his face. He doesn't know what I'm sensing — doesn't feel it — and I don't want to scare him unless there's a reason.

I swallow the urge to look over my shoulder again.

"I'm not in the right headspace," I say quietly. "I just… I just want to go home."

He nods, not pushing the matter—he just steps back and gives me room.

"Alright."

I climb in, trying to act normal, like I didn't just hear phantom wings. Like my instincts aren't trying to claw their way out of my spine.

The door closes beside me with a heavy thunk, sealing in the familiar. Inside, the car smells the same as always — faint hints of May's perfume baked into the seats, the lingering scent of Ben's coffee, the plastic vanilla of some half-dead air freshener clipped to the vent. It should calm me.

It doesn't.

Ben gets in on the driver's side, starts the engine, and casts one more look in my direction before pulling out onto the road.

As we ease into the street, I glance out the window again. The sidewalk. The alley. The rooftops overhead.

Still nothing.

Still too quiet.

Was it just my imagination?

Or worse — was it real, and I missed it?

But the weight in my chest doesn't disappear… and that buzz in the back of my skull? It hasn't stopped since I made the call.

And now… it's getting worse.

The drive home is quiet. Not awkward, not tense — just… still. Like the kind of hush right before thunder rolls in. The sky's bruising overhead, clouds bunching like fists, and the trees lining the sidewalk are beginning to sway with that weird pre-storm energy, all twitchy and unsure.

Ben pulls into the driveway like always — slow, deliberate — but he doesn't kill the engine. Doesn't even reach for the door.

Instead, he glances at me.

"Peter," he says, voice low but steady, "what was that back there?"

I turn just slightly.

"Where?"

"How about we start with the deli?" he asks, that calm tone carrying weight now. Not pressure. Just expectation.

I hesitate. My hand lingers near the door handle, but I don't pull it.

"What about it?"

"You froze," Ben says. "Like something was wrong. You were scanning the rooftops like you were being followed."

I exhale through my nose, staring out the windshield as a gust of wind sweeps a small flurry of leaves across the street. The air feels wrong — too warm, too tense. That strange electricity before a storm breaks.

"I thought I heard something," I mutter.

"What kind of something?"

"Wings." It sounds ridiculous even to me. But I can't shake it.

Ben doesn't say anything at first. Just lets that word hang in the cabin like the humidity creeping in through the vents.

"I didn't see anything," I add, trying to ground it. "It could've been nothing. Could've been a bird."

"You think a bird set off your spider-sense?"

I glance at him.

"No, that's the thing. It's been going off since I called you. When I was about to get in the car… it spiked."

There's more silence, but it feels a bit different now. Ben's not brushing me off. He's listening — and not just to my words, but the way they're trembling.

The wind picks up again, whistling faintly through the cracks of the windows. Somewhere in the distance, thunder rumbles — soft, but enough to make the moment feel heavier than it already was.

Ben shifts in his seat, turns his body slightly toward me.

"So what are you thinking?"

I scan the street again. The porch light flickers. A man on a bike speeds up, glancing up at the sky like he's hoping to outrun the rain. Everything looks normal. But it feels like a fuse was lit and no one can see the smoke.

"I don't know, that's the problem…" I say quietly. I've only felt my spider sense go off like this once before, and it was that day in the lobby of Harry and Norman's building—when I saw that guy watching us.

Ben takes it in, jaw tightening subtly. Then he reaches over, hand resting briefly on my shoulder.

"Alright," he says. "Let's get inside before the sky opens up. May'll have dinner waiting."

I nod, but I still don't move. That buzz in my head? It's louder now. Like a tuning fork pressed to my spine.

I glance up — swear I hear something in the distance. A flapping sound. Too fast for a bird. Too slow for a chopper.

Again, I just hope that it's my imagination and head inside as the first drops of rain start hitting the ground.

Dinner goes by fast. Too fast. May made something warm — chicken casserole, maybe, or at least something with that kind of effort behind it — but I barely tasted it. It wasn't bad. It just wasn't what my brain was focused on. Ben and May ask what I was thinking at school, what happened, how I could be so reckless. And I explain myself. I tell them Flash started it, I tell them I didn't hurt him — not really — and that I just lost my temper. They hear me. But I don't think they hear me.

Because truthfully, I'm not really hearing myself either.

My head won't stop buzzing. It's like someone left an old TV on in another room — low volume, high pitch — just enough to keep you on edge without knowing why. It's not panic. Not fear. Just that steady, hollow static that makes everything feel off, like I'm leaning too far forward and gravity hasn't noticed yet.

I go to my room once dinner's done. Close the door quietly. I get a text from Harry a minute later.

What was that all about? Never seen you like that before.

I stare at it for a second, thumb hovering over the screen.

I was angry, and let him get to me. I'm sorry.

There's a beat before I put the phone down. I glance at the rain outside — it's getting heavier. Thick streaks hitting the window like the sky's trying to tell me something in Morse code.

I grab my backpack, unzip it, and start flipping through the leftover assignments I still haven't caught up on. A history worksheet. Two biology chapters. Something for English that I probably should've read last week. I'm not even behind because I've been lazy — I'm behind because everything's been too much. Too loud. Too fast. Even before today.

A buzz. New text.

Hey, heard what happened. Stopped and grabbed your work.

MJ. Of course.

I laugh a little. Just a breath through the nose.

"Thanks, MJ," I mutter to myself like she can hear me through the phone. "Like I didn't just catch up."

I set the phone down, rub the bridge of my nose, and blink through the dull throb behind my eyes. The buzzing in my skull's been steady all evening, but now it's pressing in like a headache trying to become something else. I don't even know how to describe it anymore. It's like a warning, but it's not saying what I'm supposed to be afraid of. Just that something is off.

I throw on my jacket, pull the hood up halfway, and head downstairs. Ben and May are in the living room — TV's on, something about the weather. Local station warning that the storm's intensifying. Thunderstorms. Heavy winds. Could push sixty miles per hour by midnight.

"I'm heading to MJ's," I say as I tug on my sneakers. "She grabbed my homework for me."

May leans around the armrest.

"Be careful, honey. Winds are supposed to pick up fast tonight. You hear?"

"I will," I tell her, smiling a little to sell it. "I'll be right back."

The porch is slick with rain. I pull my jacket tighter and make the walk through the yard to the Watsons' house. It's not far, but the wind's already starting to cut. Trees lean a little harder with every gust. The streetlights flicker overhead like they're thinking about giving up for the night. One or two already have.

I knock on the Watsons' door. MJ answers after a second or two, hoodie pulled over a messy bun. The smell of popcorn sneaks out around her — must've been movie night.

"Hey," she says, brow lifted. "You made it through the apocalypse."

"Barely," I say, stepping inside as she waves me in. "Thanks for grabbing the work."

She shrugs.

"Didn't want you falling even further behind. Not that it matters — you'll have plenty of time to catch up in detention."

I groan and flop onto the edge of their couch.

"Yeah. Three weeks. After school. Every day."

MJ grins, tossing me the folder of assignments.

"They should make a show about you. 'Nerd Gone Rogue.'"

"Sounds dirty," I wiggle my eyebrows at her playfully. She laughs as I thumb through the papers. "Half this isn't even due until next Friday. Ms. Warren's just punishing me out of principle."

"You did slam Flash Thompson onto a table."

"Don't mention it," I roll my eyes.

Outside, the wind howls a little louder now, rattling the front windows. The lights flicker — just once — but it's enough to make both of us glance toward the ceiling.

"So, what happened?" MJ asks, arms crossed loosely as she leans in the doorway. She motions to the chair on the porch, the one closest to the steps. It's still dry — barely — shielded just enough from the rain by the overhang.

I nod, sighing quietly, and sit down in it.

The rain is coming down steady now, not quite torrential but definitely not messing around. It paints the street in a blur of orange light and shadow, every car's reflection rippling across the pavement like the road's remembering all the people who've passed through. It smells like wet concrete and tree bark, and I realize — without even thinking — that I like that smell. Or maybe I just like having something else to focus on.

"He was bullying a kid," I say, folding my hands in my lap, "and it set me off."

MJ doesn't interrupt. Just leans against the porch railing, one hand braced on the beam beside her, like she knows I'm not done.

"I can usually handle being the target," I go on, eyes fixed on the rain sliding off the gutter above us. "But I can't stand it when I see other people getting treated like that. Especially when they can't do anything about it."

"I'm sorry," she says softly.

"Don't be," I reply too quickly. Sharper than I meant. I catch myself and ease my tone. "I wasn't in a good mood anyway. Flash and I… we actually talked this morning. Like, properly talked. And I guess I was still carrying it."

She tilts her head a bit, curious.

"Talked about what?"

I glance over at her, and she meets my look without blinking.

"Him bullying me," I say, watching her reaction.

"What?" MJ scoffs, eyebrows shooting up in disbelief. "Flash? Talked to you about bullying you? What — did he finally grow a conscience, or was he trying out a new strategy?"

A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth despite everything.

"Bit of both, I think. He was awkward about it… gave a half-assed apology that didn't mean much—but he still apologized."

MJ shifts her weight, moving a bit closer, hands stuffed in the pocket of her hoodie now.

"That's… honestly kind of surprising."

"Tell me about it," I murmur, leaning back against the chair. "I think it messed with my head more than anything."

She doesn't respond right away. Just nods a little, watching me carefully like she's still trying to figure out where I am in all this.

"I think I scared him today," I admit after a moment. "Not during the fight — I mean, maybe then too — but after. When we were sitting in the office together. He looked at me like I was someone else."

MJ frowns gently.

"Is that what's bothering you?"

I shrug.

"Part of it."

She takes a breath, maybe debating something, then finally sits down on the other chair across from me — this one a little wetter, but she doesn't seem to care. Her hair's already starting to frizz from the humidity anyway.

"You've changed," she says plainly. "Since the coma. Since… everything. And yeah, maybe people don't get you the way they used to. But that doesn't mean it's a bad thing."

"I know," I say. "But it feels like I took a wrong turn somewhere and now everyone's staring like they're waiting for me to find my way back."

She leans forward slightly, elbows on her knees, chin propped in her hand.

"Maybe they're not waiting for you to go back. Maybe they're just trying to figure out who you're becoming."

Her words settle into me, soft and slow, like rain soaking into concrete.

The wind picks up again — loud enough to make the porch boards rattle under us. Somewhere down the block, a trash can topples over, its lid clattering like a cymbal in the dark. Underneath it all — under the quiet conversation and the hum of the streetlights and the patter of rain — my spider sense is still buzzing like a mosquito in the back of my skull that won't shut up.

"Ben said something along those lines… and honestly, the thing I hate the most about all of this is that I disappointed him and May."

MJ squints at me, her expression shifting — from that casual warmth she always wears around me to something edged in worry. I can see it in her eyes before she even says anything.

"Are you okay?" she asks, quieter now. "You look kind of… off. Like you're about to pass out."

I try to brush it off. I sit up straighter, drag in a breath that's supposed to be steady, and say, "I'm alright."

But the words feel slow. Heavy. Like they have to wade through mud just to reach my mouth.

She doesn't buy it. MJ leans forward, brow furrowing. She squints a little closer, like maybe there's something she's missing — something she can't quite name yet. Her hand lifts, and before I can even flinch or move or give another bad excuse, she presses the back of her fingers against my forehead.

They're cool. Instantly cool. Her skin against mine feels like the first gust of air conditioning on a hot summer day.

Her face tightens.

"Pete… you're burning up."

That gets through. The tone in her voice, not scared but serious — no-nonsense, MJ-mode serious. That's the one that always used to snap me out of whatever spiral I was stuck in during science class. And it cuts through the fog I hadn't even realized I'd sunken into.

I blink. My eyelids are heavy. And now that she's said it, yeah — I do feel hot. Not just sweaty-from-the-humidity hot, but fever-hot. My skin's prickling like static, and my head feels like someone's holding a tuning fork to the base of my skull and refusing to stop.

I rub the heel of my hand against my temple.

"It's probably just the weather," I say, already regretting how stupid that sounds.

MJ gives me the look. The one that says, really? Without even needing to say it.

"You think rain gives you a fever?"

"Okay, yeah, that's dumb," I admit, exhaling a slow, shaky breath. "I don't know what it is. I've just been… off."

She leans back slightly but keeps her eyes on me like I might fall out of the chair if she blinks.

"Like dizzy-off? Or flu-off? Alien parasite? Because you've looked better, no offense."

That pulls a small laugh out of me. Not much, but enough to ease the tension for half a second.

"It's not an alien. I think I'd know if something crawled into my chest."

"Not if it was really polite about it," she says, deadpan. "Sneaky little guy. Real gentleman. Leaves a thank-you note."

"You're ridiculous," I mutter, smiling faintly despite how I feel.

She lets it sit a beat, watching me closely. Then: "Okay. But seriously — what's going on?"

I hesitate. The spider-sense is still going, a constant low drone now, like the whole city's vibrating and I'm the only one tuned into the frequency. My hands feel clammy. My pulse is way too fast for someone just sitting on a porch talking.

"I don't know," I say truthfully. "It started earlier. Ever since Ben laid into me at school, I've had this killer headache. I mean, I had a moment, right? I walked away. I was rude. I blew up. I regretted it. I called him back. We talked it out. Everything should've been fine."

"But it's not," she nods.

"I knew I'd get a headache if I didn't walk away and cool off, so that's why I did it. But, my head is killing me."

She leans forward again, this time slower, her brow drawn together like she's studying a painting that doesn't quite make sense.

"Pete… that's not just a headache. You look like you're about to keel over."

I shake my head, even though it feels like my brain's sloshing a half-second behind the movement.

"I think it's just stress. School, the detention, the fight—everything's been a lot."

She doesn't argue right away. Just presses her lips together and watches me like she's weighing the odds of calling May to come pick me up. And maybe she should. Maybe I should offer that. But part of me—stupid, stubborn, still not great at asking for help—wants to pretend I'm fine.

That part of me is getting quieter, though. Easier to ignore.

"I don't think this is stress," she says softly. "I mean, sure, you've got stuff going on. But I've seen you stressed. You don't get clammy. And you don't zone out like this."

I glance at her, then at the storm beyond the porch. The wind's howling again, rattling the glass in the door behind her, and the rain's coming in harder now. There's a flicker in the streetlight, a low hum from the power lines. The world feels… thinner, somehow. Like the night's wearing a mask and waiting for the moment to peel it off.

My spider-sense pulses again, sharp enough this time that I wince.

"Pete?"

I lean forward, elbows braced on my knees, palms rubbing at my eyes. My head feels like something's trying to crawl out of it. What the hell is happening?

"It hurts," I groan, nearly falling out of the chair. She tries to catch me, but I hold up a shaky hand, breathing shallowly. My vision's swimming. The porch light's suddenly too bright, the air too thick. Every gust of wind sounds like it's whispering something I can't quite make out.

MJ's voice cuts through it, faint but urgent.

"Peter? Hey. Talk to me—what's wrong?"

I can't answer. I can barely stay upright. My legs buckle, and the next thing I know, I'm on the porch floor. The boards are cold and wet beneath my palms, and I press into them like they're the only thing anchoring me here.

The world spins. Then jerks. Then slows.

"Peter—Peter, look at me—!"

Her voice echoes now, stretched out and distant, like it's bouncing through a tunnel. I lift my head—barely—and the rain seems to freeze mid-air. Every drop hangs like a bead of glass suspended in blue.

Everything's blue.

A deep, hollow navy that swallows the color out of the world. The porch, the sky, the street, even MJ—it all melts into the same surreal twilight shade, like time's lost track of itself.

But the Parker house?

It glows. A dim, red outline pulses against the dark, like heat radiating off pavement in the dead of summer.

And in my room—my room—I see it.

Something is standing there.

The silhouette is wrong. Too tall, too wide in the shoulders. It's draped in something—fur, feathers, maybe both. The texture moves when it walks, not swaying like cloth, but twitching, shifting, breathing. It paces toward the bedroom doorway with a slow, deliberate gait. The way it moves…

It's not human.

I try to crawl. To push myself upright. My fingers dig into the floorboards, but my arms shake under my weight. I can barely lift my chest. My legs are worse—stiff, leaden, like they've forgotten what they're for.

The thing turns its head.

Like it was waiting.

And then it bolts. Out of sight. Down the stairs. Straight toward—

A scream rips through the haze.

Faint. But real.

"—May—"

It barely escapes my throat, but it shatters the trance.

The buzzing cuts out like someone hit a switch. The pain vanishes. My body snaps back to life like it's been yanked upright by a cable.

And suddenly, I'm on my feet.

"NO!"

MJ stumbles back as I surge toward her, frantic, eyes wide, every part of me running on something I don't understand.

"MJ—call the cops, now!"

"What?!"

"JUST DO IT!"

I don't wait. I turn and launch over the porch railing—my sneakers hit the grass once before I leap again, clearing the gap between our yards in a single bound. I hit the Parker porch hard, shoulder-first against the front door. It flies open with a crack—

And I rush inside.

The front door slams behind me with a hollow, final thud. I twist the lock. I don't even think about it. MJ's outside. She can't see this. She can't come in here, because if she saw what was in here, I don't think she'd ever sleep again.

Because the thing in front of me?

This isn't something people just walk away from.

It's hunched over, talons digging into the hardwood like spears through paper. Blood's dripping from the tips, long and thin like ink sliding off a fountain pen. Not its blood.

Ben's.

He's lying motionless on the floor, a trail of red smeared down one side of his face, like someone used him as a paintbrush. May's against the far wall—trapped. Pale. Her hands are shaking.

And standing above Ben—

I don't know what the hell it is.

It's tall. Easily six-foot-three. Maybe more with the way its wings rise and stretch across the living room ceiling, brushing the light fixture like they don't even notice it's there. It looks human, technically—arms, legs, a torso—but everything about the proportions is wrong. Skin pulled tight over bones that feel more… reptilian. Talons where there should be toes. Claws that don't look grafted, but grown. Black feathers line its arms and back, dirty and wet and twitching with every movement.

It's like someone tried to splice a human with a buzzard, then left the experiment half-finished in a vat of something radioactive.

Its face is the worst part.

Sunken cheeks, stretched gray skin, a mouth too wide with fangs too long. Red eyes. Not glowing. Not burning. Just red—flat and endless like staring into fresh blood beneath a microscope.

And it leans down—

Right over Ben—

And licks the blood from his forehead.

"Delicious… but you're not who I'm here for," it hisses, voice like gravel and mucus and rotting meat all fused into one.

I don't even know when my fists clenched. It just happens. Like my body's trying to throw a punch before my brain can process the threat. Like instinct's the only thing left that hasn't shut down in horror.

I whistle—short, sharp. My voice wouldn't have worked, but the sound cuts through the air like a switchblade.

It turns.

Slowly. Wings flaring, shoulders rising. Eyes locking onto mine with a look of elated recognition.

"Ah… there you are."

My throat tightens.

May gasps—"Peter!"—but I don't take my eyes off it. I don't move. I don't blink.

I say the only thing I can think of.

"Get away from my uncle…" The words come out quieter than I meant. Thin. Frail. I feel them crack halfway out of my throat. I'm not even sure the thing heard me. But it stops and tilts its head.

It was this. This is what my spider-sense was screaming about all day. The static in the back of my skull, the pulsing behind my eyes—this was it.

And I ignored it.

Because what was I gonna do, huh? Prepare for this?

Ben's chest rises shallowly. I only catch it because I'm staring now. Because I need to know. That small, rattling breath—it's enough to keep me standing.

He's not dead.

"May," I croak, forcing my voice past the fear. "Get out of here."

She doesn't move.

Her hands are still raised like she's trying to shield herself, like she doesn't even register I'm speaking. Just keeps staring at the creature like if she breaks eye contact, it'll pounce.

I take a step forward, slow.

My heart is slamming against my ribs now, fast and frantic like a trapped bird. I can't tell if it's the adrenaline or the absolute terror trying to rip its way out.

The glow from the television flickers behind the creature. Static snow washes across the screen and casts everything in a stuttering blue-and-white shimmer. It makes the blood on its hands glisten. Makes the smile across its face move like it's twitching.

It hums, low and pleased, like it's tasting a favorite song while watching me fall apart.

Despite everything I'm feeling, I take another step forward, as every muscle in my body screaming that this is suicide.

My knees wobble. My breath catches. If I close my eyes, I think I'll scream.

If I don't do something, who will? But the question remains…

What the hell am I supposed to do against this thing?

The creature takes one step closer, and says through bloodied teeth:

"Where… is the spider?"

My eyes widen. It actually knows about the spider? What the hell is going on? Wait… is this what Norman was worried about? What in the actual hell did I get thrown into?

Man up, Parker… now's not the time to be a little bitch… I think to myself, trying to steel my nerves. You wanted to be a hero? You want to be Spider-Man? It's time to prove it…

"Why don't you come here and find out?" I growl, and just like that… the Vulture smiles maliciously and launches toward me.

A.S.

A.S.

A.S.

She should've run when he told her to.

But her knees wouldn't move.

May Parker stood frozen against the wall, her back pressed to cold plaster as though the house itself was trying to push her out—to shove her anywhere else. The flickering light from the television cast shadows that didn't belong to the people she loved. The blood was real. The sound was real. But the thing standing in her living room—towering over her husband like something dredged up from a forgotten nightmare—

It couldn't be real.

And yet—

Ben wasn't moving.

He was breathing—barely.

Shallow and faint, but she saw it. She had to see it.

The red smeared across his temple hadn't grown. But God, there was so much of it.

And the creature?

It had spoken.

"Where… is the spider?"

And Peter—her sweet, awkward, endlessly curious boy—hadn't flinched.

Not this time.

His voice cracked, yes, but his feet had stayed planted like roots.

Like defiance had finally taken shape inside him and refused to back down.

"Why don't you come here and find out?"

Then it moved.

Too fast.

Far too fast.

The creature exploded forward, wings snapping open, black feathers slicing through the air like knives in a blender. The sound was wrong—part shriek, part fabric ripping, part screaming metal. The hardwood groaned and splintered beneath its talons.

"PETER!" May screamed, and it came from somewhere deeper than her lungs—raw and breaking and desperate.

Everything after that happened in blurs.

One second the creature was lunging—jaws open, claws wide—

The next—

Peter spun over the wings.

He moved like liquid—like something weightless and driven by panic and instinct, vaulting over the beast's back in a motion that made no sense for a fourteen-year-old boy. His hands clamped down on one of the creature's wings mid-flip, and with a snarl, he yanked.

The whole thing came down like a bird hit mid-flight.

It crashed into the floorboards with a sickening, snapping thud, feathers and limbs flailing as Peter rode it down, slamming it with enough force to shatter the coffee table beneath them.

How was he able to do that?

How did Peter know how to do that?

May didn't even realize she was moving until she hit the floor beside Ben, dragging herself across broken glass and splinters on her knees. She covered his body with her own, shielding his chest with trembling arms.

"Please—please, no—Ben, just stay with me—"

But she could barely hear herself over the chaos.

Peter and the creature tore through the house like a hurricane made of teeth and claws and fury.

A lamp exploded across the wall.

The couch launched sideways into the TV.

Bookshelves collapsed, glass shattered, picture frames cracked open like eggs.

May could only watch, choking back a sob, as Peter was thrown through the archway into the kitchen.

He hit the counter hard enough to snap one of the drawers clean off. His body crumpled to the tile floor—but only for a second.

The creature shrieked and launched after him, wings snapping like whips, claws carving chunks out of the hallway ceiling. Its shape blurred in motion—a black shadow darting past faster than May's eyes could keep up with.

Then came the scream.

Peter's voice.

Raw. Pain-filled.

The creature laughed.

Low. Mocking. Inhuman.

The kitchen lights flickered. Once. Twice.

Then on the third blink—blood.

A splash across the front of the refrigerator, high up.

Too high to be Ben's.

Too fresh to be from before.

May covered her mouth with both hands. Her breath hitched. Her body locked up, trembling so violently she nearly collapsed across Ben again.

"Please… please…" she whispered. "Not my boy…"

But then—

Peter leapt into view.

He wasn't on the floor anymore.

He was on the wall.

Clinging to it like a spider.

His feet gripped the vertical surface like it was flat ground. One arm was pressed above him, anchoring, and the other dangled a jagged shard of something—a broken chair leg? No. A piece of the old table, splintered into a brutal club.

His face had three fresh slashes across it, deep and red, cutting from his temple down across his cheek. Blood ran freely, but he wasn't focused on that.

He was grinning.

"Is that all you got, bird-brain?!" he barked, his voice riding the edge between fury and adrenaline.

The creature lunged again—hissing.

Peter dropped down with it—swinging.

The table leg connected with a sickening CRACK, straight across the thing's jaw, sending it flying back through the wall like a wrecking ball. Sheetrock exploded in chunks. Wood split. A painting snapped in two as the creature vanished from view.

"YOU KNOW HOW MUCH THAT COST, YOU FEATHERED FREAK?!" Peter roared, staggering slightly but already pulling another piece of furniture loose from the wreckage like he was gearing up for round two.

May could only watch as her boy—her child—faced down something that had no business existing.

And somehow… was holding his own.

"BEN!"

May clutched at his shoulders, fingers slippery with blood.

"Ben, please—wake up! BEN!"

Nothing.

Not a twitch or a sound. Just that too-shallow rise and fall of his chest, like his lungs were deciding whether or not they still wanted to work.

A lamp exploded somewhere behind her.

May flinched, shielding Ben instinctively—even though she knew it wouldn't matter. Nothing would matter if that thing turned back on them. But her hands moved anyway. A mother's reflex. A wife's hope.

She looked up—just in time to see Peter swinging that same broken table leg gripped tight in his bloodied hand again.

He roared and brought it down hard—straight at the Vulture's chest.

The thing caught it.

Caught it.

With one clawed, twisted hand that crunched around the wood like it was dry spaghetti. Peter's face went slack for half a second—just enough time for the Vulture to backhand him with the other.

May didn't even have time to scream before Peter flew past her.

CRASH.

He hit the floor hard, skidding like a bowling ball across glass, then slammed shoulder-first into the stairs.

"PETER!"

He gasped—but it sounded like it was being ripped out of him. He rolled once, twice, then somehow managed to land on his feet halfway up the staircase. Blood trailed behind him, splattered in streaks across the steps.

She could see him sway.

His knees bent.

He looked up—

—and the Vulture was already there.

A blur of wings. A shriek like metal and madness.

His hand reached for the stair rail—fingers brushing splinters—then the Vulture yanked, and he vanished into the dark upstairs hallway.

May's scream tore out of her throat like it had claws.

"BEN! WAKE UP! BEN!"

She shook him, sobbing now, both hands fisted into his shirt. "PETER'S—HE'S—OH GOD, BEN, PLEASE—"

The ceiling above them rumbled.

Something heavy slammed against the floor overhead. The lightbulb in the hallway burst, sending sparks down like fireflies. A thump. Then another. Then something growled.

May's whole body shook.

"I don't know what to do," she whispered. "I don't know what to do, I don't know what to do—"

Another crash.

This one made the wall beside her crack.

She clung to Ben like a lifeline. She didn't care that she was getting blood in her hair, or her shirt, or on her skin. She didn't care that her legs were numb or that her voice was going hoarse. All she could do was rock him gently, one hand tangled in his collar, the other trying to shield his chest.

Somewhere upstairs, Peter screamed again.

It didn't sound like fear this time.

It sounded like war.

"B-Ben…" she whimpered, her voice barely holding shape. Her fingers curled tighter in his shirt like she could anchor the world with just that small grip.

Then—

A sound.

A breath.

Ben groaned, faint and rough, like his lungs were waking from a cave-in. His head tilted slightly, eyes fluttering under bruised lids. Not fully conscious. Not really aware. But alive.

"Ben?" May gasped, eyes wide, her hands moving instantly to cradle his face.

"Hey—hey, baby, look at me. You're okay, you're okay, just stay with me, please—"

His lips parted like he wanted to speak, but nothing came out except a low, broken sound. She held her breath, heart hammering in her ribs, too terrified to cry, too hopeful not to.

Then came a scream from upstairs—a blood chilling, guttural, inhuman scream. It tore through the house like it could shred the walls, vibrate the floors beneath them, and shake the air out of her lungs.

May went still.

Ben stirred again, but she couldn't look down.

She could only stare upward, wide-eyed, trembling.

Because that sound…

That wasn't Peter.

My back slammed against the wall with enough force to crack it.

Then came the hand.

Clawed. Bone-white. Fingers like knives wrapped in sinew.

It closed around my throat and lifted me off the ground like I weighed nothing. I kicked. I clawed. My fingers scraped at his wrist, but it was like trying to bend a streetlamp. The air in my lungs vanished in one horrible instant, and all I could do was choke and watch the ceiling tremble above me.

Blood sprayed between my teeth as I pulled the jagged chunk of wood from his shoulder—what was left of my desk leg, maybe? A piece of the closet? Everything had blurred into chaos.

He didn't scream or flinch. He just looked at me with those eyes—those dark and bottomless eyes—and smiled.

"You're fun, boy…" he hissed, breath rancid and hot against my face.

"Oh thanks," I rasped, voice barely audible through the pressure on my windpipe. "Glad I could help…"

My vision pulsed. My lungs burned. And still—still—I kept trying to twist free, even as my arms turned to jelly.

Then he leaned in closer.

Too close.

His tongue—wet and cracked and inhuman—dragged itself across one of the gashes on my cheek. My entire body locked up.

The scream got caught in my chest.

His smile widened.

"Your blood…" he said slowly, like he was savoring each word. "There's something wrong with it."

I gagged.

"Y-yeah. It's m-meant to be inside me…"

He dropped me like trash.

My ribs hit the floor first, taking what little bit of air I had left right out of me.

Before I could crawl away, his foot came down hard between my shoulder blades, pinning me flat to the floor like a bug. I shouted—at least I think I did—but it came out as more of a broken whine. My whole body ached. My head was pounding. Every inhale felt like it had to squeeze past shards of glass.

"Your jokes," the creature growled, "are getting annoying."

Cool.

Good to know they were working.

"I'll give you one chance," he continued, his weight grinding into my spine, "to tell me where the spider is."

My hands clawed at the floor.

I could barely move, but my mouth?

My mouth still worked.

I chuckled—weak and breathless, borderline delusional—but it was something.

"I'm g-gonna need… more than that if I'm supposed to help y-you…"

That made him snarl.

"THE SPIDER FROM OSCORP!"

"Ohhhh," I coughed, dragging the word out like I'd just remembered I left the oven on. "That spider…"

I gave him my best innocent voice, which at this point sounded like a raccoon being strangled in a blender.

"Sorry. Don't know. Hope you find it though. Really pulling for you, buddy."

He didn't laugh.

He didn't even move.

Just stood there a second, foot on my back, breathing hard through something that almost sounded like glee. Then, softly, like it was a prayer:

"I gave you your chance…" he whispered, "Now I feast."

My blood turned to ice.

"No—wait!" I shouted, panic rising like floodwater.

He flipped me onto my back with one hand. My ribs screamed.

I scrambled to push away—but he was already crouched above me, hand reaching for my chest like he was about to tear it open and see what kind of filling I had.

"I'M NOTHING BUT GRISTLE!" I yelped, grabbing at his arms. "NO FLAVOR—PEOPLE SAY I TASTE TERRIBLE—GO ASK ANYBODY—!"

He lifted me again—and this time, he threw.

Hard.

I hit the doorframe shoulder-first, bounced off it like a ragdoll, and exploded out into the hallway. Every step of the impact scraped more skin, cracked more something, and by the time I landed, I didn't know which part of me had screamed first.

I didn't have time to think.

I staggered to my feet—

—and then he was on me again.

One swipe of his wing and I was airborne.

I went through the stairwell like a cannonball—bones, wood, support beams all crashing down behind me. The stairs collapsed under me in an avalanche of splinters and support beams, and then—

Darkness.

Pain.

Silence.

At least, for a second.

Because then I heard him coming again.

Step by step.

Wings dragging.

And all I could think was:

I can't win this.

I'm not Spider-Man.

Sorry, Peter… I, uh… I don't think I'm going to be able to keep that promise. But hey, at least I went down swinging, right?

R-right?

As I laid there, unable to move, Vulture landed in front of what used to be the stairs like a bomb. He rose, lumbering over me like a tower, blood dripping from his teeth like a vampire.

So, this is it huh? Not sure it's better than suffocating in a car crash, but I get to go out on my own terms. I went down fighting. That's more than most can say.

My eyes flutter closed, and as the darkness begins to take me, I hear it…

"Stay away from my son!"

No.

No, no, no, no…

Just through the cracks in the debris, I could see May standing there, holding a knife…

"M-May…" barely escapes my lips. I don't have any strength left to give. Peter… how did you do this? You would find some way to get up, to get to your feet, and save her. I don't know what I'm supposed to do…

A.S.

A.S.

A.S.

Everything hurt. Not just the kind of hurt that came with bruises or broken ribs, but the kind that sat behind his eyes and pulsed with every heartbeat, the kind that told him something had gone terribly wrong, and he was still here to feel it.

Ben Parker groaned, rolling onto his side with a grunt that tasted like copper. The world spun. Every inch of him felt wrong—tight, shaking, unresponsive. He blinked against the blinding pulse behind his forehead and tried to focus, but all he saw was wreckage: shattered glass, broken furniture, blood on the floor. Too much blood.

God, please—let it not be Peter's.

Then he heard her voice. It cut through the fog like a blade.

"Stay away from my son!"

Ben's heart seized. No. No, not her. He forced himself to move, to drag his elbow beneath him, to rise even a little, but his body screamed at him to stop. His chest was burning, his limbs trembling under their own weight, but his eyes locked forward, through the mess, and there she was—May. Standing between that thing and Peter, shoulders squared, a kitchen knife clutched tight in her trembling grip.

She didn't look afraid.

She looked furious.

Protective.

Terrified and resolute, all at once.

The Vulture turned to her with that same slow, deliberate amusement, head tilting, wings stretching like something ancient.

"And what," he asked, voice like gravel and wet leaves, "do you expect that to do?" His laugh came in a low rasp, teeth catching the light, black and glinting.

"It'll certainly help me get your flesh out of my teeth once I'm done with you."

Ben's hands clawed at the ground. He shouted something—he didn't even know what—but no sound came. Just breathe. Just pain. May stepped forward. Just half a pace. The knife was shaking in her hand now.

Then she was lifted.

Just like that.

Feet off the ground. Her body snapped upward like a puppet on a string, the blade clattering to the floor with a soft, pitiful sound.

Ben's vision focused in that one second of horrible, perfect clarity.

The Vulture's talons had gone through her—straight through her chest, clean out the back.

Her sweater turned red, deep and immediate, like someone had spilled ink down the front of her.

And she didn't scream.

She only gasped—one short breath that didn't finish.

Ben couldn't move. He couldn't even breathe. All the pain in his body faded into the background like it didn't matter anymore, because this was something he couldn't survive—not in here, not in his head, not for the rest of his life.

And when he finally found his voice again, it came out ragged and broken and far too late.

"MAY!"

Arsenal597 · 2025-12-03T23:06:58+0000

Pain hit first—white-hot and total, blooming from somewhere behind my ribs and spreading like shrapnel through my chest. My body didn't feel like a body anymore. It felt like the aftermath of something—rubble and nerves and glass splinters embedded in meat. I couldn't tell where the ceiling ended and the floor began. Couldn't remember how long I'd been lying here. I only knew I wasn't dead yet.

Then I heard it.

Ben's voice, crackling through the air like lightning.

"MAY!"

And everything came back.

All at once.

My eyes snapped open just in time to see the claws retracting from her chest.

No.

No no no no—

She wasn't moving. She wasn't fighting. She wasn't even screaming.

The Vulture stood in the middle of the wreckage with her body still impaled, as though she weighed nothing. Her arms dangled like broken branches, and her head lolled back at an angle that didn't make sense, hair falling like a curtain around her face. Her sweater—her favorite soft purple one—was stained deep red from chest to hem, the blood already seeping into the floor beneath her feet.

Then he let her go.

Just opened his hand.

And May hit the wall.

Hard.

The sound of it echoed in my skull. The crack of bone. The dull, final thud of her body hitting the floor. Her eyes were closed now. Peaceful. Like she was sleeping.

Except she wasn't.

She wasn't.

My lungs seized. My chest locked up completely. The entire world narrowed to just that one image: her body limp and still in a spreading pool of red, her hand curled near the fallen kitchen knife like she'd tried, like she hadn't given up, like she thought maybe—just maybe—she could stop him.

"This is making me hungry," Vulture cackled, his talons dripping. "I'll save her for dessert."

My breath hitched.

Whatever fear I had faded away, being replaced by

Total. Consuming. Bone-deep.

I couldn't feel the pain anymore—not in my ribs, not in my side, not in the open cuts across my face. There was only this… boiling, this pressure inside my chest like something radioactive had been sitting dormant and now, finally, it was tearing loose.

I threw the debris off me with a roar—wood splintering, drywall flying—and sucked in air like I'd just clawed my way out of a grave.

And then I turned—and saw him.

Ben.

He was crawling.

Hand over hand, dragging his body across the floor toward her. His knees gave out more than once, and he caught himself on trembling arms. There was blood down the side of his face, soaked into his shirt. His voice was gone—torn raw from screaming—but I could see it. I could feel it. The way he shook. The way his fingers curled around hers once he reached her side. The way he broke—collapsed—over her like the weight of everything had finally crushed through his soul.

He reminded me of my grandfather.

The way I'd seen him in that hospital room the day before my ninth birthday, when Grandma passed after months of fighting the cancer eating her from the inside. I remembered the way he'd cried—real crying, not the kind you hide behind tissues or whispered apologies. The kind that shook the walls. The kind that made me sit outside the room and pretend I couldn't hear, because I didn't know how to understand a strong man brought that low.

Ben looked just like him now.

May looked just like her.

And this time… I wasn't some helpless kid sitting behind the door.

This time it was my turn to do something.

The rage detonated.

I was on my feet before I realized I'd moved.

I wasn't fast. I wasn't clean. My steps were messy and crooked, my body shaking like it didn't know whether to run or collapse. But I moved. I moved. Every ounce of weakness, of exhaustion, of pain—it burned away in the heat of something bigger than me.

Something that didn't feel like me.

Didn't matter if it did.

Because all that mattered now was that I was still standing—and that bastard wasn't getting away with it.

I launched myself forward, lungs burning, vision tunneling. My hands found his wings before he even turned around. I grabbed hold and yanked, teeth clenched so hard I thought I'd crack a molar. The bones cracked. Feathers ripped free in my grip. He shrieked and twisted—but I didn't stop.

I threw him.

All the strength I didn't have, I found anyway. I suplexed the bastard backwards into the splintered remains of the staircase, the whole thing collapsing inward as he crashed through it like a wrecking ball. Plaster rained down. Wood groaned and snapped. The ground shuddered.

He rolled, wings twitching, claws scraping for balance—and looked at me with utter disbelief.

"How are—are you…" he rasped, blood leaking from the corner of his mouth, "still able to stand?"

I took a step toward him.

Then another.

Each one is like a guillotine drop.

"You're about to find out, asshole." I said.

And it wasn't my voice.

It was Peter Parker's.

It didn't feel like I was just living inside his skin anymore, wearing his shoes and his guilt and pretending to fit.

This world—this pain—was mine now.

And he had just crossed the line.

I wasn't a fighter. My hands didn't know what they were doing. But that didn't matter. I didn't need perfect form. I didn't need training. I just needed one thing—one unshakable, all-consuming truth.

Nobody—nobody—fucks with my family.

Vulture opened his wings again, but I was already moving.

And this time?

I wasn't going back down. Not until he was on the floor and I was the last one still breathing.

No matter the cost.

A.S.

A.S.

A.S.

For a moment, MJ just stood there on the porch, frozen.

The wind snapped at her hoodie, tugging at the sleeves and making the rafters creak above her head, but she didn't move. Couldn't. Because Peter Parker had just leapt—literally leapt—off her porch railing and cleared the entire stretch of lawn between the Watsons' and the Parker house like it was nothing. Like the space didn't exist. Like he wasn't bound by the same rules as everyone else.

That wasn't human.

Her breath caught somewhere in her chest. She stepped toward the railing in disbelief, eyes locked on the spot where he'd landed. Or—maybe crashed was the better word. But he wasn't hurt. He didn't fall. He moved with purpose, like something had switched on inside him and was refusing to turn back off.

What had she just seen?

It didn't make sense. None of it. She'd known him for, what—three weeks? Maybe a little more. And in that time, Peter Parker had always come off as that awkward, jittery kind of kid who cracked too many jokes and barely kept up during their runs. She remembered him sweating through his shirt the first afternoon they met at the waterfront, hunched over, gasping like he'd sprinted a mile in wet boots.

But now?

Now he moved like something out of a movie. Not a comic book. Not even a cartoon. Something real, but wrong, in a way that turned her blood cold. That kind of power—it didn't belong in real life.

Unless it did.

The fire. That day when the apartment complex lit up like a bonfire and Peter ran in—ran in—before anyone else could move. He pulled two kids out of a room that should've cooked him alive. She remembered thinking it was brave. Stupidly brave. But now… maybe it was more than that.

Maybe he could do things.

She reached for her phone with numb fingers, almost forgetting why he'd told her to call. But the urgency in his voice still rang in her ears. He hadn't sounded scared for himself. He'd sounded terrified for someone else.

Ben?

May?

The moment the thought clicked, the Parker house lit up with noise.

Glass shattered—somewhere in the back. A flash of movement flickered behind the curtained windows. Then more crashing. Something heavy slammed against the walls hard enough to rattle the front porch. Lights flickered, then cut out altogether.

Her stomach dropped.

She pressed the phone to her ear and nearly screamed into it. "I need help—now. It's my neighbors—something's happening next door, I don't know what, but—" She could barely form words, her heart was beating so hard it felt like it might knock her over. "There's fighting, I think someone's hurt—just please send someone! The Parker house—" she rattled off the address. "-please hurry—!"

The operator tried to ask her something else, but she didn't hear it. She barely even realized she was still holding the phone.

Because the front door of the Parker house exploded.

There was no warning, no time to react—just a deafening crack as the wood splintered outward and a body came flying through the doorway like a cannonball out of hell. MJ's breath caught in her throat as the figure slammed into the rain-slicked porch and kept going, limbs trailing like a ragdoll. He hit the sidewalk with a sickening thud, bounced hard against the concrete, then tumbled across the street—helpless, weightless—and collided full-force with the side of a parked sedan.

The sound of it… the metal folding in on itself, the glass exploding outward in a shower of shards—it didn't sound real. The car shuddered like it had been struck by a wrecking ball. MJ stumbled forward on instinct, her mind still trying to process what she'd seen. That was Peter.

That was Peter.

He wasn't moving.

"Peter—!" she started to shout, but the wind swallowed her voice.

Then something else emerged from the Parker house.

It wasn't human.

The creature launched. A flash of motion and then it was out in the storm, wings wide and jagged, its silhouette catching against the flicker of lightning like some nightmare carved out of bone and shadow. The wings didn't glide so much as snap through the air, every beat like a sonic boom.

And its eyes—red. Glowing. Focused.

MJ's legs wouldn't move.

The thing took off, fast—faster than anything she'd ever seen—racing toward where Peter had landed, like it had been waiting for the exact moment to finish what it started. She barely registered what was happening before it reached him and—God.

It dove right at him.

The impact sent another jolt through the night, a deep, awful crunch she could feel even from across the street. She thought she heard Peter scream, but the wind twisted everything, turned it into something primal. She covered her mouth with one shaking hand.

She couldn't breathe.

The creature didn't just lunge—it took Peter. One second he was on the ground, broken and barely moving, and the next, he was in its grip, claws dug deep into his body like hooks, dragging him off the street and into the air.

MJ's heart seized as she watched the shape rise. The wings spread wide, black and endless, slicing through the wind with each beat, and Peter's body dangled in its grasp, twitching weakly like a broken marionette. He kicked—she saw that. He struggled. Screamed. But it didn't matter.

They were already above the trees.

Already part of the storm.

She wanted to call his name. She opened her mouth to try—but nothing came out. Only the wind answered her, rushing past her ears like it was trying to erase the moment before it could finish. The clouds swallowed them like a mouth closing.

Then, from the ruined doorway across the street, a figure staggered forward—half-collapsed, bloodied. Ben. His hand gripped the frame like he needed it to stand. His other was outstretched.

"PETER!"

The word broke apart in the wind. Desperate. Raw. She'd never heard a sound like that before, not from anyone. It wasn't just pain—it was something deeper. Something undoing him from the inside out.

And then—

"MJ?"

A voice behind her, faint.

She turned.

Anna Watson stood just inside the open door of their home, wrapped in a long cardigan with one arm hugging it tight to her chest. She looked confused, still mid-step, like she hadn't yet caught up with the noise outside.

"What's going on?" she asked, her voice stiff against the wind.

MJ couldn't speak.

But she didn't have to. Anna saw where MJ was looking. Saw the wrecked front of the Parker house, the splintered door, the sedan across the street crumpled like a soda can.

Then she saw Ben.

"Oh my God," Anna whispered. And then she was moving.

MJ barely remembered how her legs worked. She was just following Anna's shadow, her own lungs tight and throat burning.

Anna got to him first, kneeling, grabbing his face in her hands.

"Ben—Ben, what happened?! What's going on?!"

MJ was already turning. She didn't want to. Her whole body begged her not to.

But she turned anyway.

The house was ruined. The entire entryway looked like it had been gutted by a bomb. Bits of drywall and picture frames were strewn across the floor, glass scattered like frost across the hardwood. The ceiling groaned overhead, dripping in places. The smell hit her first—rain, dust, something sharp like ozone, and something else.

Something metallic.

And that's when she saw her.

May.

She was crumpled like a discarded doll in the corner, half-sprawled against the wall, one leg twisted beneath her, the other bent wrong. Her sweater—once a soft lavender—was soaked dark red. It had bloomed across her chest like a rose in reverse, spreading outward in sharp, wet streaks. Her eyes were closed.

She wasn't moving.

MJ's body locked up. Every inch of her felt like it turned to ice. Like she'd stepped into a photograph—a crime scene snapshot she wasn't supposed to see.

Anna gasped behind her. Choked on it.

"No…" she whispered.

"No, no, no—"

Anna ran towards May's body, and all MJ could do was look in the direction of where the Vulture had taken Peter into the night.

"Peter…" her voice broke like a shattered vase.

A.S.

A.S.

A.S.

The front door shattered against my weight as I hit it back-first, flying through it like a human battering ram, the frame exploding around me with a crack loud enough to split the storm in half. Splinters tore at my jacket, slashed across my arms, sliced the side of my face. Then came the cold—air so sharp it felt like knives—and then the concrete.

I landed hard on my shoulder. Something cracked. Bone, maybe. I didn't have time to know. I rolled without meaning to, pain tearing fire-trails across my body—my hip, my ribs, my arms—until—

BOOM.

The sedan across the street caught me like a punch to the spine. The impact caved in both passenger-side doors, sent the windows detonating outward in a roar of shattering glass. It rained across my face, stung my cheeks, dug into my palms when I tried to move. Every breath came like broken machinery. My brain couldn't even decide which part of me was screaming.

Then the sky screamed for me.

SKREEEEEEAAAAAAGH!

He didn't step out of the house. He erupted from it—like a warhead fired straight out of hell. Wings massive and jagged as scrap metal carved the rain in half, slicing wind and thunder with every beat. His eyes burned red, hot and glowing, locked on me like I was prey. Blood was still dripping from his teeth.

I looked up.

He was already on me.

He hit like a meteor.

Talons punched into my shoulders—deep, past muscle, past control. I howled, loud and raw, as fire erupted across my nerves. I felt something snap. No—several somethings. Tendons? Muscle? Bone? I didn't know. I couldn't know. I couldn't think. The pain swallowed thought and spat out static. I clawed at him on instinct, tried to kick, grab, fight—but it was like grappling with death itself. His skin felt like iron. His grip? Unmovable. His face—God, that face—

He looked at me like I was nothing.

Like I wasn't even worth the effort it took to lift me.

And then, with a beat of those monster wings, he dragged me off the pavement and into the air.

The world dropped out beneath me in an instant. Trees shrank. Roofs disappeared. The street vanished into shadow. The storm wrapped around us like a fist. And my brain—my brain lost it.

I was afraid of heights.

Always had been. Not just in a vague, normal way—but in the full-body, gut-clenching, panic-inducing, do not look down kind of way. Elevators made me nauseous. Ferris wheels were a no-go. The top of the bleachers at Midtown was already pushing it. And now?

Now I was being dragged through a hurricane with claws in my back and nothing but air below me.

But all that fear—all that vertigo and spiraling dread—none of it mattered.

Because he wasn't looking down.

He wasn't thinking about where he was going.

He was focused on me.

Every beat of his wings. Every breath from his snarling mouth. Every pulse of muscle under that cracked armor of a body was tuned to one thing: me.

And that gave me just enough strength to twist in his grip.

Just enough to spit in his face.

"Let me go, you freak!"

I shouldn't have said anything.

The growl he let out vibrated straight through his chest into mine—and then he bit me.

Right into my shoulder.

"AAAAAGH!"

The scream tore out of me before I could think. Not a yell. Not a cry. A scream. Primal. Ripped out from the core of who I was. I felt the teeth go in—sharp, curved, deep—and then came the pressure. More than pressure. It was like a hydraulic press clamping down on my bones, grinding until something finally gave with a sickening pop.

My shoulder shattered.

The pain wasn't pain anymore—it was something else. Something I didn't have a word for. Like my entire arm had ceased to exist except for the white-hot scream flooding every neuron in my body. My head snapped back. My vision sparked white. I felt blood spill down my chest in thick, hot waves.

I was going to pass out.

I could feel it coming—the edges of the world curling inward, the sounds of the wind getting muffled like cotton in my ears. But I couldn't.

I couldn't.

I clenched my jaw so hard I thought I'd break my own teeth and forced my eyes to stay open. To look at him.

He grinned.

That sick, gnarled grin like he was tasting my agony—like he'd waited all night for this exact moment.

But I wasn't giving it to him.

I didn't care if my shoulder was gone. I didn't care if my body was a sack of snapped joints and shredded muscle. He had May's blood on his claws.

That made this personal.

And if I was going to die tonight—if this was it—I was taking him down with me.

Even if I had to do it with one arm and a mouthful of broken teeth.

My hands—one soaked in blood, the other barely working—latched onto the nearest thing I could reach: his scaly, sinewy leg. He started to pull away, maybe thinking I was about to go limp and fall—

No.

I screamed and pulled with everything I had.

Muscles tore. Fingers strained. My entire body screamed louder than I did—but I didn't let go. I wrenched down like I was trying to tear a tree out of the earth. Felt the joint grind. Heard a wet pop.

Then came the snap.

CRRRKKKKK!

His shin snapped clean through, the bone spearing through his leathery skin in a jagged, white spike. Blood sprayed across my chest like a faucet. Vulture's shriek split the sky, wild and inhuman.

His wings flared.

Then staggered.

We dropped.

FAST.

The wind roared like a jet engine in my ears. Rain lashed my face. My stomach flipped inside out. I couldn't see, couldn't breathe—all I could do was fall, tumbling through open air with a broken bird and nothing to catch us.

Until—

CRASH.

The roof didn't stand a chance.

We slammed through the sheet metal like cannonballs, tearing open a yawning hole in the ceiling. My back hit something hard—the side of a steel shipping container—then I bounced off and hit the ground. Glass. Dust. Metal. Everything punched the air out of my lungs.

I sprawled on the warehouse floor, coughing, choking, barely conscious.

Air tasted like rust.

My shoulder was gone. Useless. A lump of meat dangling off my body. Blood oozed from a dozen different places, warm against the cold concrete.

But I was alive.

Barely.

"Heh. Of course. Broken bones. Why not?" I muttered, wincing as I pulled myself to my feet, clutching my ruined right arm like it might fall off if I let go.

The whole warehouse groaned around me. Giant containers stacked like dominoes. Rusted catwalks. Chains hanging like vines. It looked like a place made for ghosts.

And he was somewhere in here with me.

I couldn't see him.

But I could hear him.

Wings, flapping—slower, uneven. A dragging rhythm, like one was working and the other wasn't.

And underneath it, a moan. Low. Warped.

Not pain exactly. Something stranger. Like he was trying to growl through his own collapse.

I gritted my teeth and started moving.

"Alright, you overgrown turkey…" I huffed, every step crooked. "Where'd you fly off to, huh?"

My boots scraped along oil-stained concrete. Rain still poured in through the ragged hole in the ceiling, hitting my skin like pins.

"I was thinking of using one of your feathers to write out my memoir…" I muttered.

"Shuttttttt—" a voice echoed from the shadows, warped and hoarse, "—upppppp!"

I smiled.

"Ah. There you are."

Chains swung above me, creaking. I looked up—spotted one hanging close to a steel beam. Something sparked behind my ribs.

An idea.

About damn time.

I stumbled forward, climbed one of the rusted support beams, ignoring the screaming pain in every limb, and reached up. The chain was cold. Wet. Heavy. I yanked it free, then another. Slung them over my shoulder, wrapped them tight across my chest like a bandolier.

"Don't worry," I rasped, teeth chattering. "I've got something for ya."

I reached down, took one of the rusted links, and bent it. Slowly. Grinding the metal against the floor until the end warped into a jagged point. Crude. Sharp enough.

I didn't have webbing.

But I had steel and rage and just enough leverage.

And I had him.

My spider-sense pulsed.

The room went dark in my head. A deep navy haze swept across my vision, like the world was holding its breath.

Then—red.

A silhouette.

Crouched.

Hurt.

He was trying to rise. Hopping, wobbling—his right leg bent weird. The broken one. Wings twitching.

There you are.

I moved without thinking.

Ran. Limped. Whatever. The second my foot hit the wall, I launched.

I spun midair, my left hand flinging the chain with all the precision my instincts could give me. The sharpened end sliced through the dark.

THUNK.

Vulture shrieked.

It hit him—right through his shoulder. He reeled, twisted, tried to pull it out. I didn't let him.

I yanked. Hard.

He turned—saw me—eyes wide.

But I was already there.

I collided with him in midair, my good arm wrapping around his throat like a vice. He bucked. Screeched. Slammed into a support beam—but I held on.

"Where do you think you're going?" I roared, my mouth inches from his ear.

"WE'RE JUST GETTING STARTED!"

We collided with the air like a molotov in a mosh pit—two bodies locked together, flying wild through the warehouse, smashing into anything and everything.

Vulture shrieked, beating his wings furiously, trying to shake me off, but I held on. I didn't care if my shoulder was screaming, if my ribs were cracked, if every second felt like I was being peeled apart molecule by molecule. My arm was around his throat like a vice, my knees hooked around his waist as he slammed us into rusted beams, shredded catwalks, and dangling iron chains that snapped and danced in the air like ghosts trying to drag us both down.

Metal crashed. Sparks flew. The storm howled in from above through the torn-open roof. Every beat of his wings was like thunder. Every impact was a fresh explosion of agony. My spine hit the edge of a container—twice. I bounced off the side of a beam. One of my boots caught on a dangling hook, nearly tearing it off my foot. I couldn't see straight anymore. Couldn't think.

I still didn't let go.

But the bastard changed tactics.

With a sudden, violent twist, Vulture reached back with one clawed hand and grabbed the loose end of the chain still trailing from his shoulder.

I felt it in that instant—his plan clicking into place.

"No—!" I tried to snarl it, but it was already too late.

He flung the chain upward with a grunt, catching it over one of the thick steel rafters above. Then—with a wet RIIIIPPP—he reached behind his shoulder, tore the other end of the chain straight out of his own body, and looped it around my throat.

Before I could react, he yanked it tight.

My breath died.

Literally just—gone. Like someone cut the air out of the world.

My hand flew up, grabbing the chain instinctively, trying to get my fingers between the links. Nothing. It just bit tighter. Each beat of his wings lifted me higher, and higher, and higher—until my boots couldn't scrape anything solid. I was dangling.

Hanging.

The steel links pressed in, digging into my skin, cutting off every ounce of oxygen. My vision went swimmy. Head pounding. My good arm clawed at the chain, trying to pry it loose, but it was no use. I didn't have leverage. Didn't have air. My body was flailing like a ragdoll tied to a meat hook.

He'd done it.

He was hanging me midair like some sick trophy.

I couldn't scream. Couldn't even gasp.

I could only see—the blur of rusted beams, lightning cutting through the hole in the ceiling, the glint of his eyes ahead as he pulled the chain tighter with both hands, flapping in place like a sick marionette puppeteer.

I was going to pass out.

I could feel it coming—darkness blooming behind my eyes like a curtain about to drop.

No.

Not like this.

I grit my teeth.

My legs—my legs still moved.

I started swinging them. Desperate, uncoordinated kicks at first. Then rhythm. Then momentum. I rocked back and forth, higher, harder. My whole body started to sway.

And then—I kicked my legs up.

I hooked both feet on the chain like it was a strand of web, bracing it just enough to take the pressure off my throat. Oxygen hit me like a train. I gasped, coughed, sucked in air through crushed lungs.

And then I laughed.

Low and croaky, but real nevertheless.

"It ain't gonna be that easy," I rasped, voice raw as gravel.

Vulture screeched—full of fury, frustration, maybe fear.

"WHY WON'T YOU JUST DIE ALREADY?!"

I grabbed the chain in both hands.

The muscles in my good arm lit up like live wires. Every inch of movement was a war. But I rose, inch by inch, crawling up the chain like a spider would its own silk. Closer to his face. Closer to his stupid, rage-warped eyes.

Then I spoke—quiet and seething with blood-curdling rage.

"Because I'm not the one dying tonight."

I pulled as hard as I could.

Vulture flailed—then flipped, his wings folding tight as he twisted midair like a nightmarish acrobat. I didn't hesitate. The second my feet hit steel, I launched.

We collided again—this time with my shoulder crashing into his gut, driving him down. Down through the mess of rusted beams and hanging wires, toward the cracked concrete like a meteor about to make a point.

We hit hard.

I landed on top of him—barely—but I didn't stop. My good hand pulled back—and slammed into his face.

Once.

CRACK.

Twice.

THMP.

Three times—

Four—

Blood splashed across the concrete. My knuckles were already raw. His face—if it even counted as one—had split open, revealing cracked bone and grinning teeth.

And still he laughed.

Low at first. Then higher.

A choking, wet cackle that gurgled in his throat and echoed across the warehouse.

He was just laughing.

Like I was a joke.

Like this all was.

"What the hell—" I panted, voice slurred through exhaustion and rage.

I raised my fist again.

"WHY ARE YOU LAUGHING?!"

I brought it down.

But it never landed.

He caught my wrist mid-swing—and threw me.

I didn't even hit the ground. I hit up—a steel beam catching me in the back of the skull like a hammer. My head snapped sideways. The world fractured.

Everything went black—-and I swear, I felt May's hand on my shoulder.

It was the sound of May saying my name that brought me back from the void.

Not the wind, not the pain—not even the weight of my broken body—but her voice. Gentle and heavenly.

"Peter."

My eyes cracked open.

I was floating.

No—that wasn't it.

I was falling, then rising again.

The wind slapped my face. My skin was soaked. My clothes felt like lead. I tried to move, but my limbs didn't respond right away—like they'd forgotten they belonged to me.

Then I felt it: claws in my sides. A shape above me, wings beating furiously against the storm.

He was carrying me.

High. So high the air felt thinner. The clouds surrounded us like walls. Lightning cracked across the sky, flashing white across his face.

"Ah, you're finally awake!" Vulture cackled, the sound so manic it cut through the thunder. "You, my boy, are truly something special. It's not often I get to experience a true fight."

I tried to speak. My throat felt like torn leather. Every breath scraped my insides raw.

"Now, now... I can make this quick, if you'd please. You've fought well. Better than some. But you have nowhere to go. No tricks. No heroics. You have one final chance to tell me what I want to know—and I will make your death swift."

I coughed.

"G-go… to… hell," I rasped.

He sighed.

"Disappointing. But I expected that."

And then—

He let go.

But I didn't fall.

My fingers caught his leg before gravity could have me. Not even fingers, really—it was instinct. Sticking. I locked on like a spider to web.

Vulture jerked back in surprise.

"What?!"

"You wanted a spider?" I hissed as lightning flared overhead, lighting my face in electric blue. "You've got one right here."

He looked at me like I was something unnatural. Something impossible.

"How are you still clinging to life? After everything?!"

"I made a promise…"

I didn't wait for the next gust of wind.

I pulled myself up his body—with one good arm and ten tons of rage. He tried to beat me off with a wing, but I gritted my teeth, unlatched just long enough to throw myself at him. I wanted him close now. Needed him to see my face.

I slammed my forehead into his jaw. He reeled—eyes wide, dazed.

We started rising again, faster.

He was trying to shake me loose—spiraling higher into the storm, wings clawing at the air, the clouds around us boiling like smoke.

"What's the matter, boy? Scared?" he snarled, lips pulled back over blood-stained fangs.

It should've worked. His voice was jagged, serrated—something out of a nightmare. But something inside me had already snapped. That part of me that once feared heights? Gone. The lightning flashed again—and something else flared up behind my eyes.

He saw it.

That smile died fast.

"Not even close," I said. "Time to clip your wings."

And I grabbed it.

Not just grabbed—dug in. My fingers tore through the membrane, caught the joint.

He tried to twist away.

I didn't let him.

I pulled.

And ripped.

The sound was horrible. Like meat and sailcloth being torn by a hurricane. A hot spray of blood hit my face. Vulture screamed like his soul had come loose. I've heard people in pain. I've heard cries. This was more. This was truth torn from a throat. Pure. Agonized.

Admittedly, I should have felt some kind of guilt, but after what he's done... I didn't feel a shred of it. All I felt was powerful, like I had the world in my grasp.

Hell, I even grinned.

And that should've scared me—the grin. The way my jaw moved before my heart caught up. Like some part of me was enjoying this. Not justice. Not peace. Just retribution, hot and searing.

His wing tore free.

We plummeted towards the street below, spinning and tumbling. Out of the clouds like meteorites with no destination but down. Wind howled past us, shrieking louder than any scream. The skyline spun below us in a blur of glass, light, and jagged steel.

The storm roared overhead.

Vulture flailed, trying to stabilize, but he couldn't. He spiraled wildly, blood streaking behind him like smoke.

He was screaming, and I wasn't.

I just held on, because I was going to make sure this ended where it had to.

And then—

CRAAASSSSHHH!

We hit asphalt like warheads.

Concrete shattered.

A car folded in on itself with a groan of metal. Its alarm shrieked pointlessly into the storm. Glass burst outward. The shockwave blew out nearby windows.

I hit and rolled—pain exploding across every nerve. My back. My ribs. My skull. Everything screamed. I landed face-down in a puddle and didn't move for a second.

My head spun. My limbs refused orders. My insides felt liquified.

But I turned over. Spat blood. And looked up.

Vulture was crawling away.

Crawling.

That bastard was still moving.

He grunted, pulled himself toward the curb. Blood pouring from his torn shoulder, his ruined leg dragging behind him like dead weight.

I used a car to pull myself up. My fingers slipped twice.

Doesn't matter.

I was going to finish this.

Because if he could do what he did to May—if he could laugh in the face of murder, threaten me like I was prey—then I knew it.

He's done this before.

He wasn't a man.

He was a monster.

And monsters don't get to crawl away.

I limped forward. Broken. Barely standing. Every step was pure defiance.

Then I saw it.

A stop sign.

Still bolted into the concrete.

I grabbed it.

The pole groaned under my grip—and came free with a metallic scream of sheared bolts and cracked concrete.

I didn't even register the strength.

I was dragging it behind me. The metal scraped the ground like a sword made of the storm itself.

Vulture looked back.

His eyes—once burning red—were wide.

There was something in them now.

Something human.

Fear.

I didn't care.

Not anymore.

He didn't deserve mercy.

He didn't get a prayer.

He didn't get to walk away from what he did to May.

I reached him before he could get farther than the gutter.

He was face-down, panting in sharp, shallow gasps. The remaining wing twitched weakly beneath his spine.

I lifted my foot, and brought it down.

CRUNCH.

The wing folded in on itself like paper under boot—bone cracking beneath metal and tendon. Vulture shrieked—sharp, high, and human—but I didn't flinch.

He turned his head.

I didn't wait.

I raised the sign over my head.

My arms trembled. Muscles screamed. Rain poured into my eyes. Blood soaked the metal pole from my own grip. But it didn't matter.

He was right there.

All I had to do was end it.

One swing.

One clean, brutal drop through his heart.

His eyes met mine.

But the voice that came out… wasn't the monster's.

It was soft. Quiet. Like wind through broken glass.

"Do it… before I hurt anyone else."

It didn't sound like him.

It didn't sound like anyone I'd ever known.

It sounded like a man who wasn't there all night—like someone trapped inside the monster, shoved aside by the thing that wore his skin. A flicker of something ancient and buried deep. Guilt, maybe. Hope, twisted beyond recognition.

I gritted my teeth.

My scream tore from my throat—raw, pure, feral—as I brought the sign down with everything I had left.

The air roared past me.

And then—

"NO!"

The voice wasn't mine. It wasn't May's.

But it was in my head, inside me, thunder-loud and yet so familiar.

And my hands—they changed course.

At the very last second, the sign slammed into the concrete beside his skull.

THWUNK.

Shards of sidewalk exploded outward, stinging my face.

I stood there—frozen, breathless, teeth still clenched so hard my jaw ached. My arms shook from the strain. My vision blurred with water, blood, maybe both.

I didn't blink.

I just stared down at him—at this thing that killed May, that nearly ended me, that laughed while it tore into my shoulder.

And I'd almost ended him.

Almost.

But I didn't.

I didn't move. Couldn't.

It didn't feel like it was my decision. Not really. It wasn't courage. It wasn't mercy. It wasn't even hesitation.

It was something else.

That voice in my head… It was part of me, and somehow not me. Like a ghost of someone I hadn't met yet. Like a future that hadn't happened… but already remembered me.

And in that instant, everything changed.

The rage vanished. Like a fire doused in a single breath.

The adrenaline drained from my veins.

The weight of everything—everything—slammed into my chest like a freight train.

I staggered back. One step. Then another. The sign fell from my hands, clattering to the pavement like a dropped sword.

I looked down at my hands.

Covered in blood. His. Mine. I didn't even know anymore.

I couldn't feel my shoulder. Could barely see through the pain and exhaustion. But I could feel what I'd almost become.

A killer.

And not in battle—not by mistake.

By choice.

Cold, premeditated murder…

"What the hell was I thinking…?" I whispered, voice barely there.

Vulture groaned—low and rattling. He turned his head to the side, laying it against the ground like he was done.

"You should've killed me when you had the chance…" he rasped.

I stared at him—the monster reduced to meat and agony.

And I thought about the families of the people he'd torn apart. The blood on his claws. The fear in May's eyes. The scream that echoed through my ribs when I saw her on the floor.

"Maybe," I murmured.

Then I exhaled. Soft. Empty.

"…but no one else is dying tonight."

And I collapsed.

My knees gave. My back hit the concrete with a gasp. My arms sprawled out like wings. The rain hit my face, cold and relentless, washing blood into the gutters.

I turned my head.

Vulture still lay there.

Still.

Motionless.

Then—in a flash of white light—

He was gone.

Not crawled away. Not flown. Not limped off into the night.

Gone.

Like he was never there.

And I didn't even have the strength to react.

The last thing I felt was the cold-water pooling beneath me.

The last thing I heard was my own breath slowing.

And then the void took me at last.

Hey guys, I know some were not happy on the other sites I posted regarding the outcome with Vulture. But mind you, that's not the end of this and Peter's restraint will be tested. Taking a life isn't easy, especially for someone who's never fought before. The voice that told him no? That's going to be explained in the next few chapters. Stay tuned. Trust me, please.

Arsenal597 · 2025-12-03T23:11:33+0000

The hospital didn't look like how MJ imagined it would.

Not that she spent a lot of time imagining hospitals, but still—there should've been more people. More yelling. More urgency. Maybe alarms blaring in the distance. But instead, everything was... quiet. Too quiet. Like the building itself was holding its breath.

Rain pattered against the sliding glass doors as they whisked open for her and Anna, spilling them into the sterile lobby like leftover pieces of a nightmare. The fluorescents overhead buzzed, a sickly hum that settled under MJ's skin like a fever. She tugged her hoodie sleeves down over her knuckles, fingers cold, still shaking a little.

Anna had her hand on MJ's shoulder, gentle and steady. It should've helped, but it didn't.

The woman behind the front desk looked up as they approached—mid-50s, glasses low on her nose, her scrubs patterned with sunflowers that felt offensively bright. She blinked once.

"Can I help you?"

Anna stepped forward, her voice lower than usual.

"Ben and May Parker. They were just brought in."

The woman typed something into her computer, the keys clicking like tiny bones. MJ's eyes darted toward the wide windows. Flashing lights outside painted the parking lot in red and blue. An ambulance pulled away from the curb. Her chest tightened.

The woman looked up.

"Ben Parker is stable. He's in Room 213, second floor. May Parker is in surgery. Trauma OR Three." Her voice softened, practiced. "They'll update you when they can."

MJ took a step forward before she could stop herself.

"Was there... was there anyone else brought in with them? A boy? About 5'10, 5'11, kind of lanky, messy hair—never ending sarcasm?"

"Sorry, they're the only ones that were brought in the last few hours."

MJ's stomach sank. She almost asked again—like maybe the woman just hadn't looked hard enough—but her voice cracked on the way up and never made it out.

Anna put a hand on her back.

"Come on, sweetheart."

They moved toward the elevators, MJ dragging her feet like she was afraid the floor might collapse under her. Somewhere behind them, a phone rang. An intercom buzzed to life, saying something about radiology. None of it felt real. Everything felt like it had too many layers. The lights were too bright. The walls were too white. Her heart was thudding way too loud for a hallway so quiet.

The elevator ride was unbearable. Anna didn't speak, and MJ didn't want her to. The doors opened on the second floor with a ding that sounded like it belonged in a sitcom, not here—not in the real world where blood hit kitchen tile and monsters tore through front doors.

Room 213 was near the end of the hall.

MJ saw him before she even reached the doorway.

Ben Parker sat in a plastic chair by the window, his coat half on, hands clenched between his knees like he didn't know where to put them. His knuckles were scraped. There was blood on his collar. His eyes weren't wet, but they were red and raw, locked on the skyline outside like maybe it would give him answers if he stared long enough.

Anna stepped in first, and her voice cracked.

"Ben…"

He turned.

The moment he saw her, his composure shattered. Not loudly. Not dramatically. But in that quiet way grief does—his shoulders curled forward. His jaw locked. He stood like the air around him hurt to breathe.

They hugged without words. Ben pulled Anna into him like he didn't want to let go, and she didn't make him.

MJ hovered in the doorway.

She didn't know what to do with her hands. Or her feet. Or her face. She looked at Ben, really looked at him, and for the first time since all this started, the word orphan elbowed its way into her brain—and she hated it. It felt mean. Too early. But it hung there like static.

"Hey, MJ," Ben said, voice gravel-thick, eyes flicking toward her. "You alright?"

She nodded.

"I... yeah. I'm okay."

He smiled at that. Barely.

"Glad someone is."

Anna squeezed his arm.

"They said May's in surgery. What did the doctors say?"

Ben exhaled, slow and trembling.

"They wouldn't tell me much. Said it was too early. She was in shock. Internal bleeding. Broken ribs. A... a punctured lung, maybe."

His voice broke on maybe. Like the word itself had betrayed him.

"She's strong," Anna said, and MJ couldn't tell if it was hope or desperation.

Ben nodded.

"Yeah. Yeah, she is."

But the silence that followed said please don't make me believe it yet.

MJ sat down in the chair across from them. Her legs felt rubbery, like they didn't believe in gravity anymore. She looked at the tile floor. There were faint marks from a gurney. A speck of blood near the doorframe.

Her fingers started to twitch in her lap.

She hadn't said anything about Peter yet.

She hadn't told Anna that he'd leapt from their porch to his in a single jump, nor did she mention that a creature with wings had burst through the Parkers' home and torn everything apart.

She also didn't mention that the last glimpse she'd gotten of Peter was of his silhouette rising into the storm, clutched in that monster's claws.

She should've said something. Right then. But she couldn't. Because the second she thought about it—the second she really tried to explain it—the whole night started to spin again. Like her brain was refusing to let the memory stay still.

So she swallowed it down, like everything else.

Ben rubbed his forehead.

"Do—do you know where Peter is? Did he… did he get out okay?" His voice cracked, and that was enough to break MJ. She couldn't hold it in.

"He didn't."

Ben looked up, startled.

"He didn't get out," MJ said, her voice thin and hollow. "That thing—it grabbed him. Took him. I saw it."

Anna turned toward her, shocked.

"MJ—why didn't you—?"

"I didn't know what it was at first, Anna… I'm sorry." her eyes burned, guilt knotting in her gut. "I'm sorry… I just… I didn't know what to do. Peter heard something, and told me to call the cops. Then, I saw something come out of the house, carrying someone. I didn't know it was him."

Ben stood up. His hands curled into fists at his sides, and for a second, MJ thought he might shout or punch the wall or even scream at the ceiling. But he didn't.

He just stood there, lips curled into a deep frown, staring out the window.

"God..." he breathed. "He was trying to help us…"

A suffocating silence fell again over the room.

Then Anna said, softly, "The nurse said no one else was brought in."

Ben shook his head.

"Then he's still out there."

MJ felt like she was going to throw up.

"Do you think he's alive?" she asked, even though the question tasted like poison.

Ben looked at her—and for one second, he looked just like Peter, with the same eyes.

"I know he is," Ben smiled softly.

He sat back down.

MJ watched him fold into himself—quiet, bracing, holding onto nothing but the hope that maybe the next door that opened wouldn't bring more bad news.

She sat there too.

Not knowing that somewhere across the city, Peter was fighting for his life.

MEANWHILE...

I could barely feel the rain hitting my face as my eyes began to flutter open.

It was strange—like the storm didn't know whether to touch me or leave me to die in peace. The cold that had once soaked into my bones now felt distant, like I was under water. Everything was muffled. Tilted. Off.

It feels like I've been sent through a meat grinder, shredded and torn—then left out to cool in the rain.

I'm so tired… so damn tired. I could go to sleep, but… I can't. If I pass out again, I might not wake back up.

B-Ben…

He needs me.

But I can't move, not really. It hurts to even breathe, let alone twitch a finger. My breathing is shallow, raspy, and gurgly. There's blood in my mouth, coppery and warm. Too familiar for my liking.

Fuck—I don't wanna die again. Not yet… there's so much I want to do. But the ground—it's so cool. So soft in a stupid, lying way. I could just close my eyes for a second and maybe…

Maybe I'll get lucky.

The moment my eyes began to shut, something changed.

The scent hit first.

Sulfur. Char. Burned tobacco.

Then smoke—dry and leathery, curled with bitterness—clawed its way into my nostrils and yanked me back to awareness. I coughed weakly, barely even a breath. My chest flared in protest. Everything inside me lit up in warning, but the smoke didn't care.

Boots squelched through the waterlogged street, like they were on their way to collect me.

Then they stopped right in front of me.

The rain around them didn't fall the same. It slowed, or maybe it parted; either way, the rhythm of the storm faltered like it didn't want to touch whoever was standing there.

I couldn't see clearly. My eyes—every blink felt like swimming through oil. The blur never left, but someone crouched close enough that I could feel the warmth of the smoke in their breath when they exhaled.

Long brown hair clung to his neck, damp and slightly curled. The rest of his face—it refused to resolve, like a dream that wouldn't show you what you're trying to remember.

But the voice, it was undeniably clear.

"Well, don't you look like shit," the figure said, and there it was—that dry chuckle like a smirk you could hear. "Mate, I know I ragged on you for it, but to forget to bring me along to another world? Tsk, tsk, tsk. Look where that got you."

"...M-Mand?" I croaked. It didn't sound like me. My voice cracked like old wood under pressure. "How… how are you here?"

He shrugged, puffing on the small cigar nestled between two fingers, glowing like an ember in the gray.

"Who said I was?" Smoke spilled from his mouth in a slow spiral. "You're losing a lot of blood. Hallucinations are the least of your worries."

"Great," I muttered, twitching and immediately regretting it. Lightning pain tore through my side like barbed wire. "I'm hallucinating you now? Might as well just kill me and get it over with…"

"Pfft," Mand waved a hand, trailing a ghostly ribbon of smoke behind it. "I wouldn't give you the satisfaction of dying so easily."

Then his hand reached out—cool metal pressing against my chin.

Rings. Heavy ones.

I felt them press into my jaw as he tilted my face up, inspecting me like I was some museum relic that forgot how to stay intact.

"Yeesh," he muttered, glancing over every cut, every bruise… every failure on my skin. "At least these'll make you look manlier. Hell, you might finally get a girl at this rate."

"Oh, fuck off, man…" I groaned, blinking slowly. "I didn't fight that—thing—-just to be insulted by a ghost."

"Really?" he raised a brow I couldn't see but could feel. "Because that's what it looks like to me. You said it yourself—where would you be without me?"

"I was talking about writing, you entitled prick."

He laughed again. Dry. Sarcastic. Warm in a weird, shitty, nostalgic way that made my chest tighten in ways that had nothing to do with cracked ribs.

"Didn't you say I was the inspiration for you to start working out?" He took a drag from the cigar, the tip flaring orange against the dimness. "That doesn't sound like writing to me."

I tried to laugh, but it came out as a wheeze. Something wet bubbled up in my throat.

"Just get on with it, man. What the hell are you doing here? Why am I seeing you?"

His smile dropped, just slightly.

"Because," he said, the edge of his voice barely audible under the thunder, "somewhere deep in that broken meat sack of yours, you know you're not ready to die."

He flicked the cigar—and then, without warning—SMACK.

He slapped the shoulder Vulture had torn open like a Christmas present. I screamed—a short, sharp breath that barely made it out.

"And if you died because you were penetrated by a man," he added, casually dragging from the cigar, "I'd never let you live down the fact you died gay."

I flopped an arm up, trying to swat at him. It hit the air like trying to punch through a dream.

"I can't say I missed this," I muttered through grit teeth.

"Of course you did," he shot back, deadpan. Then, "Do me a favor. Next time you see that flying rat—rip his limbs off, would ya?"

'What, a wing wasn't enough for you?"

"Did you forget who you're talking to?"

"Right…" I groaned. "Too bad we never got to the blood eagle scene, huh?"

"Would've been fantastic," he sighed.

Mand stood, but the rain didn't hit him. It blurred around him like he didn't quite exist in this version of the world. His black dress pants clung slightly from the moisture in the air, but nothing touched his face.

Then he reached down and grabbed my wrist.

His skin was warm, grounding me in a way nothing else could right now.

"C'mon," he said, voice firmer now. "You've got more fight in you. You're not gonna die like this."

I groaned. My ribs protested. My shoulder tried to collapse under me. But I rose. Slowly. Shakily. Like a puppet with frayed strings.

But I stood. Somehow.

"Hey," I breathed, barely audible. "I did miss you."

"Likewise," Mand said, stepping back, smoke curling off his shoulders like a halo of ash. "But don't worry, Peter… I'll see you on the other side. This isn't the last we see each other."

"If you become a god," I mumbled, recalling our previous conversations where if he woke up in an alternate universe he'd aim for godhood and immortality. "Make sure you find me… you hear me?"

"Naturally." he chuckled. "I'll find the entire Mando'ade and reunite us if I do. So don't forget…"

He leaned in, patting my back like it hadn't been chewed up and spit out by a monster.

"You need to stay alive."

His voice didn't echo so much as it resonated—like something older than time itself, tucked beneath my ribs.

"Don't let this be your end," he muttered, and then—without warning—he shoved me forward.

And just like that, Mand was gone.

Not like he vanished, or even blinked out of existence, but rather as though he'd never been there to begin with.

The storm crashed back into me like a cold wave.

I stumbled forward, one step after another. With each step I took, I could almost swear I heard his laughter hiding in the thunder. I couldn't help but smile softly.

"...Fucking asshole," I muttered, barely upright. "Even in death, he's not gonna let me live that down."

I continued walking down the street, unsure of how I was going to make it back to Ben, the storm swallowing me.

MIDTOWN GENERAL

The hours dragged like weights tied to their ankles. MJ had stopped counting the minutes. Somewhere beyond the silence of the room, a clock was ticking, but it didn't feel tethered to reality anymore. Time here wasn't linear—it was a heavy, fogged-up limbo, where breath came slow and thoughts came slower. The lights overhead had dimmed slightly, as if the hospital itself knew to hush the world when it came to the ICU. MJ sat curled in the corner chair again, knees hugged to her chest, her sneakers half off. Her hoodie sleeves were stretched down over her fists, pulled so tight it was a wonder the seams held.

Ben hadn't moved from his spot by the window.

He was perched forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped as if in prayer, though his lips never moved. His eyes were glassy, rimmed red with a quiet sort of pain that didn't know how to scream—only simmer. The blood on his collar had dried into a dark rust. He still hadn't changed clothes. Neither of them had eaten. Anna had left an hour ago to call the rest of the family—something about letting them know where to find them, but MJ suspected it was also to give them space. And maybe to cry alone.

The door creaked open.

A nurse stepped in—mid-30s maybe, dark circles under her eyes, clipboard clutched tight to her chest. Her scrubs were powder blue, her sneakers silent on the tile. She paused in the doorway for a moment too long, just enough to make MJ's stomach plummet. There was a look nurses got when they were about to deliver news they didn't want to carry. This was that look.

Ben straightened.

"Is she going to be okay?" he asked, and the words sounded like sandpaper, like they hurt to even push out.

The nurse's eyes dropped to the floor, then slowly back to his.

"She made it through surgery," she said gently. "She's in stable condition now, and we've moved her to the ICU."

MJ's breath caught. Ben nodded once, but his body was trembling.

"Can we see her?"

The nurse took a step inside, her voice soft but honest—almost painfully so.

"You can go back shortly. She's being monitored closely. The next few hours are going to be critical."

Ben's fingers tightened into his palms.

"What does that mean?" His voice was firmer now. Not angry—never angry. Just desperate. Cracking at the edges.

The nurse swallowed.

"It means... it's up to her now."

The silence that followed wasn't empty. It was full—stuffed with everything no one could say. It pressed in around the room like a second ceiling, heavy and suffocating. MJ's hands went to her mouth without thinking, covering the small, broken gasp that slipped out. Her eyes burned. She didn't want to cry here. She didn't want to be the one who fell apart while Ben was still upright—but God, it was too much.

Ben lowered his head.

He didn't sob. Not loudly. But his shoulders caved inward, and a sound escaped him—a choked, trembling exhale that barely cleared his throat. He braced his elbows against his knees again, both hands over his face now, as if shielding himself from the moment.

The nurse gave them space, nodding silently and stepping back into the hallway, letting the door fall closed behind her with the softest click MJ had ever heard.

And just like that, they were alone again.

MJ couldn't breathe.

She turned her head toward the window, the city lights outside a blurry watercolor of gold and red behind the rain. Her chest ached like she'd been hollowed out and filled with cold water. She kept waiting to wake up. To snap out of it. To hear someone say it was a mistake—that it was just a gas leak, or a dream, or a nightmare Peter had invented while trying to ditch math class.

But no one came.

The silence remained.

Her fingers curled tighter around her knees, her nails pressing into the denim of her jeans.

"Peter..." she whispered, not even realizing she was speaking aloud. Her voice barely breached the air, like a breeze trying to move through molasses. "Where are you?"

She didn't expect an answer.

She just stared out into the storm, her reflection faint and ghostlike in the glass, wondering if somewhere out there—somewhere past the rooftops and the clouds and the noise—he was still breathing.

Because if he wasn't… she wasn't sure how much more any of them could take.

Ben didn't look up at first. He just sat there, eyes sunken, hands loosely knotted between his knees as if someone had drained the strength from his bones. The quiet had grown thick again, syrupy and full of everything they couldn't say. MJ watched him for a moment, heart clawing at her chest, then spoke—softly, gently, as though anything louder might tip him off balance for good.

"Ben… is there anyone I should call? That way, in case…"

She couldn't finish the sentence. The words curled up and died somewhere in the back of her throat.

Ben finally turned to her. His eyes were raw, and there was something in them that looked like resignation—but not defeat. Not yet.

"Harry," he said hoarsely. "And his father. They'll want to be here."

MJ nodded, already reaching into the pocket of her jeans for her phone.

"Do you know their number off the top of your head?"

Ben didn't hesitate.

"Yes. I do…"

He recited the number with surprising clarity, like it had lived in his memory for years, untouched.

MJ mouthed a quiet thank-you, then stepped into the hallway. The air felt colder out here, like the walls themselves were grieving. She turned her back to the door, took a breath that didn't help at all, and dialed.

It rang once.

Then twice.

Then—

"Hello?" a man answered, his voice sharp and tired, like someone who hadn't meant to be woken but was already on edge. "Who is this?"

MJ blinked, suddenly unsure how to begin.

"Is this Norman?" she asked.

There was a pause.

"Yes. It is."

She swallowed.

"Uh—hi. My name is Mary Jane Watson. I'm a neighbor of the Parkers. Something's happened, and… and you need to come to Midtown General. Right away."

Another pause. Longer this time.

Norman's voice came back colder, confused but not panicked—yet.

"What happened?"

MJ's hand clenched tighter around the phone. She could feel her pulse in her fingertips.

"Something attacked the Parkers," she said, her voice almost cracking. "And May's in critical condition. She's out of surgery but they… they don't know if she's going to make it."

Silence again—but this time it wasn't just a pause.

She could feel him processing it on the other end. Like a shift in air pressure. Like the oxygen itself thinned.

When he spoke next, Norman Osborn's voice had dropped—quieter now, and heavy.

"...What about Ben?"

"He's okay," MJ said. "Shaken. Hurt, but not like—he's heading back there with her soon."

A breath. A faint rustle like he was standing now, grabbing something.

"And Peter?"

MJ's throat closed.

There it was again—that question that kept hitting like a brick through glass.

She didn't answer right away.

Norman noticed.

"Miss Watson," he said, firmer now. "Is Peter okay?"

MJ closed her eyes.

"We don't know," she whispered. "He… he's missing."

THE OSBORN PENTHOUSE

Norman's throat felt dry as he got off the phone with Mary Jane. He stood frozen in the dim light of his office, the sound of her voice still clinging to the air like smoke. "May's in critical condition. They don't know if she's going to make it."

His hand, still holding the phone, slowly lowered to his side. The screen dimmed and went black. For a long moment, he just stood there—unmoving—his silhouette cut sharply against the broken window behind him. The wind from outside nudged at his collar, brushing past his ear like a whisper of blame.

He'd been spiraling ever since he found the penthouse in ruins. The chaos, the broken glass, the overturned furniture—it hadn't just been vandalism. It was a warning. One he hadn't heeded fast enough. He'd tried calling Walter. Again. And again. And again. Nothing. No response. No sign of life. And now May Parker—kind, stubborn, unshakable May—was fighting for her life in an ICU bed.

His guilt clawed at him like something alive.

You brought Walter back into this world. You thought you could control it. You thought you could reason with a man who spent years pretending he was already dead.

A soft crunch echoed from the hallway behind him. The sound of broken glass scooped into a dustpan. Then came Harry's voice, casual, a little tired.

"Who was that, Dad?"

Norman didn't move right away. His shoulders were squared, but stiff—like if he shifted even slightly, everything might come undone. He turned slowly, one hand smoothing down the front of his coat out of habit.

"Peter's neighbor," he said after a beat. "Mary Jane."

Harry entered the room fully now, a garbage bin at his side, a dustpan still in one hand. There were fine lines of plaster dust on his jeans, and a shallow scrape on his knuckle from where a cabinet handle had cut him earlier.

"MJ? What was she calling for?"

Norman looked at him. The words he wanted to say caught in his throat. He swallowed them once—twice—before finding something that would hold.

"Something's happened, son…"

Harry's expression shifted, a furrow forming between his brows.

"What do you mean?"

Norman let out a slow breath. His voice came lower now, steadier but hollow.

"The Parkers were attacked. May's in surgery. She's in critical condition."

Harry's mouth parted slightly, like the words took a second to land.

"Oh my God," he breathed. "Are—are they okay? Is Peter okay?"

Norman's gaze drifted toward the broken window, the city lights beyond.

"Ben's okay, but they couldn't find Peter. He wasn't with them when the paramedics arrived."

That silenced Harry entirely. He set the dustpan down and sat slowly on the edge of the desk, like the floor had just dropped out beneath him.

"Was it a robbery?" he asked after a moment, voice low.

Norman shook his head.

"I don't know… but we need to go."

As his son disappeared down the hall, Norman took one last look at the hole in the window, the city beyond it stretching endlessly into the dark.

You should've stopped this.

He adjusted the collar of his coat.

But you won't let it continue.

Then he turned and followed Harry out.

MEANWHILE...

I should've trusted my spider-sense.

That low thrum behind my eyes, that pit in my gut, that tightness in my chest that just wouldn't leave. I kept brushing it off like a cobweb. Told myself it was nothing. Just nerves. Just stress. Just me being paranoid again. Always so good at convincing myself I'm wrong… until I'm too late.

And now May's paid the price for it.

She died protecting me.

My boots scraped against wet pavement, one in front of the other, but barely. Every step felt like hauling a cinderblock. My breath came in shallow gasps. Cold rain soaked through my shirt and clung to the wound in my side, making it sting worse, like the storm wanted in on the punishment too.

I leaned on a parked car, the alarm softly chirping as I slid down its side. My bloody palm left a smeared print across the hood—brief, then gone, washed away into the city's gutters.

Everywhere I looked was a blur of gray. Streetlights haloed like memories through the rain. Tires hissed by. A world still turning, uncaring. People warm inside restaurants. Taxis passing. The city moving on like nothing had happened.

My aunt was dying. Maybe already dead.

And I was still here.

It should've been me. That's the thought that kept digging its claws deeper. Over and over. If one of us had to be the sacrifice—it should've been me. Not her. Not the person who made pancakes on Sundays and left notes in my lunchbox and smiled even when life kicked her in the teeth.

I staggered forward again, turned a corner, and my knees gave out.

The concrete met me fast and hard, biting into my jeans. I collapsed there in the gutter, next to a storm drain choking on runoff, rain pattering in rhythmic bursts against my shoulders. I didn't even try to get up. What was the point?

And then… she was there.

Right in front of me. Standing like she'd always stood—feet close together, hands folded in front of her, that same sweater she always wore when the weather turned. Her smile was soft, never smug. Eyes gentle, but bright, lit with that same stubborn kindness that could melt through any wall.

"Peter…" she said, and her voice was just like I remembered it. Warm. Patient. "Dear, don't blame yourself."

I couldn't breathe.

Tears mixed with rain as I looked up at her—my mouth hanging open, trying to form words around the weight in my throat.

"I'm so sorry, May…" I whimpered. My voice was hoarse, scraped raw by guilt and smoke and blood. "I didn't—I wasn't fast enough. I didn't save you."

She stepped closer, and if the ground weren't freezing, I might've believed I could feel the warmth of her hand against my face.

"I wouldn't have done what I did," she said gently, kneeling in front of me, her forehead almost touching mine, "if I didn't believe you would be okay."

My breath hitched. My whole body shook.

"I'm not okay," I whispered.

"But you will be," she said.

Her hands found mine—not pressing, not pulling, just resting. Solid. Certain.

"Because you're strong, Peter Parker. Stronger than you know. Strong enough to survive this… and strong enough to make sure no one else has to lose what you did."

My shoulders folded forward, sobs shuddering through me like thunder beneath my ribs.

"I didn't want this."

"I know," she said.

"I just wanted to do the right thing."

"You still can," she whispered. "It's not too late."

I lifted my head. She smiled again, and there was no judgment in it. Just love. Unshaken… and unflinching.

"You're not alone, Peter," she said. "You never were. Even if we're worlds apart, I'm always with you."

I blinked.

She was gone, leaving just the rain, the wind, and my own heartbeat pounding like a war drum in my ears to keep me company. But something inside me felt steadier than before. Not healed. Not yet. But anchored.

I pushed myself up.

My limbs screamed and my head spun, but I got to my feet.

She believed I'd be okay.

So now I had to make sure she was right.

MIDTOWN GENERAL

Time moved like molasses—each second stretching, bending, warping under the weight of uncertainty. The kind of uncertainty that didn't just gnaw at your nerves, but took up residence in your lungs and refused to let you breathe right.

Anna returned first, pushing the cafeteria door open with her hip. The scent of burnt coffee clung to the steam rising off the cardboard cups she cradled in her hands—two for the adults, and a soda for MJ, the latter sweating condensation onto the palm of her hand before she even touched it. Anna offered a small, tired smile as she passed them out, but it didn't quite reach her eyes.

Ben was hunched in a chair that looked too small for the weight he carried. He took the cup with a murmured thank you, his fingers wrapping around it like it might anchor him to something. He hadn't spoken much since the nurse's update. Just sat there, eyes fixed on the hallway that led to the ICU like it might open and return her to him. MJ watched the way his thumb tapped rhythmically against the cardboard, like he was keeping time with a clock only he could hear.

She took her soda with both hands and retreated to the farthest chair in the room. It was tucked into a corner by a fake ficus and a stack of outdated magazines. The kind of chair you sit in when you don't want to be noticed but can't stand the idea of leaving. Her legs were curled up beneath her. She held the drink like it was something sacred.

And then the elevator dinged.

It wasn't loud—not really—but it cut through the stillness like a pin through silk. They all looked up at once.

The doors slid open, and two figures stepped out.

Norman Osborn was taller than MJ expected. Broader, too. He wore a dark overcoat over a crisp gray suit, but it was the way he carried himself that gave him away—stiff-backed, precise, like the world had tried to break him once and failed, but not without leaving cracks. His eyes scanned the waiting room immediately, sharp and focused, and landed on Ben with an expression that flickered—grief, anger, relief, guilt—all flashing across his face in under a second.

Harry trailed behind, hoodie pulled up, shoulders rounded slightly forward like he wasn't sure how to hold himself. His eyes found Anna first, and they softened.

Ben stood.

They didn't say anything at first. Norman walked straight to him and pulled him into an embrace—one of those brief, firm ones that men like them share when the world gets too cruel. Ben didn't resist. His hand gripped the back of Norman's jacket like it was the only solid thing left.

"I'm so sorry," Norman murmured.

Harry was next. He hugged Ben quickly, but with more pressure than MJ expected. Then he turned to Anna, offering a small nod and a tighter smile. "Ms. Watson."

"Harry," Anna said softly, cupping the back of his head for a second the way older women do when they're trying not to cry. "You didn't have to come."

"Yes, I did."

Norman looked around the room, eyes sweeping over the faces—Anna, Ben, the flickering light in the hallway, and finally MJ.

She felt his gaze before she saw it. The way it settled on her made her stomach twist. Not because he was cruel, or angry, or even judgmental—but because he looked like a man who had just realized something important. Something horrifying.

"You're Mary Jane?" he asked.

She nodded slowly, rising from her seat like she was unsure if she should stand at all.

"MJ. Yeah."

"You called me."

"Yeah… I figured someone needed to. Ben asked me to."

Norman inclined his head.

"Thank you. You did the right thing."

"Of course…"

Harry watched her with curious eyes. She wasn't sure if he was analyzing her, or just stunned to see her there.

He sat down beside her, dropping into the chair like gravity had tripled on the way over.

"So, you're MJ?" he asked, voice low, eyes kind.

She nodded again.

"Yeah."

"Pete's told me a lot about you."

That tugged a small chuckle out of her, despite everything. It felt dry, but real.

"That right?"

Harry smiled, but it faded quickly.

"He's got a very high opinion of you." he admitted. "Honestly, I'm a bit jealous really. Makes me feel like you're replacing me."

"From the way Peter talks, nobody's replacing you." MJ's chest tightened as she said his name, and a deep frown split her lips. "Have you heard from him?"

"Not since before school let out… you?" he asked.

"No. Nothing."

He waited a second, but then let out a heavy breath.

"What happened?"

MJ stared at the floor for a long moment. She could hear the others behind her, could feel the way their quiet settled over the room like fresh snow. But here, in this corner, with Harry's voice calm and curious, she felt like she had permission to finally speak.

"I had Peter's schoolwork," she said, voice barely above a whisper. "He came over to grab it. We talked for a bit. He seemed… off. Like something was bugging him, but he wouldn't say what. Then he heard something back home. A noise. He told me to call the cops. And then he ran."

Harry leaned in slightly, listening.

"There was this crashing sound, and shouting, and… and something came out of their house. I don't even know how to describe it. Like a giant bird. No. Bigger…. Something with wings and claws. I don't know… It grabbed him and flew off."

His jaw tightened.

"I didn't even know it was him at first," she added. "It happened so fast. I thought… I don't know what I thought, but then Anna and I went over and saw May…"

She stopped.

Tears burned at the corners of her eyes again, and she blinked hard, refusing to let them fall. Not here. Not now.

"She was trying to protect him," MJ finished. "That thing… it hurt her. Bad."

The silence afterward was unbearable. Thick. Drowning.

"I'm sorry," Harry said quietly.

MJ just nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

Ben's voice caught their attention.

"We still haven't heard anything new. They said it'd be hours before we know anything."

Norman looked at him, haunted.

"What can we do?"

"Wait," Ben said. "That's all we can do."

Harry leaned back in his chair. MJ noticed the way he rubbed his thumb against his palm, like he was working through something he didn't want to say out loud.

"I'm going to make some calls," Harry finally said, standing up and pulling his phone out.

Peter's name wasn't mentioned again after that, not for a while. But it hung in the air all the same—an unspoken weight pulling them all toward the same gravitational center.

Because he should've been here.

Because if he were here, maybe this wouldn't have happened.

Because wherever he was, he was alone.

And the longer the clock ticked on the wall, the more MJ feared that the next time she saw Peter Parker… she might not recognize the boy who made her laugh when he talked too fast because he was nervous.

MEANWHILE...

I stumbled against the wall of the alley, my shoulder dragging hard against the soaked brick. My stomach twisted again—violent, churning like I'd swallowed a cyclone. The air felt thick, heavy, impossible to breathe. Like I was underwater. Drowning.

My knees buckled. Everything tilted.

And then—I was falling.

I didn't even have time to brace.

But before I could hit the ground, a hand caught me—palm pressed flat against my chest, steady, warm, and real. I blinked. Once. Twice.

The world spun like a bottle at a drunken slumber party.

And standing there—clearer than anything else in this fucked-up, storm-shattered world—was him.

Clean hoodie. No blood, no bruises. Not the version that had just been torn apart in the street, but one that looked right. Familiar in a way that sent ice skimming down my spine.

He smiled.

"Come on. Stay awake," he said gently, like a friend keeping you from drifting off behind the wheel. "What's the matter? You look like you've seen a ghost."

I stared.

Mouth dry.

Breath catching.

"P–Peter?" I rasped.

My voice didn't even sound like mine.

He cocked his head slightly, the way you do when trying not to spook a stray animal.

"Hey…" he said, like it was casual. Like this wasn't impossible. "About time we finally meet, huh?"

"H–how is this… what?" I stammer, my tongue thick in my mouth. The alley's spinning like a carousel from hell, but Peter's just standing there, clear as daylight and twice as smug. He runs a hand through his rain-slicked hair, giving it a half-hearted flick like he's about to flirt with the storm itself.

I squint at him, jaw hanging open.

"I'm hallucinating again, aren't I?"

He grins lopsided, hands on his hips like—well, like a superhero.

"I wish it were that simple. But, uh… I'm afraid it's really me."

That breaks my brain for a full three seconds.

"Wait—you're not in my head?"

Peter raises a finger, turning slightly like he's lecturing a very confused class of one.

"Might wanna define what that means," he says. "If you mean some manifestation of your subconscious trying to keep your sorry butt alive, then no. But if you're talking about, uh… what's that comic character you keep thinking about on occasion? The one that's like… two people jammed into one?"

My vision's swimming again, but I raise an eyebrow anyway.

"What?"

"I've been stuck in your head, man! With your thoughts, your monologues, your endless tangents about trauma and narrative pacing—God, you don't shut up. And I thought I talked a lot when I'm scared or nervous."

His hands gesture wildly now. Rain should be hitting him, but it just sort of misses. Like reality forgot to finish rendering that part.

He snaps his fingers suddenly.

"It's the DC guy! The one who can cause a thermonuclear explosion if they separate without that splicer."

"Are you talking about Firestorm?"

"That's it!" he points at me like I just solved the riddle of the Sphinx. "I'm the Professor Stein to your Ronnie Raymond."

He pauses.

"…I hate being the sidekick, by the way."

"The sidekick?" I huff, still trying to focus, still trying to stay upright. "You're not a sidekick…"

Peter doesn't answer right away.

He just looks at me—really looks at me—and for the first time, that grin slips.

"No," he says finally, quieter now. "You're right."

His eyes drift down for a second, hands still planted on his hips like he's trying to hold something inside from falling apart.

"I'm not a sidekick," he murmurs. "I'm a spectator in my own body."

The rain seems to hesitate around us. The city's noise dulls to a whisper. And for a moment, it's just us—me, bleeding and barely upright, and him, stuck behind glass he can't break, watching someone else live his life.

"That's not fair," I say, because it's the only thing I can say.

He shrugs, but it's hollow. Like he already knows. Like he's been feeling it every second since I woke up in his skin.

"Yeah," he says, voice raw. "Tell me about it."

"Peter, I'm serious… I didn't want this."

He holds his hands up innocently.

"I know." Peter nods. "Like I said, I've been stuck listening to your monologues, pal. Honestly, I'm kind of flattered you think so highly of me. Though, kind of freaked out about the fact in the world you come from, I'm a comic book character. That's totally not an existential crisis waiting to happen."

I chuckle dryly, using the wall to keep me standing straight. Peter walks over to the wall, and leans there with me.

"It's not what either of us wanted," I admit under my breath.

"Well, that's the Parker luck, Chuck. From what I understand, that's the way the universe likes to mess with us..." he crosses his arms.

"I'm sorry, I tried-"

"Hey, don't apologize. You risked your life to save Ben and May... and for that, I'm grateful."

"But, May..." I start, my voice catching on her name. "She was protecting you."

Peter's words hang in the air like smoke—so soft they almost don't reach me, and yet they settle right in the pit of my chest.

"No, she was protecting you," he repeats, quieter now.

I don't answer.

Because I can't.

My throat tightens. My eyes sting—whether from the rain or everything else, I'm not sure anymore.

I lean harder into the wall, as if maybe it'll hold more than just my weight. As if it might carry some of what I'm feeling. But it doesn't. Of course it doesn't.

"Peter…" I say, finally. "If I hadn't been here… if it had just been you, maybe—"

"No," he cuts in, firmly this time. His voice doesn't rise, but there's steel beneath it. "Don't do that. Don't start rewriting the past in your head."

"I'm just saying—"

"She still would've been there. Still would've stepped between us and that monster. That's who she is." He turns toward me, eyes—God, those are his eyes—locking with mine. "You think I haven't run that scenario a thousand different ways already? I have. None of them end differently."

A long silence stretches between us. The kind that feels like it's balancing on a razor.

"You feel guilty," he says at last, gentler now. "And I get it. Believe me, I do. But this isn't on you."

I look at him—and maybe it's the way the rain never quite touches him, or the way the shadows curl slightly differently around his shoulders—but at that moment, I don't feel like I'm looking at a hallucination.

"I should have saved her."

"You did your best with the options you had, and you gave Ben a chance to get her out of there. I think you did better with my powers than I would have in that moment."

"Are you serious?" I ask, and he nods.

"If I were in your shoes, I would have been selfish with my powers... you haven't been..."

Peter shrugs—just a little—but it's the kind of shrug that carries weight. Like the truth is heavy and he's been shouldering it for longer than he'd like to admit.

"If I were in your shoes," he says, his voice quieter now, "I don't know if I could've done what you did. You didn't run. You didn't hide. You jumped in—headfirst—into something terrifying, and you fought like hell."

I stare at him, barely blinking.

He's serious.

"You think I've got some kind of noble instinct?" he goes on, almost laughing at himself. "That I'd automatically know how to save everybody? I'm fourteen, man. I barely know how to get through the day."

"But you're Peter Parker… the Amazing Spider-Man."

"No I'm not." he shakes his head. "I'm not the one with powers. You are. You're the hero, not me."

"Me? A hero… really? I'm not a hero."

"Yes, you are. You ran into that apartment and saved those kids, and you would have done that regardless whether you had powers or not, because that's who you are. You faced a monster because you didn't want to lose the ones you loved… if that's not a hero, I don't know what is."

"Peter, I… I stole your life, man."

"Not by choice, and from what I can tell… you genuinely care. You tried to save May and Ben… and I am grateful. So, don't apologize. If anyone's going to get to be Peter Parker, or even Spider-Man… I'm glad it's you."

"You mean that?" I ask, feeling my eyes sting.

"I do. It's like they say… anyone can wear the mask, right?" He smiles. "We're a lot more alike than I thought we would be. I just hope this isn't the only time we'll get to talk to each other. It's kind of nice being able to speak to someone and have an actual conversation."

"I wouldn't know about that, I like the quiet."

"Wanna trade places? Because I think after three weeks you'd hate it just as much as I do."

"Touche," I chuckle.

His eyes drift down for a second… like he's trying to hold something inside from falling apart.

"You know, I used to wonder if anyone would remember me. If I just… vanished. But I guess someone did…" he smiles at me. "Can you do me a favor?"

"Anything."

"Be the hero, Pete… be the Amazing Spider-Man, be the Spectacular Spider-Man… just be him. Be the hero I know you can be… and when you see Ben and May… just make sure you let know how much I love them, okay?"

"I will. I promise."

"And one last thing… Go down swinging, Spidey." Peter smiles at me, and I can only stand there and watch as he fades away into the night, leaving me alone in the alley once more.

"Absolutely…"

With that, I started walking again, my resolve now steeled and a weight lifted off of my chest that I didn't know I'd been struggling with.

After what felt like an eternity, I finally recognized some of my surroundings.

Not all at once. It came in flashes—street signs warped by rain, chain-link fences curling around the edge of a junkyard, that mural on the side of the corner deli with the spray-painted tiger someone'd given sunglasses. The kind of details you don't think you'll ever remember until the night tries to swallow you whole, and suddenly they're all that's keeping you tethered.

I wasn't far from Midtown. A mile or two, maybe less if I cut through the park. But my steps were starting to drag like I was wearing concrete boots. The cold had sunk deeper into my skin, past the bone, into places I didn't think cold could live. My hands felt like they didn't belong to me anymore. My fingers were raw, and the chain around my arms was digging into my wrist with every sway of my stride.

Each breath came out hoarse. Useless.

And the blood—God, there was still so much blood. I couldn't tell how much of it was mine anymore. I wasn't sure it mattered.

The storm was a wall now. Rain stabbing sideways. Wind screaming down empty alleys. The occasional flash of lightning gave me just enough to see the world around me tilt and wobble. My shoes slapped wet pavement, each step just a bit less certain than the last. My body felt like it was folding in on itself, piece by piece. Everything ached. Even the pain had stopped being sharp. It was dull now. Numb. Like I was slipping out of it.

I think that scared me more than anything.

Just keep walking, Parker. You're almost there.

I told myself that every three steps.

Just keep walking. Don't stop. Don't lie down. Don't—

A pair of headlights cut through the rain, sudden and blinding.

I flinched, throwing a hand up instinctively. My body turned halfway like I was going to run, but there was nowhere to go. My knees buckled, slipping on the slick asphalt. The lights didn't move. They weren't barreling toward me—they'd just pulled around the corner and found me already there, barely upright, like some broken piece of roadkill too stubborn to die.

My lungs heaved. My hand dropped slowly from my face.

The lights grew bigger. Closer. A door slammed.

"Hey!" someone yelled. "Are you okay?!"

I opened my mouth, but the words wouldn't come. My throat was sandpaper. My jaw barely moved.

"May…" I croaked.

That was all I got out. Just her name, shaped in cracked lips and blood and guilt.

The world tilted hard.

The sky spun, and the ground vanished.

And then everything went black.

Arsenal597 · 2025-12-03T23:15:12+0000

MIDTOWN GENERAL

The fluorescent lights in the hospital lobby buzzed faintly above Harry's head, mixing with the low hum of the vending machines and the occasional squeak of over-waxed floors. It was a sterile kind of quiet, the kind that didn't offer peace—just space for worry to get louder.

Harry leaned against the wall near the main entrance, hoodie still damp around the cuffs, his phone clutched in both hands like he could will it to ring. Gwen had texted a few minutes ago to say they were on their way. He hadn't expected them to mean this many…

The sliding glass doors parted with a mechanical sigh.

First in was Flash Thompson—hood up, jacket zipped to the chin, hands shoved deep in his pockets. His eyes scanned the lobby with visible impatience, jaw already tight.

Behind him came Gwen, her umbrella dripping, blonde hair damp around the edges. She looked less put-together than usual—like she'd grabbed the first jacket in reach and bolted out the door.

And trailing a few steps behind both of them, Lonnie Lincoln. Tall, quiet, his arms folded, wearing a battered Mets cap like it might keep the world at bay.

They stopped just short of the reception desk.

"Yo, Osborn," Flash called, spreading his arms in irritation. "What the hell is going on? Stacy wouldn't tell me why I needed to come out in the middle of this shit."

Harry's throat tensed. He closed his eyes for a second, inhaled slowly through his nose.

Not now.

Not here.

He stepped forward and didn't look at Flash.

"Gwen," he said. "Why is he here?"

Flash scoffed loudly, but Gwen answered first.

"He's the one saying they're friends," she said, brushing her soaked bangs out of her eyes. "Even with what happened at school yesterday. I figured he'd want to be here."

"Friends with who?" Flash threw his arms out dramatically. "Seriously, what is going on? Who else would we all show up for at—what—eleven-thirty at night?"

Lonnie shifted, arms still crossed.

"Come on, Flash. Who do you think?"

Flash blinked.

"Wait—Parker?"

Lonnie nodded.

"Yeah. Peter."

Flash looked around the lobby again like he was missing a camera crew ready to jump out and yell gotcha.

"Okay, great. So why am I here for him?" He jabbed a thumb into his own chest. "The guy who got me suspended earlier today!"

Harry turned, fists clenched at his sides, ready to blow.

"Because his aunt is dying," he said, flat and sharp.

Flash's mouth shut. The heat in his expression didn't vanish exactly—but it fractured. His arms dropped a little. His shoulders shifted forward.

"May…" he said, the name falling from his mouth like it hurt to say. "May's dying?"

Harry didn't soften.

"She was attacked," he said. "No one's said it out loud yet, but… it's not looking good."

A long silence followed.

Flash didn't sit down, didn't ask anything else. He just stood there, blinking like he was trying to reset the last ten minutes of his life.

"I didn't know," he muttered. "I didn't—" He stopped himself. His jaw flexed. "What happened?"

"We're still trying to figure it out," Gwen said, gently. "MJ was there. She saw Peter… he, uh… he got taken."

"Taken?" Lonnie echoed, straightening.

Harry's gaze fell.

"Some kind of creature. Wings, claws. MJ said it grabbed him and flew off."

Lonnie's face darkened.

"Jesus…"

Flash dropped into one of the vinyl lobby chairs with a huff, like his knees didn't want to hold him anymore.

"Jesus, man… wait, what about Ben?"

"He's fine, a little beat up but he'll be fine." Harry explained.

For a moment, Flash didn't say anything.

Then, quietly: "She used to give me cookies. Every Christmas. Even after I egged their porch in seventh grade."

The group fell into a stunned kind of silence.

Rain hammered the hospital's front windows, distant sirens bleeding into the background. The overhead lights cast everyone in this weird, soft blue that made it feel like they were waiting to be called into a dream they didn't want to have.

Flash sat back, staring up at the ceiling tiles. "I don't even know why I'm here, man. I didn't come to be part of some group hug. I didn't come to pretend me and Parker are best friends or whatever."

"No one asked you to," Harry said, voice quiet but even. "But you came anyway."

Flash looked away.

But his silence said the name they were all thinking.

Peter.

MEANWHILE...

The storm hadn't let up all night.

Wipers screeched against the windshield in protest, barely keeping up with the downpour. Rain splattered in waves, blurring the city into a gray smear of lights and shadows. Thunder growled overhead, deep and distant, like something old and angry pacing behind the clouds. The roads were half-flooded, the gutters overflowing. Kyle kept both hands on the wheel, leaning forward as if that might help the headlights see any farther through the wall of water.

Marie sat twisted halfway in her seat, checking the back every few seconds.

"Billy, keep your sister's seatbelt tight," she said, even though she'd already checked it twice.

"I got it," Billy replied, voice thin but steady. Kallie was asleep on his shoulder, her thumb still near her mouth even though she hadn't sucked it in over a year. Her stuffed animal—charred at the ears—was clutched tightly to her chest.

Marie reached back and brushed Kallie's hair away from her forehead. Her hand lingered longer than it needed to. She still smelled faintly of smoke. Not from tonight—but from weeks ago. From the building. The kind of smell that hung around in memory more than in air.

"She asleep?" Kyle asked, eyes never leaving the road.

"Yeah," Marie murmured. "Out cold."

"Good." He sighed. "Storm's getting worse. We'll swing by the gas station near the highway and then head home."

Marie nodded. Then her gaze drifted out the window again.

Something moved.

It was fast—just a flicker of shape between one set of headlights and the next. She squinted, leaning toward the glass, thinking maybe it was a trick of the storm, maybe a branch or a trash can blowing across the street. But then—

"There!" she said sharply, pointing. "Someone's out there—Kyle, stop the car!"

Kyle slammed the brakes, tires skidding on the wet pavement as the car fishtailed slightly before stopping. Billy jolted upright in the backseat.

"What's happening?!"

Marie was already throwing her door open, cold wind slapping her face, rain instantly soaking through her clothes. She didn't feel any of it.

Across the street, half-collapsed under a flickering streetlamp, was a figure.

A boy—no, a teenager.

He staggered forward like his legs were made of rubber, like every step might be his last. His jacket hung in shreds off his body, sleeves dark and wet with blood. Deep gashes carved along his shoulders, and something ugly wrapped around his arms—a chain, rusted and biting into his skin. His face was smeared in blood and rain and dirt, his eyes barely open, lips moving without sound.

Then he dropped.

Right there in the middle of the street, like the storm had finally swallowed him whole.

Marie didn't think.

She ran.

The water reached her ankles by the time she got to him. Lightning flashed—and for a second, it lit everything. The blood. The bruises. The broken angle of his shoulder. The puncture wounds, deep and ragged, like something had tried to tear him apart.

And then her breath caught.

"Oh my God…"

His lips moved. She had to lean in close to hear.

"M-May…"

That was all he said.

Marie pressed a hand to his forehead. Burning. Soaked. And shaking under her palm.

"Kyle!" she screamed. "Get over here—now!"

Kyle was already out of the car, sprinting through the rain.

"Jesus," he breathed as he dropped beside them. "What the hell happened to him?"

"No idea, just—help me get him up."

They lifted him carefully, one arm slung over each of their shoulders. He didn't weigh as much as he should have—not with how tall he looked. Not with how solid he'd seemed before. It was like most of him had already left.

As they dragged him to the car, his legs buckled completely.

Marie reached for the door and shouted back to Billy, "Sweetheart, help me—pull the seat down. Make space."

Billy scrambled, his face pale as he pulled Kallie into his lap and made room.

"Is he gonna be okay?" he asked, voice cracking.

Marie didn't answer. She couldn't lie. Not with the way the teen looked.

They laid him down gently. His head lolled to the side, blood still trickling from a cut along his scalp. His breathing was shallow, barely there, each inhale a struggle like it was borrowed from someone else.

Then a small voice whispered:

"Mommy…"

Marie turned.

Kallie was sitting up now, eyes wide and glassy.

"That's him," she said. "He's the one that helped us."

Kyle blinked.

"What?"

"It is," Kallie nodded, her little hands clutching the edge of the seat as she stared down at him. "He saved us. From the fire."

Billy's lips parted slowly. He looked down at Peter's torn clothes, the blood, the chain wrapped like something out of a nightmare—and recognition hit him like a thunderclap.

"It is," he whispered. "It's really him."

Kyle stared at the boy sprawled across their backseat. At the wounds. At the chain.

"Oh my god…" he breathed. "What the hell happened to him?"

Marie didn't respond. Her eyes were locked on Peter's face.

Because even now—even like this—there was something familiar. Not his face, but the feeling. The presence. That same impossible weight she'd felt in the moment her children were handed back to her, safe and breathing.

"Drive," she said, climbing in and slamming the door. "Kyle, go. Get us to the hospital now."

He didn't argue.

The tires spun, the car lurched forward, and they tore through the rain-soaked streets like the whole world was trying to outrun what was coming.

Peter stirred again.

Barely. A twitch. A breath.

Then:

"M-May…"

Marie reached back and touched his forehead again. His skin was ice.

"It's okay," she whispered, not knowing if he could hear her. "You're going to be okay. You're safe now."

"Will he be okay?" Kallie asked, small and scared.

Marie glanced down at her daughter.

"He helped us," Kallie said. "We need to help him!"

Marie swallowed hard, her voice caught somewhere between fury and prayer.

"We will," she promised, her voice thick. "We will, baby."

The hospital wasn't far.

But Marie had never seen a road stretch longer in her life.

MIDTOWN GENERAL

The lobby doors let out a soft pneumatic hiss as they slid open, letting in a gust of damp summer air. MJ didn't notice at first. Her eyes were locked on Ben's.

They'd just stepped outside for air—if you could call the thick, humid weight of the evening air anything close to breathable. Ben's shoulders were slumped, one hand on the brick wall, the other gripping the folded fabric of his coat. He looked like the sky had already fallen on him once tonight.

MJ stood a few feet away, arms wrapped tightly around herself, her eyes red and puffy from trying not to cry in front of the others. Now, alone with Ben, she let the tears sit just beneath the surface, pressing against her throat.

"She asked for him," Ben murmured. His voice was hoarse, broken at the edges. "She woke up, just for a second. First thing she said was his name."

MJ didn't speak. Her fingers tightened slightly against her own sides.

"I told her he was safe," Ben continued, shaking his head. "I didn't even know if that was true."

Before she could say anything back, they both heard it—a voice, cutting through the low murmur of the hospital.

"Help! Someone—please, help!"

MJ's head snapped toward the sound, Ben stiffening beside her. The lobby doors hissed open again, and this time everyone noticed. Norman, Harry, Gwen, Lonnie, Anna—they all turned toward the entrance at once, as a soaking-wet couple staggered through the threshold.

Marie and Kyle were supporting someone between them.

At first, it didn't register who it was.

Then the blood caught the light.

Then the chains.

Then the face.

"Shit," Flash breathed. "Parker!"

He moved first, practically lunging forward with Lonnie right on his heels. The boy in their arms—no longer standing, really—was barely conscious, his feet dragging, his head lolling forward as they tried to keep him upright.

Flash reached them and took Peter's arm across his shoulders without thinking.

"Dude…" His voice cracked under the word. "What the hell happened to you?"

Peter didn't answer. His lips moved but nothing came out. His eyes fluttered, unfocused and glassy.

Gwen let out a choked sound, her hand flying to her mouth. Harry held her tighter as they both backed up, giving space.

Ben surged forward, but Anna caught him gently by the arm, steadying him as doctors and nurses rushed in from the ER hallway, pulling a gurney into place.

Marie was breathless, shivering and soaked, her hand stained red.

"We found him walking," she said quickly, eyes darting between the strangers. "Down by the old underpass—he just… collapsed."

Norman stepped forward, his face unreadable but his voice ironclad.

"You did the right thing."

They laid Peter down. His clothes stuck to him, torn and soaked. The nurses began cutting through the fabric with medical scissors. Every layer revealed worse than the last—purple bruises that bloomed across his ribs like storm clouds, lacerations that hadn't stopped bleeding, deep punctures at his shoulders, his neck raw where a chain had nearly choked him.

Ben looked like he'd been struck.

"Peter…" he whispered, his voice shaking as he followed the gurney.

One of the ER staff moved to stop him.

"Sir, please—let us work."

"I'm his uncle," Ben snapped, not angry but desperate. "Please."

The nurse hesitated, then nodded.

"You can come, but stay out of the way."

MJ had collapsed into Anna's arms by now, sobbing openly. Anna held her tight, whispering something, rocking slightly. Flash stood frozen just behind them, hands in his hair, eyes wide and unblinking.

"I didn't think…" he started, but couldn't finish.

The gurney disappeared behind swinging double doors.

Inside the trauma bay, the doctors worked fast. They rolled Peter onto his side, checking for spinal damage, then flat again. Someone shouted vitals. Another started an IV. One nurse wiped blood away from his face, revealing more bruising beneath.

"He's crashing!" one of them yelled. "No pulse—prep for defib!"

Ben's breath caught in his throat.

"No…" he said, barely a whisper.

The monitor emitted a long, flat note. A single line across the screen. Cold and merciless.

A nurse immediately reached for Ben.

"Sir, please—step back now."

But Ben didn't move. He couldn't. He was frozen, like every nerve in his body had turned to ice. His eyes were locked on Peter's chest—still. Motionless.

"Charging to 150—clear!"

The paddles came down. Peter's body convulsed, limbs jerking violently against the table.

No response.

Still flat.

The monitor screamed again—endless, piercing, mechanical. Not a sound, but a sentence. A verdict. A farewell.

"Still no rhythm," a nurse confirmed. "Increase charge."

"200—clear!"

Another jolt. Peter's back arched off the gurney as if his soul were being yanked from his spine. His mouth fell open, but there was no sound. No breath.

Ben's knees nearly buckled. He gripped the side of the doorway, nails scraping the paint, as if he could will Peter's heart to beat through force of will alone.

"Come on, come on…" one of the doctors muttered, sweat beading down his temple. "Come on, kid…"

The flatline continued. The beep of life didn't return.

The silence between the shocks grew heavier, thicker. Someone began chest compressions.

"One, two, three, four—"

Ben felt the weight of every count. It felt like they were pounding on his own heart.

Then—

A flicker.

A single spike on the screen.

Then another.

"Wait—he's coming back—sinus rhythm stabilizing—"

"He's back!" someone shouted. The room collectively exhaled.

Ben's legs gave out, and this time, he sank to his knees. He didn't cry. Not yet. But the sheer collapse in his face said enough—shock, relief, grief, and something else entirely: guilt. Bone-deep. Blinding.

Outside, behind the glass doors, everyone waited.

Norman stood like a statue, hands clenched behind his back. Harry and Gwen were on the floor now, side by side, not speaking. Flash hadn't moved. Lonnie sat with his elbows on his knees, head in his hands.

And MJ—still curled against her aunt—rocked slightly with each sob.

The silence Peter left behind stayed, heavy and oppressive, like smoke that refused to clear.

No one spoke.

The overhead lights buzzed gently, casting the lobby in that sterile blue-white hue that made everyone look more tired than they were. Gwen stood closest to the double doors, her hands still clasped near her mouth like she didn't realize she hadn't lowered them. Her eyes were locked on the place where the gurney had vanished, glassy and wide, and her lips moved in tiny trembles—silent questions with no answers. Harry stood just behind her, one hand on her shoulder, the other limp at his side.

Lonnie had sat down sometime during the chaos, though none of them had seen him do it. He was hunched forward now, elbows on his knees, his broad shoulders rising and falling with slow, measured breaths. His hands were pressed together like a steeple, fingertips digging into his brow, and his cap was pushed back just enough to show the worry pinched deep into his features. His foot tapped slowly against the tile, not out of impatience—just restlessness, like his body needed to move or it might scream.

Across the room, Flash was still standing where he'd been the moment Peter collapsed into his arms. His jacket was soaked, rainwater dripping in slow, rhythmic trails from the edge of his hood. His hands were balled into fists, shaking slightly, but he didn't seem to notice. His mouth opened once, like he was going to say something—maybe crack a joke, or swear, or demand to know what the hell was happening—but nothing came out. He just stood there, eyes fixed on the floor like it held the answer to a question no one had asked yet.

Anna had taken MJ back to the chairs near the corner, guiding her down gently like her niece might fall apart if she sat too fast. MJ was curled in on herself, knees drawn up, arms wrapped tight across her chest like she was trying to hold her own ribs together. Her face was buried against Anna's side, and her shoulders shook with each quiet breath. She wasn't crying anymore. She didn't have the energy. The tears were still there—hanging, waiting—but now it was just that numb, cold ache beneath everything.

Anna kept one arm around her and the other gently rubbing her back, but her own expression had gone distant. She looked toward the hallway now, toward the trauma bay where Peter had disappeared, and her lips moved silently with some quiet prayer she didn't have the words for.

Norman stood the farthest away from the others, near the edge of the lobby where the floor turned to glass. The storm still raged outside, the windows streaked with rain, streetlights bleeding into the water like distant stars trying to push through. He didn't lean on anything. He didn't fidget. His posture was perfect—deliberate. Controlled. But his eyes were locked on the same hallway as the others, and every so often, he blinked like he was trying to reset the image of that boy covered in blood.

His jaw clenched, the muscle in his cheek twitching once. Then stillness again.

No one asked if Peter was going to be okay.

No one said he'll pull through. No one offered a platitude or a soft assurance, because the sight of him had stripped all of that away. That wasn't someone sleeping off a concussion. That wasn't someone who'd tripped and scraped their knees. That was someone who'd barely crawled out of hell.

The weight of it lingered. None of them were bleeding, but they all felt carved out. Like something had reached into the group and scooped out the air.

Time didn't move right after that. It stretched thin, pulled taut across every second like it might snap. Every distant cough from the nurse's station, every ding of the elevator, every new pair of footsteps sent a jolt through the room, just in case it was someone with news.

It never was.

Gwen finally sat down, knees pulled together, hands limp in her lap. Harry followed her without a word. He sat so close their legs touched, but they didn't look at each other. Not yet.

Lonnie pulled his cap off and held it in both hands, staring down into the fabric like maybe there was something hidden in the stitching.

Flash took a single step back, then another. He didn't go far. Just enough to hit the wall behind him and slide down to sit, arms resting on his knees, head tipping forward like the motion alone required more energy than he had left.

And MJ—MJ didn't lift her head.

Because in that moment, no one in the room knew if Peter Parker would ever open his eyes again.

And that silence… that not knowing… was the worst part of all.

Ben sat in the single chair beside the bed, both hands folded under his mouth, elbows planted on his knees like if he moved, even slightly, the whole world might come apart. His coat was still on. He hadn't noticed. He hadn't noticed a lot of things. His hair was still damp at the edges, flattened in places from the rain. His left shoe was untied. His hands were shaking—just a little—but not enough to draw attention unless you were really looking. Unless you knew him. Unless you knew that stillness wasn't Ben Parker's default.

Peter was too still on the bed.

Too quiet.

The machines did all the breathing for the room now. One beeped at intervals—steady, unbothered. The others blinked softly in the dark, throwing tired light against Ben's face. Peter lay beneath them like a question that hadn't been answered yet.

His face was pale and blotchy in the way only trauma could paint—like someone had drained the color by hand. IVs trailed from both arms. There were bandages along his chest, his shoulder, a few narrow strips across the side of his neck. One leg was slightly propped beneath the blanket, supported by a cushion that barely looked big enough to matter. His lip was split. There was dried blood behind one ear. His breathing came in shallow fits, every third inhale catching slightly in his chest like his lungs had forgotten how to trust the air.

Ben hadn't said a word since the nurse let him in.

They'd told him Peter was stable. That was the word they used—stable. Like that meant anything. Like that could undo the image of a body soaked in rain and blood, half-strangled in rusted chains, collapsing under fluorescent lights. Like it could fix the echo in Ben's ears from the flatline on the monitor. That single, awful note. That cliff edge. That pause where the universe decided whether to give the boy another second or to take him away completely.

He almost died.

The thought wouldn't leave. Wouldn't slow down. Wouldn't fade.

He almost died, and you weren't there.

Ben leaned forward a little more, his breath fogging faintly against his clasped hands. He didn't know what he was doing. What he was waiting for. There was a world on fire beyond this room—May was in another wing, possibly dying, and he couldn't let himself think about that yet. Not fully. Not while Peter looked like this.

Not while the boy who had become everything was lying inches away, unmoving.

Peter.

His boy.

Not by blood, no. But blood had never been the point.

He remembered the day Peter was born. The way Richard's hands had trembled—not with fear, but with awe. Like he couldn't believe something so small and perfect had come from him. Mary had been radiant, exhausted and glowing in equal measure. Ben had held the kid a few hours later, still wrapped in the hospital blanket, head no bigger than a grapefruit. His eyes had barely opened. But even then, there was something about him. Sharp. Quiet. Bright in ways that hadn't fully taken shape yet.

Ben had never seen his brother happier.

And after it happened—after they were gone—it was like the universe handed the weight of that joy to someone else. Ben and May hadn't been ready, not really, but they hadn't blinked. They took Peter in, not because it was expected, but because it was never a question. And in the years that followed, Peter became their world. Their morning light. Their reason.

He grew up fast. He had to. And yet somehow, he'd always carried that same flicker behind his eyes. That same light Richard had. That hunger to understand the world. That need to make sense of it. That little grin he'd flash when he figured something out before anyone else. The way his voice lifted when he talked about experiments or atoms or the shape of the solar system.

He'd built his first potato battery on the kitchen table when he was seven. The wires were taped together with bandaids. It had shorted out a light fixture in the hall, but Ben hadn't been mad. He'd just watched Peter hold up the battery, his eyes wide and wild, and it hit him like a gut punch—he's just like Richard.

It was like he'd never truly lost his brother.

And now he might lose him.

Ben's eyes stung, but no tears came. Just this steady, gnawing ache behind his ribs. This pressure that wouldn't move. He looked at Peter's face again—bruised, slack, framed in bandages—and his breath caught.

"You fought that thing to protect us…" he said, the words barely louder than a whisper. His voice shook as he forced them out. "You shouldn't have had to do that. I… I should've been the one to protect you, Peter."

The guilt hit like a wave. Crashing. Drowning. Unrelenting.

That helplessness—seeing Peter held together by gauze and machines—it was a feeling he didn't have a name for. He hadn't been there when it counted. He'd let himself believe Peter could handle more than he should have to. That maybe—just maybe—these powers of his made him something more than a teenager still trying to survive adolescence.

They didn't.

Peter had fought that creature alone. And it had nearly killed him.

Ben's hand rose to his face. He gripped his jaw like he was trying to physically keep himself from breaking apart. Like if he didn't hold on, he'd scream and never stop.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm so damn sorry."

Peter didn't move.

Ben leaned forward again, elbows resting on his knees, their hands still linked—his own rough and calloused, Peter's smaller, too cold. He stared at the edge of the bed. The floor. The blue LED flicker of the heart monitor.

He remembered the time Peter scraped his knee riding his bike down the hill too fast. He'd run straight to Ben's side, arms flailing, blood trickling from his leg like the world was ending. Ben had picked him up, set him on the kitchen counter, cleaned the cut, and made a joke about giving the sidewalk a black eye. Peter had laughed, even through tears.

Now Ben couldn't even hold him upright.

"Come back, Peter," he whispered, voice catching in his throat. "Please…"

The monitor beeped.

Outside, the world kept turning.

But inside this room, time had stopped.

A.S.

A.S.

A.S.

I gasped awake, lungs locking like I'd broken the seal on a drowning dream.

My chest heaved, the world coming into focus in pieces—white ceiling tiles, a thin metal bed rail, the soft, rhythmic beep of a heart monitor. The lights were dim, like the room wasn't ready for me to be awake yet. Everything smelled like antiseptic and plastic.

I sat up fast—too fast. Pain erupted in my shoulder, lancing down my right side like a flare. I let out a choked breath, wincing hard, blinking against the dizziness. My entire body ached. Not sore. Not bruised.

Wrecked.

I looked down.

There were stitches lacing across my chest like spiderwebs. A thick gauze bandage wrapped around my abdomen. Tape and tubing snaked out from the crook of my elbow, connecting to an IV stand. My right arm was in a sling, and something about the way it hung there—heavy, immobile—told me the damage went deeper than it looked.

I didn't care.

"May," I breathed.

The word barely made it out.

I looked around the room, head swiveling. Nothing familiar. No windows. Just a TV mounted in the corner, muted and blank, and the distant hum of voices somewhere outside the door.

"May," I said again. Then louder: "May!"

My hand moved to the IV in my arm. I started yanking.

The tape pulled, the needle shifted. I didn't care.

"Peter!"

A hand caught my wrist before I could rip the line all the way out.

I looked up—and the air left my lungs again.

"Ben."

He looked like hell. Worse. His eyes were bloodshot, face pale, the lines around his mouth deeper than I remembered. His clothes were wrinkled, stained, like he hadn't sat down in hours. But his grip was solid, even if his voice was shaking.

"Hey, slow down, alright?" he said, gently easing my hand away from the IV.

"Where is she?" I demanded, my voice sharper now. I grabbed his forearm with my good hand. "Ben—where's May?"

He didn't answer right away. Just looked at me like he wanted to lie, but didn't have the strength to do it.

I could feel his pulse through his sleeve.

"Peter… you nearly died."

The words barely registered.

"You flatlined. Three times." His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. "Your heart stopped three times since they brought you in. They didn't think you were going to wake up."

"I don't care," I snapped. "Where is she?"

He blinked at that—just once—but it was enough to crack something in him. He looked down for a second, like eye contact might shatter both of us.

"She's a few rooms down," he finally said, his voice raw. "But Peter… you need to understand something. The doctors… they did everything they could, but…"

His lips pressed together. The skin around his eyes tightened. And then they started to water.

"But May's injuries are bad," he finished, voice crumbling at the edges. "She's awake, but they're not expecting her to make it til morning."

I didn't feel anything for a second.

Just silence. Like the room had gone underwater again. Like the hospital walls weren't real. Like I'd never woken up.

Then the pressure hit my chest, like something huge had climbed on top of me and wouldn't get off.

"I need to see her," I said, barely more than a whisper.

Ben didn't move. Just stood there, eyes wet, hands at his sides, like he was trying to hold up the whole world and didn't know how anymore.

"Ben," I said again, louder this time. "Please. I need to see her."

He looked at me—really looked—and I saw something cave in behind his eyes. He gave a small nod.

"Okay," he said quietly. "Okay."

He moved to call for a nurse.

I leaned back into the bed, shoulder screaming, throat tight, everything inside me threatening to fall apart.

I had to see her.

Before it was too late.

The nurse barely got two words out before I was moving.

"Slow down—!"

Too late. I was already stumbling into the hallway, dragging the IV stand beside me like a disobedient dog on a leash. My feet were bare, the floor cold against them, the tile rushing up and down in waves with each step. My shoulder screamed with every breath. My ribs ached like they'd been used for target practice. My legs buckled with each step, joints locking and unlocking at the wrong times.

But none of it mattered.

I had to see her.

Every movement felt like it was ripping stitches. Like my body was warning me—begging me—to stop. But I didn't stop. I couldn't. There wasn't time.

I rounded the corner and the waiting room came into view—just beyond the double doors that separated the ward from the rest of the world.

They were all there.

MJ gasped the moment she saw me through the glass. She stood so fast her chair scraped against the floor, her hand flying to her mouth. Her eyes were glassy and wide, lips trembling like she didn't believe I was real.

Anna stood behind her, one hand already halfway out, like she was ready to catch me if I fell—even from across the barrier.

Flash's jaw dropped. He stood frozen, like he'd just seen someone walk out of a grave.

"Parker…?" he muttered, his voice cracking.

Harry stepped forward, eyes going wide. Gwen clutched his arm, breath caught in her throat. Lonnie looked like someone had punched him in the chest.

Norman straightened from his seat, his face a careful mask—but his eyes gave him away. Shock. Concern. Something deeper.

And for just a breath—just a blink—I saw them all.

I saw MJ. Safe. Alive. And for a single second, the weight crushing my chest eased. Just a little. The part of me that remembered jumping from her porch to chase death finally breathed. She was okay.

I wanted to go to her. Wanted to run to the one person who, without trying, had kept me tethered. The way her eyes broke when she saw me—like she'd been holding her breath since I disappeared.

But I couldn't go to her.

I had somewhere else to be.

Ben appeared in front of them, stepping between the waiting room and the doors to May's wing. He held a hand up, calm but firm. His eyes met mine through the glass. He understood.

"Let him go," he said.

I barely heard it.

The doors pushed open with a soft hiss, and I stumbled through them, the IV stand catching against the corner of a wall, jerking hard, yanking at the tubing in my arm. I winced, hissing through my teeth, staggering for a second.

The thing was slowing me down. I wanted to rip it out. Just tear it loose and leave it behind. But I didn't. Not yet.

Ben was moving with me now, not guiding me—just staying close. Like he knew I'd claw my way through the drywall if I had to. Like he knew I wasn't going to stop until I saw her.

He'd seen me in the aftermath. He saw the blood. The gashes. The body that wasn't supposed to survive. He'd seen the kid who flatlined three times still find the will to stand.

And now he saw what it was for.

I pushed forward.

Room 218. I remembered the number from the nurse who'd murmured it just before I started moving. The numbers blurred. The hallway felt too long. The ceiling too low. The walls like they were breathing with me—heaving, struggling.

My hand reached for the door before I realized I was even at it.

I opened it.

And everything else just... stopped.

The air in the room was heavy. Dim. The only light came from the heart monitor and a small overhead lamp, casting long shadows across the bed.

She was so still.

So small.

May always had a quiet strength to her, the kind that didn't need to raise its voice to be heard. But now, lying there under a tangle of wires and machines, her skin pale as candle wax, her hair damp and clinging to her scalp, her chest barely rising—

She didn't look strong anymore.

She looked like a ghost waiting to fade.

"May…" I said, my voice barely more than breath.

Her eyes fluttered open.

Slow.

Barely there.

But she saw me.

"Peter…" she whispered.

Her hand lifted, trembling as it reached toward me.

I let go of the IV stand, and my knees gave out instantly. I didn't kneel—I crumpled. My body couldn't hold me anymore. I practically slumped to the floor beside her bed, landing hard on my side, ribs lighting up like I'd been stabbed again. But I didn't care.

I dragged myself the last few inches, pressing my good hand into hers like it was the only thing tethering me to the world.

She smiled.

It was faint. Weak. But real.

"Y-you're okay," she breathed, eyes beginning to water.

I smiled, but it came out lopsided—more a sob than anything else. My forehead pressed gently to her arm, and I shook my head as the tears started to break loose.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, voice cracking. "May, I'm so sorry. I should have… I should've saved you. I should've gotten there faster. I should've—"

"Peter…" she interrupted gently, her fingers barely curling around mine. "No."

"I was right there," I said, desperate, shattered. "I was right there. I could've stopped it. I could've—"

"You did," she said, voice a soft breath of comfort. "You saved me."

Her thumb grazed my wrist, weak but warm.

"You've saved me so many times, dear. Both of us. You don't even know it."

I shook my head again, unable to speak, eyes falling shut.

"I knew you'd come back," she murmured.

I looked up.

She smiled again. Her eyes were glistening.

"Even when the world falls apart… you always come back."

Her breathing hitched then, just slightly. Just enough for the monitor to beep once, a little sharper than before. I flinched. She didn't.

May's eyes were on me, and nothing else.

"You're so brave, Peter," she whispered. "I'm proud of you."

I couldn't hold it in anymore.

The sob broke free, raw and quiet, and I pressed my forehead to her hand again as I cried—really cried—because the weight was too much and the moment was too big and she didn't have the strength to hold both of us up anymore.

But I did.

I would.

For her.

For Ben.

For everyone.

"Don't go," I whispered. "Please, May. Not yet."

She closed her eyes, and for a terrifying moment I thought—

But then she squeezed my hand, faint and fluttering.

"I'm not going anywhere, dear…" May smiled. "Peter… my sweet boy."

"May... I'm so sorry. For everything I've put you and Ben through..."

My voice cracked, thinner than I expected, barely audible over the hum of the monitors. My hand trembled in hers, and I couldn't stop it. I looked at her, but all I could see—blinking in and out behind the tears—was my grandmother. That same pale skin. That same peaceful breath before the silence.

"I know I wasn't easy," I said, swallowing the heat burning my throat. "I'm sorry I wasn't better."

Her fingers twitched, curling ever so slightly around mine.

"You were perfect, Peter..." she whispered, and I almost didn't hear it. "I wouldn't change any of it. You hear me?"

Her lips curved into something soft. Not quite a smile—just a memory of one.

"Not one single thing."

The door creaked open.

Ben stood in the threshold, his figure filling the space like a shadow. He wasn't crying—not yet—but his eyes were wet, and the light caught on them like glass. Like he could break if he breathed too hard.

I turned my head toward him.

"Ben... I... I..." I tried to speak, but the words collapsed in my mouth, dissolving into air. My breath hitched, and my whole body shook with it.

He crossed the room in two strides, dropping beside me, arms wrapping around me before I could fall apart alone.

"I don't know what to do…" I whispered, like a child. Because that's what I felt like. Not a hero. Not a fighter. Just a boy. Lost. Bleeding. Breaking.

Ben held me tighter, his voice soft but grounded in the kind of love that doesn't flinch.

"You did everything you could, son… You did everything you could."

But the world kept moving.

And May... May didn't.

Her hand in mine was lighter now. Her breaths, shorter.

I looked back at her—just in time to see her eyes flutter closed for the last time.

Her face relaxed, but not in peace. In surrender. Her chest rose, one final time…

And then fell.

The monitor paused. Just for a moment.

Then came the sound.

A single, flat note. Long. Endless.

My body seized. I gripped her hand tighter like I could anchor her here. Like I could hold her in place with just my will. But I felt it.

The absence.

She was gone.

"May…" I choked out. "No—May!"

The door behind us opened again. A nurse stepped in quietly, her face already set with practiced sorrow.

"I'm so sorry," she said.

Ben's head bowed.

I pressed my face into May's arm and sobbed like the world had ended. Because for me—it had.

There was no light. No lesson. No neat little line to sum up what had just happened.

Just that sound—the final beep still echoing in my skull, in my ribs, in my heart.

Just that silence—where her voice used to be.

And somewhere deeper… I could feel the fourteen-year-old boy she raised falling apart, too.

I didn't get to mourn.

Didn't get a second to sit with the stillness. Didn't get to cry, or scream, or do any of the things a person's supposed to do when someone they love is fighting for their life and another one might not even make it through the night. The storm hadn't even cleared before they showed up—badges, notebooks, questions.

I could still hear the rain when they walked in.

It was five in the morning, give or take. The sky outside was shifting from black to bruised gray, the kind of morning where everything looks like it's been photocopied one too many times—flat, faded, unreal. I was back in my hospital room, hooked up to fluids I couldn't feel, wrapped in bandages I didn't remember getting. My ribs ached. My shoulder throbbed like it had its own heartbeat. There was dried blood beneath my fingernails, and no one had asked if it was mine.

They didn't need to.

I heard the knock before the door opened. Soft. Professional. The kind of knock that says we're not here to arrest you, but you should still be nervous.

Two men stepped in.

One of them stayed by the door, middle-aged, clipboard in hand, face blank like a screensaver. The other came in further, slow, careful. Tall, broad-shouldered, face worn into experience. Coat still damp at the edges. His tie was undone like it had given up halfway through the night. But his eyes were sharp, not unkind.

"I'm Detective Mahoney," he said, voice low and weathered. "Sorry to drop in so early. We wouldn't normally, but… well, this isn't normal."

He didn't smile when he said it. Just stood there, waiting. Measuring. He didn't move like a threat. He moved like someone who was used to walking through wreckage and asking questions no one wanted to answer.

I didn't respond right away. Didn't know how to. My mouth was dry. My throat was worse. My brain felt like it had been wrung out and left to dry in the wind.

He gestured vaguely toward the chair.

"Mind if I sit?"

I shrugged. Not because I was okay with it. Just because I couldn't care enough to stop him.

He sat.

The guy by the door didn't move.

Mahoney leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees.

"I'm not here to grill you. But we need to get some pieces in place before this thing spins out into something we can't control."

Too late for that, I thought.

He didn't say anything for a moment. Let the silence do the heavy lifting. Then: "How you feeling?"

"Like I got hit by a truck," I said, which was true. "Then dragged behind it for a few miles."

Mahoney gave a dry hum, almost a chuckle but not quite.

"Well," he said, "You don't look much better."

I didn't laugh. Not because it wasn't funny—because my face physically couldn't make the shape.

Another pause.

Then he got into it.

"Do you remember what happened last night?"

I looked down at my hands. The bandages on my fingers. The dark red smear along the side of my thumb that they'd missed. May's blood? Mine? I didn't know. Didn't want to know.

"I remember some of it," I said.

Mahoney waited.

"I was next door," I started, slow, like each word had to be checked for cracks before I said it. "Getting my schoolwork that I needed. I was suspended earlier in the day, and MJ was kind enough to pick it up."

That part wasn't a lie, but it still felt like one.

"Then, I heard something over the storm… a scream. It came from my house, so I told MJ to call the cops, and I ran home. I don't know how it got in, because the door was locked. When I got in, I—I saw Ben on the floor, and that thing…"

Mahoney raised an eyebrow.

"Thing?"

"It… looked like a vulture, kind of. But not like, a bird. Like some twisted version of one. Tall. Strong. Fast Six-foot-three, wings like razors, red eyes like spilled blood…" I don't know how else to explain it. "It was a monster."

Mahoney was scribbling something down.

"Like a vulture?"

"I don't know how else to describe it."

"And what happened next?"

I hesitated.

This was the part that mattered. The part that could matter forever. Because the truth was: I fought it. And I survived. Somehow. I went toe-to-toe with something that shouldn't exist, and I didn't die. That doesn't happen. That's not normal. That's the kind of detail that gets you followed. Watched. Labeled.

I couldn't tell them what really happened.

So I stayed quiet. Let the silence stretch.

Mahoney didn't push.

He just sat there, pen waiting, like he knew the story was about to change.

Eventually, I nodded again.

"I tried to help," I said. "I tried to get it away from Ben, but I didn't stand a chance. It threw me around like I was nothing to it. It would have killed me right then and there had it not been for May."

The other detective crossed his arms, his face shifting to something akin to regret. It's like the fact I said May's name was enough to disturb him. Was he new at this or something? Most cops try to keep a straight face when they're listening to a witness's story.

"May, she… she got between us. That Vulture and I. She had a knife, and all it did was laugh at her. It stabbed her with its claws. Lifted her right off of the ground like she was nothing to it. I watched it throw her aside, and it talked about eating us." my voice was shaking, but it wasn't from grief or agony, it was anger. I could feel myself getting worked up all over again. Not now. Taking a breath, I closed my eyes and paused for a moment.

"Take your time," Mahoney assured me.

All I could think of was how Vulture looked standing over May's broken form, smiling madly. The anger I felt.

If I could go back, I would have made sure he never got the chance to get near her.

"I got its attention, and it ended up grabbing me. Threw me right out of the house… I think I hit the sidewalk, I don't remember exactly. Everything's a bit fuzzy after that. Last thing I remember is it flying out towards me, and then… pain."

I touch the spots on my shoulder where his talons had dug in like a meat fork.

Mahoney glanced at the clipboard guy. A quick note. Then back to me.

"You don't remember anything after that?"

"Not really," I shake my head. "No…"

I could go deeper, try to make it sound like I managed to get away somehow, but no matter how it comes out in my head, I just can't make it sound right without making myself look suspicious.

There is one way I could make this work in my favor, and it'd just require a bit of luck on my end. As long as nobody saw the fight—as long as nobody recorded us, I could get away with what I was about to say.

"Actually," I hold a finger up, noticing Mahoney getting ready to stand. "There was one other thing. I woke up, and we were in the air. It had me above the buildings. It was going to kill me, but then someone in a mask showed up."

"Someone in a mask? Like a vigilante?" the other detective asked.

I nod.

"What'd they look like?"

"Uh, I didn't get to see much, but he had on a red mask… he saved me. Got me to the street safely, and told me to run."

My stomach twists as I lie straight through my teeth. I'm not a good liar, when I do, I almost always smile. I'm having to fight it right now, even as I speak.

"If it wasn't for him, I don't think I'd be alive right now."

"So, that's all you saw? A guy in a red mask?"

"It was dark—and storming… I didn't get a good view." I explain. "I did what he said. I ran. I don't know how long I went, but eventually… there was headlights, and that was the last thing I remember before waking up here."

Mahoney studied me for a long second, before turning back to his partner, who gave a subtle nod.

"We got their statement," he said. "They're good people."

I nodded.

He leaned forward a little, resting his elbows on his knees.

"Peter," he said gently, "what you did last night… regardless of what you believe… you saved lives. I've been a cop for a long time. And I've seen a lot of things that didn't make sense. But I've also seen people step up when they shouldn't have had to. Doesn't make them wrong for it."

I lowered my head some, as he walked to the door.

He paused at the threshold.

"And kid," he said, glancing back. "You ever remember more… about this Vulture thing—anything weird, anything specific—call me. You don't need to be sure. Just say something."

I look up at him, finally meeting his eyes. There was a weariness—heaviness, even. He gave me a short nod, and then he was gone.

The other detective followed, the door clicking softly shut behind them.

When the door clicked shut behind them, I finally let myself breathe. My hands were shaking. I didn't even know when that started.

The silence after the detectives left was heavier than their questions.

For the first time in what felt like hours, I let my body settle. My pulse still hadn't found a rhythm, but at least my brain wasn't sprinting through exit strategies anymore. The lie was out there. Mahoney bought it—or let it slide. Same difference. The second they were gone, the air in the room felt like it thinned out just a little.

I shifted slightly in the bed, trying to find a position that didn't make my ribs scream. A dull ache pulsed along my back and shoulder like someone was thumping on a bruise with a tuning fork. I exhaled through my nose, forcing my hands to unclench.

It wasn't the worst pain I'd felt tonight.

A soft knock at the door brought me back up from the haze.

I figured it was Ben, finally circling back. I sat up a little, bracing myself for more questions or a tight smile that didn't match his eyes.

But when the door opened—

"MJ?"

She stepped inside, not even waiting for an invitation. Her hair was slightly frizzed at the ends, and the hoodie she had on looked like it had been borrowed—or maybe just pulled off the floor in a rush. The dark circles beneath her eyes made her freckles look sharper.

"H-hey," I greeted, voice cracking a bit as I raised one hand halfway off the blanket.

She didn't say anything. Just looked at me for a second.

And then, without warning, she rushed forward and threw her arms around me.

The hug caught me completely off guard. Not just that she did it, but that it didn't hurt as much as I expected. My shoulder still twinged, but it was manageable. Her grip was tight, desperate. Like she was afraid that if she let go, I'd vanish again.

"I was so worried," she breathed into my neck, voice muffled by the hospital gown and whatever else I was barely stitched together with. Her arms were shaking. Or maybe mine were.

"I'm sorry," I murmured, holding her back just as tightly.

The room went still for a moment.

"I saw it take you," she said finally, pulling back just enough to look at me. Her eyes were wet, but no tears had fallen yet. "I saw it… fly off with you, and then when we got to the house, everything was just—just blood and broken wood and screaming. You were gone. May was—Ben was—and I didn't know what to do."

Her voice cracked.

"I didn't sleep. I couldn't."

My throat tightened.

I shifted my weight, glancing past her toward the tiny window tucked in the corner. The storm had passed, but the light coming in still felt gray, like the world hadn't forgiven us for last night yet.

"Is anyone sleeping now?" I asked softly.

She sniffled, wiping at one eye with the sleeve of her hoodie.

"Lonnie and Flash passed out in the waiting room," she said. "Harry and Gwen went to get breakfast. Norman offered to pay for everyone. Ben's with Anna. Coffee run, I think."

I hesitated for a second before asking, "I was meaning to ask about that… What's he doing here? Flash, I mean."

"Harry called Gwen and Lonnie." MJ sat on the edge of the bed without needing to be invited. "I guess Gwen called Flash."

"He actually came?"

"Apparently, he didn't know it was for you," she said with a shrug. "But once he found out what happened… his tune changed."

I let out a breath that might've been a laugh. It wasn't bitter. Just tired.

"Guess I'm a charity case now."

"Don't be like that."

"I'm not," I said. "I just didn't think Flash of all people would be the kind of guy to—"

"Yeah, well." She gave a small, tight smile. "People surprise you."

We sat in silence for a second. Her presence was grounding, like putting your hand on a railing when the floor starts to tilt.

"Are you going to school today?" I asked.

She made a face.

"No. I don't think I could handle it."

I turned to look at her fully. That's when I saw it—the exhaustion etched into her posture, the way her shoulders had been carrying tension since the moment she walked in. Her eyes were glassy but dry now. She looked like someone who'd been fighting sleep just to stay near the chaos.

I patted the empty space beside me.

"What?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

"MJ," I said flatly, "don't make it weird. Just come on."

She rolled her eyes, but it was more reflex than anything. After a beat, she slipped off her shoes and climbed carefully into the bed, settling beside me like she belonged there.

Her head found my good shoulder, and I wrapped my arm around her gently.

It didn't hurt. Or maybe it did and I just didn't care.

She exhaled like she'd been holding her breath for hours.

"Don't suppose I should say this would be a very awkward position to be caught in…" MJ chuckled lightly.

"I don't even care," I said. "I'm tired, I'm sore, and I… I don't want to be alone right now."

"Me neither," she admitted.

We stayed like that for a while. Not speaking. Just breathing in the quiet. The IV clicked softly. Somewhere in the hallway, a machine beeped. MJ's fingers curled slightly in the fabric of my gown. Her presence wasn't loud or warm or dramatic. It was just… there.

"D-don't…" she whispered suddenly, her voice breaking into a breath. "Don't ever do that to me again, Tiger…"

I smiled softly at the nickname.

I looked down a moment later and realized she was asleep.

Her breathing had evened out. Her face had gone soft, almost peaceful. Her hair brushed against my jaw with every inhale. I didn't want to move. Didn't want to break whatever spell we'd fallen under.

I let my head rest gently against hers, and eventually sleep came calling for me.

The doctors were surprised I could move as much as I did when they checked in that evening. One of them blinked at the chart, muttered something about my pain threshold, then left like I was a puzzle they didn't have time to solve. I didn't offer any explanation. I couldn't—not without lying, and I'd already done too much of that today.

MJ had gone home to get cleaned up, promising she'd come back as soon as she could. Flash was still asleep out in the waiting room, arms crossed over his chest like he was guarding something. Harry, Gwen, and Lonnie had all gone to school. Somehow. Norman apparently told Harry it was okay if he skipped, but Harry had said I was in good hands.

So when it was just me and Ben left in the room, the silence finally had room to breathe.

He stood near the window, watching the outside world with a kind of stillness I wasn't used to from him. His jacket was off now, his shirt wrinkled and untucked. He looked like a man whose soul had been roughed up and hadn't found its way back to his chest yet.

He turned, eyes landing on me, and said, "Peter, what's on your mind, kiddo?"

I gave a tired smile that didn't reach anything. "What isn't on my mind, right now?" My voice came out hoarse. I let out a half-hearted chuckle and shifted under the blanket. "I'm mostly worried about you. Are you alright?"

Ben didn't pretend.

"No," he admitted, dragging a hand through his graying hair. "I haven't slept. Every time I close my eyes, I see—" He stopped. His jaw clenched. He didn't need to finish. I saw it too. Over and over.

I nodded. "It's still out there, Ben."

His head snapped up. "What?"

"I know what you're thinking," I said, leaning forward with a grunt. My ribs protested, but I didn't stop. "You thought it died. That I killed it."

"You didn't?" His voice was quiet. Unsettled.

I shook my head.

"It's not like I didn't think about it. I almost did, truth be told."

Ben came to the side of the bed, lowering himself into the chair the nurses always adjusted but never got quite right.

"What made you stop?" he asked.

I stared at the floor.

"I had him dead to rights. Laid out, broken, bleeding. And he begged me." I swallowed. "Begged me to end it. It was like… he was a different person all of a sudden."

Ben frowned. "A different person?"

"Yeah," I said. "He spoke differently. Acted like he didn't know what was going on. Like something was wrong with him—like he was broken in a way that even he didn't understand."

Ben looked at me for a long moment. He wasn't blinking as much now. Not breathing as easily. His eyes were trying to read between my sentences.

"You've already got something planned," he said.

It wasn't a question.

I shrugged slightly.

"I have an idea."

Ben leaned back.

"You're too calm for someone who nearly died less than twenty-four hours ago."

"I don't have time to panic," I replied, dryly. "And I can't sit still while that thing's still out there. I need to be better before I can act, but given how fast I'm healing… maybe just a few more days. Then I can use my other arm again."

He looked at me like I'd just spoken in a different language.

"A few days? Peter, I saw the X-rays. The doctors saw the X-rays. You're not walking that off. They're going to want to do a follow-up."

"I'll figure something out," I said, waving it off. "But Ben… I know what I need to do. That thing didn't just run away. It disappeared. In a flash of light, like someone pulled it out of reality. If I want to find it, I need to figure out who sent it in the first place."

Ben's mouth pressed into a tight line.

"Peter…" He exhaled through his nose. "It nearly killed you. What do you think is going to happen next time?"

"I'll be ready next time," I told him, firmly. "And when I find it… it's going to pay for what it did to May."

Ben didn't say anything at first. Just stared at me. Trying to decide if I was still the same kid who helped him cook pancakes last week. If any of that kid was still under the bruises and bandages.

"I told the cops someone in a red mask saved me," I said, breaking the silence. I reached to the small table beside my bed, grabbing a folded piece of paper. "He needs to start showing up."

Ben looked at the paper like it might explode.

"What's that?"

"Design," I said. "A concept. It's not great yet, but it's something."

"You're serious?"

"Dead serious."

"This is what you meant," he said quietly. "When you talked about helping people."

I nodded once.

He rubbed at his face, muttering under his breath. Then: "You're still in school, you know. That doesn't stop just because you think you're Batman."

"I'll manage," I said. "I'll deal with school. But I need to know, Ben… Will you help me?"

He didn't answer right away.

The light from the hallway flickered softly through the open blinds, casting long shadows on the floor. The beeping of my heart monitor was the only sound between us. My fingers tightened slightly around the paper.

Ben looked at me—really looked—and I saw something shift in his eyes. Not fear. Not approval. Something closer to understanding. The weight of someone who knew he couldn't stop this freight train, but could still stand on the tracks beside it.

But he didn't answer.

He just stared at me.

"Ben… you told me that with great power there must come great responsibility, right?" I ask, and he nodded slowly. "If I sit here and do nothing, knowing that I could be out there stopping that thing… I won't be able to live with myself. I was given these powers for a reason… and besides, I made a promise."

"What promise?"

"I made a promise to go down swinging… and I'm still here."

END OF PRELUDE

The hallway smelled like old carpet and too much bleach.

Felicia Hardy paused in front of the door to 4C, slipping her key from her hoodie pocket. She'd spent the last two nights crashing at Melanie's—junk food, horror movies, pretending the world outside didn't exist. It was easy to do when your dad stopped answering texts for two days and you wanted to believe it was just another job.

The lock clicked, but the door didn't move.

Felicia frowned.

It was cracked. Slightly ajar.

Her fingers tightened around the key.

She nudged it open with the tip of her shoe.

And froze.

The living room looked like it had been flipped by a storm. Couch cushions torn and scattered, picture frames shattered across the floor, books thrown from shelves like they'd offended someone. One of the lamps had been crushed underfoot. There was a dark smear on the floor that might've been blood. Or maybe oil. She didn't let herself think too hard about it.

Her heart was a metronome, steady but fast.

"Dad…?" she called, her voice low. Careful. Controlled.

No answer.

She stepped inside, each footfall slow and deliberate, her eyes scanning the space. The kitchen was worse. Cabinet doors left hanging. The old analog clock on the wall—her mom's, from before everything—was shattered. Its hands stuck at 2:13.

She didn't let herself hesitate.

Felicia walked past the mirror in the hallway, stopping only long enough to tap three fingers against the lower right corner.

A soft click.

The edges of the glass pulled inward, revealing the hidden mechanism she and her father had built years ago—just another security upgrade in a long line of them. The mirror hissed as it retracted, revealing a narrow stairwell descending into shadow.

Her bare fingers brushed the wall until they found the switch. The light flickered on.

Down she went.

The door sealed behind her.

The air changed the moment she hit the bottom step. Cool. Sterile. Familiar in a way that almost made her stomach hurt. This was the workshop. The vault. The place where Walter Hardy didn't pretend to be anything but who he was. And the place where she was never treated like a child.

It was a mess.

Tools scattered across the counter. Drawers pulled open. A few of the biometric safes were still sealed—but the ones that weren't had been emptied. The reinforced display rack that used to house her dad's gear—his signature gloves, his tactical harness, his climbing rig—was left wide open.

The gloves sat in a drawer, abandoned.

Felicia moved closer, her boots silent against the polished floor. She reached down, brushing her fingers over the metal claws, cool and perfectly sharpened.

Then she saw the phone.

Walter's.

Tucked beneath the gloves like an afterthought.

Her chest tightened as she picked it up. It was old-school, custom-coded and near untraceable—Walter swore by it. She powered it on, thumb brushing the biometric reader.

It unlocked instantly.

The screen lit up with a flurry of red notifications. Missed calls. Voicemails.

Most of them were from one name.

Norman Osborn.

Felicia's frown deepened. She tapped the call log, skimming the timestamps. The last call was just after midnight.

Whatever happened here… happened fast.

She turned away from the bench, walking toward the far end of the vault. The light above the final cabinet flickered as it buzzed on, casting long shadows across the concrete. The back wall held only one thing—something she and her father had been quietly building for months. A project whispered about only when the locks were engaged. Only when trust was certain.

A suit.

Hers.

Black, sleek, paneled with advanced polymer mesh and reactive fiber. Compact climbing harness along the back, sonic knives at the hip. A hooded cowl rested above the neckline, with thermal-lensed goggles tucked just beneath. Everything fitted precisely to her frame. He said it was "just in case."

Felicia stared at it.

She remembered the first time she'd asked him why he trained her. Not just in basic defense. Not gymnastics or fencing. But real training. Locks. Pressure sensors. Vault mechanics. Pattern prediction. Escape routes. The kind of things no school curriculum ever dared touch.

"Because you deserve to be better than me," he'd said. "Because one day I won't be there. And I need to know you'll be untouchable."

Back then, she rolled her eyes. Scoffed. Thought he was just being overdramatic.

Now, her fingers hovered near the suit's chest plate.

She didn't cry. Felicia Hardy didn't cry. Not for teachers, not for fake friends, not even when her mom died. But standing there, watching the glow of their final project shimmer under fluorescent light… her throat started to close. Her body wanted to shake. But she didn't let it.

She couldn't.

Instead, she took a slow breath. In through the nose. Out through the teeth.

"Okay, Dad," she whispered. "I get it."

She turned back toward the phone, the gloves, the tools.

Then she looked at the suit.

Black Cat wasn't just a myth Walter Hardy told her stories about when she was a kid. It wasn't a ghost he claimed had lived inside him all those years.

It was a symbol. A promise.

And now it was hers.

She reached for the clasp behind the neck of her shirt, pulling it off without ceremony. Every movement was surgical. Focused. Like muscle memory. She stepped into the suit like it belonged to her—because it did. Pulled the hood up. Fastened the gauntlets. Slipped the goggles into place.

The mirror at the end of the vault flickered as the system registered the new wearer.

Her reflection looked back at her.

Same eyes. Same scowl. But now there was something behind it.

Not grief.

Purpose.

Felicia checked the glove tension, flexed her fingers, and grabbed Walter's phone from the bench. She opened a separate file, one only she had access to—a tracking program they'd quietly worked on together.

And there it was.

One ping.

Walter's last known location.

She memorized it.

Then turned off the light.

Arsenal597 · 2025-12-03T23:16:16+0000

ACT ONE: THE SPIDER AND THE CAT

Throughout the day, following my declaration to Ben that I was going to start donning a mask, people started trickling into my room to see how I was. Every time someone asked that question, it was nearly met with a sardonic laugh.

How was I?

Well, I just witnessed my aunt get impaled by a giant Man-Vulture thing, nearly killed, and had to see my aunt die right in front of me. The last thing I should be right now is okay. I'm angry, tired, and I want to be out of this fucking hospital.

But even if I get out of here, it's not like Ben and I can just go home. Unless my head was more damaged in that fight than I thought, the house should be a nightmare to walk into. We're going to have to replace everything.

Even if I was working at my old job, there's no way I could afford to replace that.

I'll deal with that when we get home, though. Back to what I was saying though. Everyone started coming in to check on me.

It was Flash that came in first, much to my surprise.

He seemed different than when I saw him in the office. Like maybe he wasn't as much of a douchebag today. Ugh, that's not fair. You're angry, but there's no reason to already be lashing out at him. From what Ben and MJ told me, Flash was the first one to my side when I got brought into the hospital. Sure, I might still be mad at him, but I should give him a chance.

"Hey," Flash nods towards me, as I wave with my good arm. "Good to see you up and moving."

"Doesn't feel good," I grumble bitterly. He doesn't notice it, but I'm struggling right now to not scream at the top of my lungs. It's all I wanted to do since I planted that damn sign into the cement right by Vulture's head. He was right, I should have killed him when I had the chance. In any case, I should consider myself lucky that I'm even alive to be regretting my choices. "I heard what you did last night…"

He glances towards me with this almost indecipherable gaze, and I'm not too sure what's going on inside that head of his. Finally, after a moment, his temperament softens into this sincere smirk and nods.

"I'd like to think you'd do the same, despite… well, y'know." he shrugged. That's about what I'd expected from Flash. It's funny how he acts so differently outside of school. It's so… what's the word? Contradistinctive? Whoa, that's a big word, even for me. Since when do I come up with shit like that?

"Of course," I reply, looking out the window. He walked over to the chair next to the bed and sat down. "I'm surprised you stayed."

"Where was I going to go?" he threw up his arms. "I don't have school to worry about until Friday because of you, and it's not like I'll be missed at home."

"What are you talking about?" I raise a brow, turning back to him. Flash isn't meeting my eyes now, and he rests his arms on his legs with a heavy sigh. "Flash… what are you talking about?"

"When I said you never took my jokes seriously, I did mean it… because you're the only one who really knows me, Peter."

My brain short-circuits for a second.

Did he just say that out loud?

Did I die in my sleep? Because I'm gonna be pissed if I did.

He exhales through his nose and stares at the floor.

"You're not wrong, about how I've treated you—how I've treated a lot of people. I don't know why I do it, half the time. It's something I do without realizing."

I stay quiet, mostly because I don't trust my voice yet, and also because… he's still going.

"It's just… My mom's working all the time now. I mean—all the time. Nights, weekends, double shifts. Half the time I feel like I have to set myself on fire just to get her to look at me."

He laughs, but it's hollow. A broken thing meant to pass as a joke.

"She wasn't always like that. But ever since my dad died—y'know, that crash on the Brooklyn Bridge a couple years back—it's like she had to replace him and keep everything running. I get it. But still…"

I blink. I never knew that. No one ever talks about Flash's dad. And now I get why.

"I got bitter—angry. And rather than show weakness, I just… lashed out. It started as a defense thing, y'know? But after a while, it stopped being about attention. It just felt good not being the one hurting."

That line hits harder than it should, because I've been there. Not in the same way, but close enough that it might as well be. That self-hatred, the guilt? Feeling like you don't matter? It eats you alive from the inside out. You want someone—anyone—to feel what you feel. To carry some of it for you, even if it's just long enough to breathe.

I might not agree with how he handled it, but God… I get it.

"Flash, I… I'm sorry."

He shakes his head without looking up.

"Nah, don't be. You said it yourself, right? Saying sorry doesn't mean shit if you don't mean it. Actions speak louder than words, yeah?"

"Y-yeah," I nod, voice catching.

"So when I saw you come through those doors last night, I didn't think about the fact we got into it. Or that it got me suspended. I didn't care about any of that. All I could think about was the one friend who actually understood me better than anyone else… and he needed help."

He looks up. There's no smugness in his face. No irony. Just a tired kind of hope.

"I just hope that eventually you can forgive me."

We both sit there in silence for a minute.

I stare at the IV in my arm, the monitor beeping softly in the background, and try to figure out what the hell I'm supposed to say. There's a part of me—bitter, angry, exhausted—that wants to throw his words back at him. Slam the door shut before he can step any further in.

Because I've been here before. I've given people second chances. And third. And fourth. And every time, it felt like I was the one left bleeding afterward.

But then… there's the other part of me. The part that has to believe people can change. That maybe we're not just stuck being who we were on our worst day.

Flash Thompson might have started as Peter Parker's bully in the comics, but later on, they became good friends… Why shouldn't I be able to have that happen?

Why can't I be allowed to believe in that?

"I'll try, as long as you do too."

"That's good enough for me." Flash stands, a small smile tugging at the edge of his face. His eyes flick to my shoulder. "You know, I barely recognized you last night. While you looked like you crawled out of hell, I didn't see a geek."

"Oh yeah?" I huff my breath. "What'd you see?"

"A hero. You risked your life to save your aunt and uncle. I don't know if I'd be able to do something like that."

"You'd be surprised what you do in a situation like that," I shrug, unsure how to feel about the fact Flash Thompson just called me a hero, and I wasn't wearing the mask. "You don't really think. You just… move, because you have to."

Flash watches me for a second, and then nods. Not the kind of nod you give when you understand, but the kind you give when you're trying to.

"Well… if you ever need me, I'll be around," he says. "Seriously. I know you've got Ben, Red, and the others—but still, I'll be close."

Yup, it's official. Flash feels like a different person right now.

"Also," he adds, rubbing the back of his neck with a sheepish grin, "Anna told me if you try to leave the room again without help, I'm supposed to stop you."

My head tips, incredulous.

"Really? You'd manhandle me in this state?" I gesture at the bandages, the sling, the overall wreck I am right now. "That's gonna hurt, dude."

"Relax. I'd guide you back to your bed." Flash smirks.

I can't help it—I laugh. It's small, dry, but it's the first time it doesn't feel like a lead weight on my chest.

He heads for the door, stopping just long enough to toss a glance over his shoulder.

"Catch you in a bit, Parker. I'm sure there's a line of people out there waiting to bug you."

"Oh, I'm sure." I chuckle.

"By the way, I didn't say it earlier… but, I'm sorry about May."

"Thanks, Flash."

And just like that, he's gone.

The room feels quieter somehow. Not emptier—just… softer. Like something cracked open that I didn't know was still locked.

I don't feel quite as angry, but that's not saying much, because the pressure in my chest is still there, waiting to be released.

If Norman comes in here, I'm going to have a chat with him, and he's not going to like where it leads.

It's about an hour before the door creaks open again.

I've been staring at the ceiling like it's got the answers carved into the panels. Spoiler alert: it doesn't. All I've found is a slow-growing sense of claustrophobia and an itch I can't scratch behind the bandage on my collarbone.

The door opens a little more, and then I hear his voice.

"Pete?"

Harry steps inside like he's trespassing. He's got this quiet guilt painted across his face, like he's worried even breathing too loud might set me off. Honestly, he's not wrong.

He doesn't say anything at first—just crosses the room and hugs me.

Too tightly.

"Agh—careful," I grunt, flinching on instinct more than pain.

Truth is, that didn't hurt nearly as bad as I made it seem. Not anymore. Whatever spider-voodoo is happening under my skin—it's working overtime.

"Sorry," Harry mutters, pulling back and sitting down beside the bed. His whole vibe is careful. Cautious. Like he's walking on a frozen lake, waiting for it to crack under him.

"How you feeling?"

God. That question again. It hits the same nerve it's been hitting all day.

I don't roll my eyes, but it's close. I press my lips into a thin, not-quite-a-smile. "Been better."

He nods slowly, like he knows I'm not being sarcastic, but still isn't sure what to say.

"I'm sorry," he says again. "Dad's already talked with Ben. Said he'll help with anything. However he can."

I blink, watching the lines on Harry's face more than his words. That Osborn sincerity. It's rare, but when it shows, it's… believable. At least, it used to be.

Norman better keep that same tone when we talk.

Because that talk's coming. Whether he wants it or not.

Vulture's words come crawling back again like broken glass in my skull.

"Where… is the spider?"

I shake it off.

"Thanks," I say, finally, quieter than before. "I don't know if Ben's gonna be open to help like that. He's stubborn."

"If it's as bad as MJ and Anna made it sound, you're gonna need help getting back on your feet."

"I'm not the one you'll have to convince, Harry."

He leans back a little, and for a second, it feels like we're back in school, shooting the shit before first period. I almost forget I'm wearing a sling and trying to keep my ribs from popping.

I tilt my head and ask:

"Who told Flash to come?"

Harry blinks in surprise, as though he wasn't expecting me to ask.

"I only called Gwen and Lonnie. It was Gwen that called him. Didn't know he was going to show until they got to the lobby," Harry explained with a shrug. "She said it was because—despite everything—he still claims to be your friend."

I let out a soft snort, mostly at the irony.

"I'm glad he came. From what I was told… he was the first one to run to my side."

Harry looks down.

"Yeah. That wasn't a pretty sight."

He pauses for a beat, then adds, "Are you sure you're okay?"

And there it is again. That question.

That goddamn question.

I let out a breath and sit up slightly, the sheets crumpling under my fist.

"Harry… no offense, but I'm tired of being asked that."

He pulls back like I just slapped him.

"I'm not okay. I'm not pretending to be. I'm not gonna lie and say I'm fine just to make people feel better about it. She died. She died right in front of me."

Harry looks away. I can tell he wants to say something. Probably something soft and encouraging, maybe even rehearsed. But he doesn't. Maybe because he knows it won't help. Maybe because—for once—he understands that silence might actually be the right answer.

But it still stings that no one really gets it.

I'm only in this bed because I fought to keep her and Ben safe. None of them saw what I did. None of them were there when I watched May's body go limp in Vulture's grasp. When I realized that I couldn't save her—not even with all this damn strength, speed, and healing I've been given.

They didn't hear her heartbeat slowing. Not just the machine, but her actual heartbeat. The way it stumbled and staggered, only to give up.

She died because I wasn't able to protect her, and that is going to haunt me for the rest of my life. I won't be okay for a long while.

Harry tries again after a long pause.

"I know I can't understand what you're going through. I didn't mean to—"

"I know," I say, cutting him off before he digs himself into a grave. "I know you're just trying to be here. I'm not mad at you. I'm just…"

I trail off. I don't even know what the hell I am anymore.

He nods again, the silence stretching out between us.

"Thank you for caring," I tell him, because at this point that's all I can really manage without losing my temper.

"Of course, buddy." Harry smiles. "You know, you scared the hell out of me, man."

"Me too," I murmur. "Scared the hell out of myself."

There's a beat of silence. Then we both crack half a laugh. It's not really funny, but sometimes you laugh so you don't fall apart.

Harry looks over again, more serious now.

"You're not alone, Pete. I mean that. Whatever happens from here—you've got me."

I stare at him, eyes a little heavier than they were ten seconds ago. The weight behind his words… it's real. That's the worst part.

Because I know, deep down, I can't tell him the truth.

"So, you finally got to meet MJ?"

Harry's eyes lift, and he chuckles—not the forced kind people give to fill silence, but something light and almost nostalgic.

"I still stand by my earlier statement," he says, grinning. "You might've hit the jackpot with her."

"Shut up," I mutter, shaking my head. But I can't fight the smirk that tugs at the corner of my mouth. It fades quickly, though, because my brain doesn't let me hold anything good for too long. Not these days.

I think back to this morning. The way she looked when she walked in—exhausted, messy, emotionally wrecked… and beautiful, in that real, raw way no camera filter could ever recreate. I remember how she held me, how tightly she clung like I was the only thing anchoring her in place. How she curled up beside me like it was the most natural thing in the world.

It wasn't the worst I've ever slept.

And I'm just thankful to have someone like her that cares.

"She's amazing, man," Harry adds, a little more sincere now. "I mean… she tore into Flash like a rabid dog when he made a dumb joke in the lobby earlier."

I snort.

"Yeah, that sounds like her."

"She's protective of you."

I don't answer that. Mostly because I don't know how. There's a knot in my throat every time I think about her waking up beside me.

"Since you're going to be stuck in here for a while, I'm assuming…" Harry changes the subject. "I was thinking of running and grabbing my laptop so we could watch a movie."
"Harry, I'm not reall-" I pause, as the door swings open. My chest tightens as I see Norman Osborn enter the room.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Am I interrupting?" Norman asks so innocently, but my mind is wanting to lash out already.

Don't, Pete. Not yet…

"Actually, no. I was hoping to talk with you," I lie through my teeth. I wanted to talk with Harry longer, but this might be the best chance I get to talk to him. Plus, if I'm not in a public place with him, I'm not sure what I'd do. "Hey, Har… can I get a minute with him?"

"Y-yeah, sure. I'll be in the waiting room."

As Harry got up and walked out the room, I felt the shift in the air. Everything became colder, the lights felt like they were dimmer, and most importantly, it felt like there was a giant shadow looming over me, wanting to consume everything in its path.

"Are you alright, son?"

The moment those words leave his mouth, I scoff—loud, blunt, no attempt to hide the disgust.

Norman offers the ghost of a smile. "I suppose… that was the wrong thing to ask."

"No, I'm not okay," I answer, staring straight ahead, not at him. "But that's fine."

I don't even know what I mean by that. Maybe it's just a reflex. Maybe it's a lie I've been practicing all morning. Either way, it hangs in the room like cigarette smoke.

Norman steps closer, slow and calculated like always. His hands are folded behind his back, like he's keeping them hidden on purpose. Probably afraid he might wring them if they show too much.

"I spoke with Ben," he says, gently. "I've promised him that I'll do what I can to help the two of you get back on your feet."

"I appreciate it," I reply, but my voice is already somewhere else. My eyes wander to the window like I might catch a glimpse of a different life out there. One that doesn't feel like a nightmare with a morphine drip. "It's all I've been thinking about. Last night. It's just… on a loop. Like someone hit replay and smashed the button in."

I let out a laugh.

But it's not the good kind. It comes out wrong—too sharp, too high. There's a stutter in it that feels a little unhinged.

"Not just May. Not just the part where I almost bled out on the pavement like a ragdoll. No… it's something else. Something that thing said."

He lifts an eyebrow—barely—but I catch it. Or maybe I'm just imagining it, looking too hard for cracks in his perfect porcelain face.

"It spoke to you?"

"Oh yeah." I look back at him now. He's standing straighter. But his hand—his right hand—adjusts the cuff of his sleeve. Barely. Like a tell in a poker game. "Surprisingly chatty for a less-friendly Big Bird."

I watch him for a beat. Let the silence stretch.

Norman's face doesn't twitch, but the energy changes. He's listening too closely now. Like he's waiting for a verdict.

"What did it say?" he asks, and this time I hear it—the thin, almost imperceptible thread of caution in his voice. Like he's afraid of the answer.

I shrug, but my shoulders are tight. I can feel them. Hell, I can feel everything now. Every stitch. Every bruise. Every damned heartbeat in my ears.

"That's the thing," I mutter, and I start to shift. Carefully. Slowly. The blankets slide off as I swing my legs over the edge of the bed. I expect to feel weakness. Dizziness. Anything that justifies how wrecked I'm supposed to be.

But my feet hit the ground, and I don't even stumble.

There's strength there. Too much of it.

I look down at my legs for a second—like I don't trust them. Like maybe they aren't mine.

I rise.

He doesn't say anything, just shifts a little—almost like he's bracing to catch me. Or stop me. Hard to tell. Maybe even he doesn't know.

But I don't.

"It reminded me of our conversation," I say, turning to face him fully. "Back when I first got out of the coma."

Something behind his eyes shifts. Not much. Just a flicker—like someone turned a light off in the hallway behind him.

"Really?"

"Yeah. You showed me that photo. The one of our field trip to Oscorp. You asked if I'd changed. If something was different about me."

I pause. Let it sink in.

"You asked me that because I reacted to something in that picture."

Norman's mouth tightens. I can't tell if he's debating whether to play dumb or to own it. Either way, the room's gone dead silent. The IV monitor beeps once—sharp, clinical, out of place.

"I know you were asking if that spider did something to me."

I take a step forward, dragging the IV stand behind me.

"I asked," he says carefully, "because I was worried, son."

"Were you?" My voice cuts through his calm like broken glass through silk. "Because you didn't sound worried, Norman. You said that if something had changed… not to tell anyone."

My pulse is hammering now. I can hear it in my ears, feel it in my jaw... It's like there's no skin between me and the world anymore. Everything's too loud. Too bright. Even his breathing pisses me off.

"You said—and I quote—'eyes are watching.' So tell me something…"

I take another step forward. The IV stand clatters again as it bumps over a tile lip. Norman doesn't move, but something about him shrinks. Maybe it's the way his shoulders square less tightly now. Or maybe it's just me.

Maybe I'm standing taller than I ever have before.

Maybe I'm finally seeing him without the penthouse, the suits, the stage lighting.

"Do you want to know what that thing said to me?"

Norman's face twitches. Barely. But I caught it. It's in the corner of his eye, just a flicker of muscle like something just nicked him from the inside.

He doesn't answer. He doesn't need to.

"I'll tell you," I say, voice lowering. Not soft—just heavier. More grounded. Like each word is being weighed before I throw it at him. "It asked me… where the spider was, Norman."

And when I say that last part, I stop. Dead in front of him. The space between us could be filled with smoke and shattered glass for all I care—it feels like it is.

Norman doesn't recoil, but he doesn't lean in either. He's frozen. Composed, sure. But you can only polish a mask so long before the cracks show through. And right now? I see them forming in real time.

The lights above us feel dimmer. Or maybe that's just the blood rushing to my head. The whole room feels off-balance now, like one of us is about to fall. And for once… it's not me.

"I didn't tell anyone what it said. Not Flash. Not Gwen. Not MJ. Not even Ben... But you?" I say, eyes locked on his. "You've been acting weird since the day we spoke. That bite happened at your company. So, why did that thing come to my house?"

"Peter, I..."

It's all it takes for me to snap. I rush forward, grabbing Norman's shirt collar with my good arm and lift him right off the ground, slamming him against the wall.

The collar bunched in my fist as his shoes barely scrape the tile. He doesn't fight me, though it might be because he can't. Perhaps he didn't think I could do this.

"Did you get my aunt killed? DID YOU?!"

Norman doesn't speak at first. His breath catches-just once-but it's enough. His expression falters, and it's not out of fear. No, it's something more complicated. Like he's just witnessed a prophecy he spent years hoping would never come true.

His eyes flicker to the floor, and then back to me.

"...It did change you," he says quietly, voice so low it barely escapes his throat.

I stare him down, every muscle in my body wound tight like a cable ready to snap.

"Yeah, it did."

I tilt my head slightly, not daring to blink. I want him to know how serious I am right now. Hell, that's the least of what I want. I want him to be afraid of what comes next, but I know that I am probably the last person in the world that will ever come off as intimidating, even with powers.

Who cares, though? I'll make him realize how bad things are, one way or another.

"And it's thanks to that spider that I'm even alive right now."

His eyes now flick toward the IV stand behind me. Maybe it's instinct, looking for a weapon to hopefully defend himself with. Or maybe he's wondering just how alive I really am at this point. It's something I've been asking myself since I woke up this morning.

I step closer, my tone sharpening.

"I'm going to ask you again, Norman..."

His name lands like a slap.

"Did you... get my aunt killed?"

He doesn't answer me. His eyes keep darting around the room, like he's trying to figure a way out of this without having to say a damn word. Even with me pinning him the way I am, he's still trying to avoid the subject. Go figure.

His mouth parts, but for a second, nothing comes out. Then, finally—

"No, Peter," he says, voice firmer than I expected. "I didn't. As a matter of fact… I've been trying to protect you."

The words clang around in my head like loose screws. I don't believe him. There's no way he'd be trying to protect me.

My fist unconsciously presses against him harder, and his face twists. It's clear he's in pain.

"P-Peter..."

"Why?" I ask. My voice is shaky, practically one tremor away from shattering into something incoherent. "Why should I believe you?"

He thinned his lips, trying to straighten himself-not defiantly, but like a man trying to withstand a storm he can't escape.

"Because that thing broke into the penthouse yesterday."

It only makes my eyebrow twitch.

"I g-got home," he continues, gasping as he grabs my hand. I pull back enough to stop hurting him. I hadn't realized I had so much pressure on him. "I got home at the tail end of the break-in. It tore through my home like a hurricane, Peter..."

"And you're just telling me this now?"

"I didn't want to risk speaking about it until I knew you were stable," he says quickly. "That monster knew what it was looking for."

Something flickers behind his eyes again.

"I found my office ransacked, my private files accessed, and security footage deleted. My computer was still running when I got there... and it was frozen on one image in particular."

I don't have to ask what image. I already know.

"Me."

He nods once, slow and grimly.

"You. Standing with Otto. The moment you were bitten."

The silence between us sharpens to a knife's edge. I can feel it vibrating in the air.

And I hate how badly I want to believe him. Because if he's telling the truth… then this is a lot worse than I thought it was. And if he's lying?

Then he's doing a damn good job of making it look like he's the one being hunted.

My hands won't stop shaking. Not from fear—no, this is something else. It's like there's a voltage running through me, begging to be let loose. I can feel how easy it would be to throw him across the room. To crack something just to hear it break. God, what is happening to me?

"Why didn't you say something earlier?" I demand, voice cracking just a bit. "If you knew something was coming for me—why didn't you warn us?!"

"I tried," Norman says, and for the first time, there's something raw in his voice. Not pity. Not arrogance. Something... almost human.

And I hate that part of me recognizes it. That I see the exhaustion in his face, the fight draining out of him like he's been running from this longer than me. I don't want to see that. I want him to be the bad guy. It'd be easier.

"I told Ben I'd help you. I meant that. And I've been trying to track the movement of that creature ever since you were attacked. You think I don't recognize the signs, Peter?"

His face—God, it looks older now. Sweat catching in the creases, hands not as still as they used to be. I don't know if he's scared of me or something else, but it's the first time he's looked less like a CEO and more like a man. And I hate that I notice.

"You think this is the first time someone's died because of what I built?" he asks, so quietly I almost miss it.

He draws a breath, steadying himself.

"You're not the only one in danger, Peter. You never were." He touches my hand again, and it's not in an effort to pull himself free. I don't know what it's meant to do. "I understand. You're angry, and you have every right to be that way. But if you go down this path, you're going to end up just like Ma-"

"Stay away from my son!"

"It'll certainly help me get your flesh out of my teeth once I'm done with you."

Fuck this.

I pull him back and then slam him back into the wall. He gasps in pain, wincing from the impact.

"Don't you dare say her name! Do you hear me?!"

"Peter, what do you think is going to happen?" he asks, gritting his teeth. "It came for you and your family. It knows what you look like! It knows where you live!"

"Let it come back for me. I'll rip its other wing off."

"You think it'll stop with you? You think it won't tear through Harry, or Gwen, or even MJ just to send a message?" Norman's voice cracks, and I pause. It's like my brain hit a full reset.

I lower Norman to the ground and let go. He stands there, watching me like he's waiting for me to pounce again. I step back and walk over to the window. I can't even look at him.

"I have been trying to protect you from the moment you woke up, son... it's why I asked you that day if something had changed."

"Who's to say that this isn't some kind of trick, huh? Maybe that wasn't you looking out for me, but rather seeing if I'd crack?"

"What do you take me for? You're family!"

"So was she!"

"I didn't kill her..."

"No, but you gave that thing everything it needed."

"It wasn't what I wanted."

"Let's say, just for a minute, that I believe you... what then?"

He adjusts his tie and wipes himself down to remove the wrinkles. He winced again as he adjusted his shoulder.

"Like I said... I told Ben I'd help you. Let me do that."

"Fine... then you're going to help me find the people responsible for killing May."

"That's too dangerous, Peter..."

Norman's voice tries to land soft, but there's a tremor in it—just enough to give him away. He steps forward slightly, one hand raised as if to steady me, or maybe just to gesture control back into the room.

I let out a dry, joyless laugh and lean back against the IV stand like it's the only thing keeping me from exploding.

"Too dangerous?" I echo.

He doesn't respond. Just studies me. His expression is all calculated and calm, but his eyes… they're starting to show it. That fray. Like he's doing the math in real time and realizing the answer doesn't look like something he can contain.

"You think I don't know that?" I say, quieter now, but colder too. "I died, Norman. I was dead. My heart stopped three times once they brought me in."

I shove off the stand, pacing slowly like a storm building in a bottle.

"So yeah. It's dangerous. It's suicidal. It's stupid. But I don't care anymore. Because the people who did this—they killed the only person in the world who made me feel safe. They hurt Ben… and they ripped the roof off of my life like it was made of paper. And now, they're out there breathing, while my aunt is dead."

Norman's jaw clenches. He's trying to remain composed, but something about this… it's unsettling him. He looks like a man trying to put out a fire with his bare hands.

"I can help you," he says. "But not if you're running blind, acting on emotion. That's not what May would want."

I flinch at that.

It's subtle, but he sees it. He knows he hit a nerve.

I grit my teeth, steady my breath, but the damage is done.

"First off... I told you not to say her name. Secondly... You don't get to say what she would want," I growl.

His mouth opens, like he's going to argue, but then he stops himself. Maybe because he knows I'm right. Maybe because he knows he can't afford to push me any harder right now.

Instead, he tries a different tactic. The mentor voice. Calm. Controlled. The one he probably used in boardrooms and back channels when empires were on the line.

"If you really want to find out who's behind this, then you're going to need more than just strength," he says. "You'll need resources and intel."

"Which you just so happen to have."

He meets my eyes.

"Yes… I don't know what you're thinking, exactly, but what I do know is that you're not in any shape to go out there looking for trouble."

"Maybe so, but I will be soon. And if these doctors come in and see that I'm recovering quicker than I should be, they're going to ask questions... so, if you really want to help..." I motion towards him.

"I can pull some strings and get you out of here-have you officially transferred to our private care at Oscorp. You'd never have to do a follow-up appointment, and your remarkable recovery can be attributed to Oscorp's resources."

"And you'd get credit for it. How fortuitous."

"It's not like that."

"Sure it isn't," I roll my eyes. "Do what you want, Norman. Just get me out of here. I'm tired of this place."

He nods, composing himself before leaving the room. I sit down on the bed and try not to scream at the top of my lungs.

Arsenal597 · 2025-12-03T23:17:42+0000

"Norman, what the hell are you thinking?" Ben's voice carries through the doors as I'm pulling on a pair of sweatpants and the gray t-shirt the staff scrounged up for me.

"He's barely able to stand, and you want to take him out of the hospital?"

"It was his decision, Ben. We can't keep him here if he doesn't want to be."

I drag the shirt over my head, jaw tight.

"He nearly died!"

I close my eyes. Not because I'm annoyed—because that part's always harder to hear when someone else says it.

"And he's still breathing because he fought to stay that way. Maybe give him credit for that."

That's not something you expect out of Norman Osborn—credit. And maybe it's not entirely genuine. Maybe it's part of his whole strategic sympathy playbook. But hearing him say it still throws me off, makes it a little harder to pretend I've got the whole chessboard figured out.

My shoulder screams the second I start maneuvering the sling back over it. Not the polite, "Hey, remember me?" kind of pain—this is the all-caps, full-body-flinch variety. I grit my teeth and mutter something that'd probably get Aunt May shaking her head at me from the afterlife.

It's probably not smart to keep yanking the thing off every time I change clothes… but what do they expect? That I stroll out there in a hospital gown and fuzzy socks? A guy's got limits.

And dignity.

Well—some, anyway.

Outside, Ben's voice cracks through the door again, louder now, riding that furious-but-trying-not-to-explode cadence.

"Norman, for God's sake—he can barely stand!"

"And yet he is standing. Because he chose to. The boy is not a prisoner."

I wince, adjusting the strap as my reflection stares back from the mirror. Hair's a disaster. There's a bandage peeking from under my collar, probably one of a dozen scattered across my back and ribs. They haven't exactly let me near a mirror until now, and part of me's glad—I don't really want to confirm just how bad it looks.

Mostly, I just hope the cuts on my face don't scar too badly. I'd hate to give the mental image of Mand the satisfaction of being right.

I slide the door open and step into the hallway.

It's like walking into a freeze-frame.

Ben and Norman are squared off near the nurses' station, voices hovering just under a shout, and if either one gets any redder in the face, we're going to need another hospital room. Norman's cane—(did I really not notice that earlier? Great, now I feel worse for slamming him into a wall)—is clutched tight, not quite raised, but ready. Ben looks one sentence away from throwing hands with a billionaire in a tailored suit.

Down the hall, Gwen and Harry stand beside Lonnie, who's wearing the expression of someone seriously considering tunneling through the floor. Gwen's wide-eyed, one hand on Harry's arm like she's ready to jump in but waiting to see if he'll do it first. Harry… Harry just looks caught. Like a kid watching two divorced parents fight over custody, unsure which one he's supposed to root for.

Then the elevator dings, and out step MJ and Anna. MJ's got a duffel bag in one hand and a stunned half-blink in her eyes. Anna's wearing that tight-lipped look adults get when they know a scolding's coming, but haven't decided who to drop it on yet.

The tension is sharp enough to cut drywall.

"Hey!" I bark.

Everyone stops.

Even Norman—which, honestly, surprises me.

They all turn—some surprised, some guilty. I'm barefoot on tile, my hair's a wreck, shirt hanging off me like a scarecrow, sling crooked from where I adjusted it. But I hold their eyes.

"It's a hospital, for God's sake," I say, jaw tight. "Not a cage match."

A few awkward glances flicker between them. Gwen steps back a half-pace, Lonnie exhales like a weight's been taken off him. MJ starts toward me, scanning my posture like she's looking for fresh bruises. Her mouth opens, but nothing comes out—not yet.

Ben sighs and drags a hand down his face.

"Sorry, Pete. I just—"

"I know," I cut in. "I get it. But yelling about it isn't helping."

Norman smooths the front of his coat, gathering whatever composure he's got left.

"Apologies," he says stiffly. "Tensions are high."

I raise an eyebrow but keep my mouth shut. He knows exactly why tensions are high.

Anna steps in, resting a gentle hand on Ben's arm.

"Let's all take a breath. Peter's awake. He's alert. That's what matters right now."

I nod faintly.

"And if you really want to help me… don't make me pick sides. Not today."

It's not quite a scolding, but it's honest enough to make everyone look away for a beat, processing.

Harry breaks the silence.

"You sure you're, uh… ready to get out of here?"

"Wait, you're leaving?" MJ asks, surprise flickering across her face.

"Yeah," I nod.

"Peter, are you sure that's a good idea?" She puts a hand on my arm. "You're barely able to walk as it is."

"I'll be fine, but I can't stay here any longer. Norman's going to have a few of his private doctors take care of me."

"They're the best in their field, Ms. Watson," Norman assures her, and I can tell she's not sure whether to believe him or not.

Her eyes flick to mine, searching. It's not suspicion exactly—more like she's checking to see if I'm walking into a trap I can't see. I give her the smallest nod I can manage without wincing.

She steps closer, lowering her voice just enough that it feels meant for me, not the room.

"Why are you in such a rush?" Her hand settles lightly on my arm, fingertips pressing just enough to remind me she's there. Then she reaches up and brushes her thumb across the edge of the bandage on my cheek, careful but lingering.

I swallow.

"I just can't stay here."

"That's all you're going to give us?" Harry cuts in, folding his arms.

I turned to him.

"What do you want me to say?"

"Something."

"Fine." My voice sharpens without meaning to. "I want to leave because I can't stand thinking about the fact May died only a few rooms down from me. I can't rest because I hurt. I hate hospitals, and I don't want to be here anymore. If I'm going to suffer, I want to do it on my own terms. That good enough for you, Harry?"

He flinches like I'd just shoved him. MJ's eyes widen—surprised I'd be so blunt.

"Peter…" she says softly, thumb still near my cheek. "He's just worried about you."

I exhale, dragging a hand through my hair.

"I—" The sigh comes out heavier than I intended. "I know. I'm sorry."

Harry shakes his head.

"It's fine, man. I get it." He steps forward and pats my good arm. "If Dad's got his people taking care of you, you'll be in good hands."

Norman clears his throat, the sound cutting through the lingering awkwardness.

"If you're ready, Peter, we can get you discharged. Then we can all move to more comfortable settings."

Ben arches an eyebrow, arms crossing.

"Comfortable? I know you're not talking about our house…"

"As I said earlier, I'll cover the costs to repair everything to its previous state." Norman's tone is as measured as a business transaction, but his eyes flick briefly toward me, gauging my reaction. "Accommodations are being prepared for the both of you in the meantime."

Ben doesn't answer right away, so Norman presses on.

"There's an apartment Emily and I used to live in prior to…" He stops, glancing toward Harry.

Harry freezes mid-step, and whatever he sees in Norman's face makes the color drain from his own. His jaw tightens like he's swallowing something he doesn't want to say. Without a word, he turns and walks down the hall.

"Harry—" Gwen starts after him, shooting a quick, uneasy look toward me before disappearing around the corner with him.

Norman straightens his coat and finishes smoothly, as if the pause never happened.

"Prior to our current home. It comes with a great view."

I catch the flicker in his eyes when he says it—directed squarely at me—and I nearly scowl. Really? A heights joke? After everything? My brief moment of guilt for slamming him into a wall evaporates faster than a prototype Spider-Tracer on a rainy day.

"Where is it?" I ask flatly.

"Right on the other side of the bridge," Norman replies. "Only a few blocks from the Baxter Building."

"The Baxter Building?" MJ's voice sharpens with surprise. "You mean… they won't be in Queens?"

"No," Norman says, and there's no apology in it. "But I'd prefer to keep them somewhere safer."

I feel MJ's eyes on me before I turn to meet them. There's hesitation there, maybe even a little fear. She's probably picturing the distance between us and hating it. I'm already hating it. I've gotten used to seeing her every day.

I try to take some of the edge off.

"I'll still be at school, and I've got my phone. It's not like we won't be able to see or talk to each other."

She presses her lips together, like there's more she wants to say. But whatever it is, she swallows it. She steps back instead, the space between us suddenly feeling heavier than it should.

Anna moves in quietly, looping an arm around her shoulders in that effortless, maternal way.

"We'll visit them, don't worry," she says warmly.

MJ nods, but her eyes linger on me—just long enough that I know she's not convinced.

I glance back toward MJ and the others, their small cluster still humming with quiet conversation and sidelong glances toward Norman.

"I'll be back in a minute," I tell them, shifting my weight to my good side. "I want to check on Harry."

MJ's brows pinch, like she's about to ask if I'm sure I should be limping around after nearly face-planting in front of everyone earlier. But she just nods instead, letting me go.

The hallway's quieter the further I get from the nurses' station. My socks whisper against the tile, every step sending a muted pulse up my bad shoulder. I find Harry not far from the corner—crouched low, back against the wall, head tipped back to stare at the ceiling like he's looking for answers written in the fluorescent lights. His eyes are closed, jaw slack in that expression you get when you're not resting so much as trying to stop yourself from breaking.

Gwen's beside him on the floor, knees pulled in, her hand folded over his. She looks more like a shield than a friend at the moment.

"Harry, you okay?" I ask softly, careful not to make it sound like a demand.

He doesn't answer with words. Just a short nod, the kind that says yes but also no.

Gwen's eyes flick to mine, and she gets to her feet in one smooth motion.

"I'll be back in a second," she murmurs to him, squeezing his hand before letting go.

Once we're a few steps down the hall, she turns toward me.

"Just give him a minute."

"What's going on?" I ask, voice low. "What was that about back there?"

Her mouth tightens.

"Norman doesn't bring up Emily very often. Harry's just… a little shook up."

I can hear it in her tone—there's something deeper. Something that's not just old family history. It's the same edge I noticed the day Emily's name came up in the penthouse, the way Harry's whole body language changed like a switch had been thrown.

"When did she pass?" I press gently.

"Four years ago," Gwen says, looking down for a beat. "Stage four breast cancer."

"Shit." The word slips out before I can stop it. My stomach twists. "I didn't—" I cut myself off, because the truth is worse. I didn't even bother to find out. Somehow Emily slipped my mind entirely. So much for being Harry's best friend. "I should've known. I should've been there."

"There's nothing you could've done," Gwen says, and I know she means it to help, but it doesn't stop the guilt from pressing in.

From the floor, Harry's voice drifts over.

"No," he says, eyes still on the ceiling. "I'll be fine, Pete."

I blink—didn't think he could even hear us from there. For half a second I wonder if he was listening to every word, but I shove that thought aside.

"Alright," I say. "I'll let you know when we're ready to head out."

He nods again without opening his eyes. Gwen eases back down beside him, and I turn to limp my way toward the others.

When I come back into view, Ben's leaning against the counter with his arms crossed, MJ still close to Anna. Norman's standing a little apart from them all, cane planted like it's the only thing tethering him to the floor.

Yeah, I'm ready to get the hell out of here before another fight breaks out…

The reason I didn't see Flash in the lobby was that he had gone home. Gwen promised she'd let him know that I was discharged and would be fine. I wanted to laugh when she said it. Fine is a strong word.

Do you know how it feels to be in so much pain you somehow don't remember what it's like to be without it? My body feels practically alien to me now. I was just getting used to being this way, and now? Now all I know is pain…

Gwen said she'd ride with us. Lonnie needed to check in with his parents, so he said he'd check in with me later. MJ and Anna, I could tell MJ wanted to go with, but Anna told her that we needed some time. MJ hugged me one last time, telling me to call her when we were settled in. I'll admit, I didn't want to let her go.

The limo glides through the city like it's trying not to be noticed. Inside, it feels like the air's been vacuum-sealed. No one's talking unless they have to, and when they do, it's short, clipped.

Ben and Norman sit across from each other, both angled slightly toward the windows, like even accidental eye contact would start another fight. I can almost feel the invisible line between them, a no man's land they've silently agreed not to cross.

Harry's on my side of the car, Gwen next to him. They talk low, the kind of private conversation that's not meant to be overheard but still fills the silence enough to keep it from being unbearable. Every so often Harry looks over at me, probably gauging if I want to join in. I don't. I'm not mad—just… tired. Tired in a way that makes my bones ache, and not just because of the Vulture's claws or the bruises running down my ribs.

We pass the Baxter Building on the left, the massive glass spire cutting into the skyline like it owns the place. Norman glances toward it, but doesn't comment. I can't help thinking about what it would be like to live close enough to see Reed Richards' crew just by looking out the window. The thought doesn't make me feel safer—it just makes me aware of how far from Queens I'll be.

The car turns off the avenue, weaving deeper into a quieter part of Manhattan. After a few more blocks, we pull up to a red-brick high-rise with neat black trim, the kind of building that's not flashy but still screams money if you know what to look for.

The doorman nods as we pass through. The lobby smells faintly of lemon polish and old carpet. It's… familiar. Too familiar. My stomach knots, because I know this layout.

I remember it from a movie, with rubble, blood, and a pumpkin bomb. When the Green Goblin killed May Parker in No Way Home…

The elevator ride is silent. The soft hum of the cables is louder than the people in it. When the doors slide open, Norman leads us to a corner unit. The door unlocks with a single metallic click.

Inside, the apartment is exactly as I remember it from another life. Spacious enough that the air feels light, but the openness presses in on me in a way that's hard to explain. May isn't here. And somehow, the absence is louder than the space itself.

The living room is framed by large windows with a clear view over the river. There's a simple gray couch, a coffee table stacked with a few untouched magazines, a dining table that's probably never seen a meal for more than two people. Everything's spotless, but not lived in. It's like walking into a stage set.

Butterflies—the wrong kind—swarm in my stomach.

Harry takes me down the hall. "This was my old room," he says, pushing open the door.

I step inside and let my eyes wander. Black sheets stretched tight over a queen-sized bed. A flat-screen mounted on the wall opposite, a PS4 tucked neatly underneath on an entertainment stand. Along another wall, an L-shaped desk holds two monitors, a computer tower with more lights than my entire room back home, and a keyboard that looks expensive enough to have its own mortgage.

A shelf near the desk catches my eye. Comics. Not a shrine, just a few favorites. Next to them: battered paperbacks—Hatchet, Icons, and both Jurassic Park novels.

"Finally," I murmur under my breath. "Some books right up my alley."

Harry leans against the doorway, smirking.

"If you want something, just let me know. I doubt you'll be able to grab anything from your house for a while."

"Thanks, Harry."

"I'm surprised your dad didn't sell the place," I admit.

"It was supposed to be mine once I went to college," Harry laughs.

"Does that mean I'm squatting in your place?"

"Squatting only applies if you're unwanted," he says without missing a beat. "And Pete, I'd rather you and Ben stay here than let the place collect dust."

I run a hand over the entertainment stand, noticing the lack of grime.

"Right," I grin. "Your cleaning ladies need a raise, by the way."

"Tell my father about that."

Back in the living room, Norman is giving Ben the basics.

"His first appointment will be in two days. Until then, make sure he gets some rest."

Ben nods, arms crossed, and though he doesn't speak much to Norman, there's an unspoken acknowledgment between them: whatever their personal differences, they're both locked in on making sure I pull through this.

Gwen steps up beside me.

"If you want, I can talk to my dad about getting you back to your house. Maybe pick up some of your stuff."

"Your dad would be able to do that?"

"He can call in some favors if need be."

Noted.

Soon enough, everyone's heading for the door. Norman tells me to call if I need anything. Gwen squeezes my shoulder—gently—before leaving. Harry gives me a quick half-smile.

They all say the same thing in different ways: just a call away.

The lock clicks behind them.

Ben exhales, finally looking at me without an audience.

"You okay, kiddo?"

I want to answer, but I don't.

"I'm gonna take a shower," I say instead, already walking down the hall.

The bathroom's warm from the radiator. I peel off my shirt, then the rest, until I'm standing in front of the mirror. My right shoulder looks angry—tight, red, swollen. Every instinct says don't touch it.

I touch it anyway.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I throw my arm out. A sharp, deep pop cracks inside the joint, and white-hot pain tears through my torso and down my arm. My breath catches. I almost scream, but I grit my teeth and stay silent.

The agony burns fierce for a moment—raw, relentless—but then, just as suddenly, it fades. The fire dulls to a low throb. I lift my arm slowly, muscles trembling under the strain. No pain now. Not even a twinge.

It's like my body's racing to catch up—healing faster than it should, pushing itself to the limit. I'm probably risking a setback, but right now, I don't care.

I stay in the bathroom for maybe half an hour, letting the water pound against me until the mirror's just a wall of white fog. I'm not thinking about anything in particular. Not the pain, not the last few days—just the feeling of the spray against my skin, the weight of the heat soaking into me. It dulls the ache in my shoulder and back, but I can feel a few stitches starting to give under it. Doesn't matter. My face isn't so bad anymore—swelling's gone, bruises fading. I know Peter had a decent healing factor, but I've read arcs where it still took him months to come back from worse. Me? I'm moving my arm inside of forty-eight hours, and the cuts are knitting shut like they're trying to beat a deadline.

Steam fills the air so thick I can't even see my own reflection—just the vague suggestion of movement if I tilt my head the right way. My hand rests against the wall under the showerhead, letting the spray drum down my spine, finding the ridges and bruises like it's mapping them. I know I should be careful. I know overdoing it now could set me back. But that part of my brain's been quiet lately—like it's too tired to argue.

I don't think about May. I don't think about the hospital smell still clinging to me, or the look on Ben's face when I didn't answer his last question in the car. I just exist in the noise of the water, letting it drown out everything else.

When I finally step out, the air outside the shower feels sharp, almost violent against my skin. Steam trails after me as I push the door open, sticking to my arms and the back of my neck.

Ben's there. Leaning against the hallway wall, hands shoved in his pockets. His eyes go straight to my shoulder, and I can see it—the tiny pull between his brows when he registers the missing sling.

I don't say anything. Don't give him an excuse. I just walk past, the cooler air licking across my skin, raising goosebumps that have nothing to do with the temperature.

The place is too big, too clean. Big windows stretch across the wall, throwing in a faint silver wash from the city outside. It paints the couch, the coffee table, the far wall in shades of gray-blue. Everything bounces the light back at me—spotless glass, polished wood. The couch looks like it was bought for someone else's comfort. The dining table has four chairs but looks like it's never had more than two people sitting at it. No photos. No clutter. No sign that anyone actually lives here.

The hum of the fridge carries from the kitchen, low and steady, somehow louder than either of us.

I sit on the arm of the couch, towel draped over my head, rubbing it through my hair until my ribs complain. I stop, but only for a second, then start again anyway—slow, deliberate. Ben doesn't move at first—just stands there, watching me like he's waiting for an opening. His weight shifts from one foot to the other, then back again. A small sigh leaves him, quiet enough that I might've missed it if the place wasn't so still.

"You've barely said two words since we left the hospital," he says after a while. His voice is soft, but there's an edge under it—concern, maybe frustration.

I keep my eyes down on the towel.

"Guess I'm out of small talk."

"That's not what I'm talking about."

I twist the towel tighter between my hands until my knuckles turn pale. My gaze stays locked on it, twisting and untwisting the fabric like maybe I can wring the conversation out of existence. The terrycloth squeaks faintly under my grip.

"You've been through hell, Pete," Ben says, taking a slow step closer. "You don't have to carry it all yourself."

I give a shrug that's meant to look casual, but it feels mechanical even to me.

"Yeah."

The word's hollow. Empty. It doesn't convince either of us.

The hum from the fridge fills the pause. Somewhere far below, a car horn honks twice, sharp and impatient, then fades into the city noise. The kind of sound you only notice when you're already too aware of the silence.

Ben moves until he's kneeling in front of me. He's close enough that I can see the faint lines around his eyes, the way his hair's still damp from the rain earlier. He's trying to catch my eyes. I still won't give him that. If I look at him—really look—I'll lose whatever grip I've still got.

"You're allowed to not be okay," he says quietly.

My throat tightens before I can tell him he's wrong, or that I'm fine, or roll out any of the other lies I've been running on. My hands loosen on the towel. For a second, I'm just sitting there, staring past him at the blurred city lights through the window. Then it's like something drops out from under me.

I shake my head, but there's no stopping it now. My chest tightens, heat stings the backs of my eyes, and suddenly I'm leaning forward before I even know I've decided to move. Ben's arms are already around me, one hand braced at the back of my head, the other holding my shoulders like he's keeping me from coming apart.

I try to keep it in—quiet, small—but the sound still makes it out. Shaky. Weak. Pathetic. My fingers bunch the back of his shirt in a grip I can't make myself loosen.

Ben doesn't say anything. Just holds on, solid and unmoving, until the shaking in my chest turns into uneven breaths pressed into the crook of his shoulder.

"I'm so sorry…"

"It's not your fault," Ben reassures me. I've said it so many times already, and I can't help but feel like it's not enough.

I doubt words will ever be enough.

The darkness isn't just black. It's thick, viscous—like I'm wading through a sea of molasses, every movement a slow, dragging fight. Each breath feels stolen, like the air's been rationed and I'm running out. My limbs are heavy, useless, like they belong to someone else. It's swimming underwater without the promise of a surface.

And then I see him.

Vulture.

The same terrible silhouette, wings warped and oversized, spreading wide like a disease given shape. His talons dig into the ground, each one sinking with a wet, fleshy sound I don't want to understand. His eyes aren't just red—they're bottomless. A flat, cold void that pulls the light out of everything it touches. There's no rage in them. No triumph. Just nothing.

I try to move. May's voice is somewhere ahead, faint, but every step is a battle against an invisible current. My arms drag like they're made of wet cloth.

And there she is.

May. Trembling, but unbroken. Standing between us like she's the only thing keeping him from me. She's terrified, I can see that, but she doesn't move. Doesn't run. She can't.

Then his claw closes around her.

One slow, deliberate motion, lifting her as if she weighs nothing. Her legs kick, searching for the floor, for escape, but it's useless. Her face twists in shock, in pain—then his talons punch through her chest.

I hear the sound before I feel it—the wet, tearing rip of flesh, the quick gasp she doesn't finish. Blood blooms fast, dark against her skin. Her mouth opens but nothing comes out.

I want to scream. I want to kill him. But the water, the weight, whatever it is—it won't let me move.

Again.

He raises her again. Pierces again. Drops her. Her eyes find mine each time, dead and accusing, before he does it once more.

Again.

The tears come hot, blinding. I can't even turn my head.

The last time he drops her, she doesn't move. Her lips barely part, and somehow, through all of it, I hear the faintest whisper.

"Peter…"

I come out of the nightmare choking on air, eyes snapping open to the dim glow of the lamp in the corner. My shirt is damp at the collar. My heart feels like it's been doing wind sprints in my chest, but the room is still, the only sound being the faint ticking of the wall clock. I turn my head and there's Ben, stretched out on the couch next to mine. His arm is hanging off the side, his mouth parting every so often in a shallow breath.

At first I think he's out cold, and then I hear it—soft, cracked, almost too quiet to make out. May's name. Over and over again, like it's a lifeline and a wound all at once. His brow twitches, and I know exactly what kind of place his head's in right now. I don't want to be here when he wakes up. I can't. Not with my own head replaying the same loop. I stand, careful not to wake him, the springs in the couch whispering under my weight.

Harry and Gwen are right. The cops might not let me into the house to grab my things, but they can't stop what they can't see. I'm not running on all cylinders—hell, I'm not even running on one—but I can still get into the house. Ben needs things from there. I need a few things myself. His reasons are sentimental. Mine… well, only one is. The rest is about starting to fix this.

The hoodie I pull from the closet is a size too small, the kind that pulls at the armpits and pinches across the chest if I breathe too deeply. With the shoulder the way it is, I can't exactly afford the fashion statement, but I need something to shadow my face. The less anyone sees, the better. Not that I expect random pedestrians to be scanning the sidewalks for me at this hour. Still.

The night hits me as soon as I step out—cool, not cold, the kind of weather that clings to your skin and makes you wish you'd stayed inside. Manhattan after midnight has its own voice: a hum from distant traffic, the occasional burst of laughter from somewhere far enough away to feel unreal, the scuff of lone footsteps echoing off brick. The air smells faintly metallic, like rain's been threatening for hours but can't be bothered to follow through.

I head east. The city's half-asleep but never entirely down—neon signs flickering in dusty windows, taxis prowling like slow-moving predators. When I pass the Baxter Building, its glass sides catch the streetlight, and I glance up like a tourist. Are they even in there tonight? The Fantastic Four. Do they operate yet? For all I know, they're off-planet, doing whatever you do when the universe calls your number. Or maybe they're just home, feet up, oblivious to the fact that a few blocks away some idiot's limping toward a crime scene.

By the time the steel bones of the Queensboro Bridge rise up ahead of me, my legs already feel heavier than they should. The walk's been longer than I planned. My ribs ache in time with each step, and my right arm hangs dead weight in its sling. The smart move would be to walk across like a normal person. But no—my brilliant idea is to go underneath.

The first stretch of the climb goes badly. My left hand grips the steel, and my shoulder instantly screams in protest—not the injured one, the good one. My side pulls tight, like someone's cinching a belt inside my ribs, and my balance tilts dangerously. I take a moment, forehead against my wrist, just breathing until the dizziness ebbs.

The steel under here is cold, rough where paint's flaked off. Wind off the river cuts straight through my hoodie, carrying the scent of oil and algae. I start moving again, but slower, every shift of weight sending little flares of pain up my spine. By the time I'm halfway across, I have to stop—knees hooked over a beam, chest pressed against the steel as I ride out another wave of ache. The traffic above rattles the structure, a low, constant growl in my bones.

I push on because stopping here feels worse. My injured shoulder drags at me like it's trying to pull me back down. My legs burn from supporting the extra awkward weight. The hum of the bridge becomes my pulse—steady, unrelenting, impossible to ignore.

When I finally drop down onto the Queens sidewalk, it's not graceful. My knees buckle, and I catch myself against a light post, breathing like I've just run a marathon. My shoulder throbs like it's sending out its own heartbeat. I roll it without thinking and instantly regret it.

The streets here are quieter—too quiet. The kind that makes you feel watched. I keep my head down, moving toward the house. The yellow of the police tape glows under the streetlights, crisscrossing the yard like a warning you can't pretend not to see. A couple of patrol cars idle at the far end of the block, their lights off. Not here for the house. Maybe still expecting Vulture to swoop back in. He won't. Not with that wing. Not unless regeneration's suddenly on his resume.

I cross the lawn without slowing, the grass damp under my shoes, and leap for my bedroom window. My fingers catch the frame, but the pull on my bad shoulder steals my breath. I hang there for a moment, teeth grit, before hauling myself inside.

God, it's worse than I remembered.

There's destruction in all directions. Peter's bookshelf is collapsed onto the floor, books torn apart, pages scattered like autumn leaves caught in a storm. Wood splinters from the shelf and desk stab out at odd angles. Blood—my blood—smears the wall in jagged streaks, stark and cruel under the dim light.

The bed looks like it got hit by a hurricane. Thick, jagged slashes cut through the mattress and sheets, metal springs poking out like the ribs of a dead animal. My posters hang in tatters, ripped down or shredded. Shards of glass glitter on the floor, catching the faint glow from the streetlight sneaking in through the broken window.

I can't look at it too long. It's awful. Like the whole place was torn apart in a fit of rage I couldn't stop. I only hope this is the worst of it. I can't imagine the rest of the house.

Dragging my feet, I step out of my room and into the hallway, the air thick with dust and broken memories. The floor creaks beneath me, groaning like it's mourning, too. Ahead, the staircase is a ruin—rails twisted and splintered, steps smashed as if some angry giant had fallen right through them. I wince, muscles tightening involuntarily. The memory of crashing down those stairs, the pain flashing hot and raw in my shoulder, claws at me like a live wire.

This house wasn't just broken. It was gutted, left bleeding and gasping. And I'm standing in the middle of it, feeling like a ghost trapped in a tomb that used to be my home.

I shuffle forward, toes crunching over shards of glass and splintered wood.

The hallway narrows as I reach Ben and May's room. The door's crooked on its hinges, but when I push it open, the air feels different. Quieter. Almost untouched. Like a fragile island of calm in the storm of destruction.

Their room looks the same as it always did—calm, safe. The bed is made, sheets still smooth. There's no wreckage here. No blood, no broken furniture. Somehow, in the chaos, I'd managed to protect this place, guarding it like it was sacred.

I walk over to the nightstand. Sitting there, untouched, is a photo—Ben and May holding a much younger Peter, grinning like he'd just won the lottery. May's eyes sparkle with that fierce, unshakable love. I touch the glass gently, my fingers tracing the outline of the frame.

I smile softly, a sad little tug in my chest. Ben would want this.

I pick up the photo, careful not to jostle it. The weight of it feels heavier than I expected.

Back in my room, I grab my book bag from the corner. It's battered, worn at the seams—more than a few things shoved inside from the last few months. I start packing: the photo of the three of us, a couple of my outfits.

My fingers close around the worn leather of my wolf necklace hanging in the closet. I hadn't worn it since the hospital, but tonight feels like I need every little piece of myself I can get. I grab a beanie too—one that pulls tight over my messy hair, shadows my face. I don't want to be seen. Not like this.

With everything packed, I head back toward the staircase. I hesitate at the top, looking down at the ruin below.

Then I leap.

The crash of my landing makes my shoulder scream, but I push through it.

I stop dead when my eyes land on the carpet—the red stain spreads like a bleeding wound across the faded fabric.

That's where she'd laid. Where May had bled out.

Her voice echoes in my mind, sharp as broken glass: "Stay away from my son!"

I freeze.

It's not the pain that stops me. Not the fear.

It's the way she said it.

Her son.

Not nephew.

Her son.

I swallow hard, throat tight. The weight of those words presses down like a physical thing.

"May…" My voice cracks, barely more than a whisper.

The silence that answers feels suffocating.

Broken frames litter the floor around me—shards of glass, crumpled photos of a family that once was whole. Smiling faces frozen in happier times. There's laughter in the pictures, but none in the room.

I kneel beside the stain, the thick carpet prickling at my skin. A slow, cold grief washes over me—not just for what was lost, but for what can never be brought back.

This house mourns with me. Every splinter, every crack, every bloody mark a scar on its bones.

I'm not sure if it's the end or the beginning.

But I know this—

I'm not sure whether I can look at this place as home anymore.

Eventually, I start making my way through the wreckage of my home for the real reason I came here. It wasn't just for Ben or my things. No… The cops may have done their rounds, but they're human—fallible, limited. Me? I'm something else. Something tuned in to the smallest shift, the faintest breath of a clue hiding beneath the chaos.

"Alright, bird brain," I mutter under my breath, a wry edge masking the exhaustion. "Let's see if you left me a present somewhere."

The kitchen's a ghost of what it should be. Cabinets left hanging open like empty eyes, a fridge door half off its hinge, the sink clogged with shards of broken glass and something dark that's probably not supposed to be there. I scan every surface, crouching low, stretching to peer under counters and behind appliances. Nothing.

Hell, I even throw myself up toward the ceiling—yeah, graceful as a drunk cat—just to check the upper vents and corners for anything that might have been missed. My fingers brush dust and cobwebs, the cold bite of metal, and I find a few loose screws but no secrets.

Stepping back down, I rub the ache in my shoulder, teeth clenched against the flare. The house moans quietly with every breath I take, the sound almost like a whisper.

Moving into the living room, I pass the shattered TV like I'm walking through a graveyard. The screen's gone, splinters of glass littering the floor like tiny stars fallen from the sky. The air tastes stale, heavy with the weight of things broken and lost.

Just as I'm about to give up, to admit that maybe there's nothing left to find, something shifts.

Not a sound, not a movement, but a faint prickling at the back of my neck—the spider sense.

It's not screaming danger like it usually does. This is different. Softer, more… deliberate.

I stop dead in my tracks. The world narrows, the colors draining until all I see is that dark navy blue, like the ink bleeding out of a wound on an old map.

Eyes scanning, muscles tense, I track the feeling to the vent near the ceiling, barely catching a glimpse of something out of place.

There it is:

A feather.

Not just any feather. Black with a gloss that catches the dim light, a cruel reminder of the nightmare that tore through this place. It's half-hidden, wedged just enough to almost escape notice.

I reach up slow, careful not to jostle the fragile silence, and pluck it free. It's light in my hand, but it carries weight—like a message left behind by a ghost who wasn't ready to say goodbye.

"Gotcha," I whisper.

Tucking it into my bag feels like holding onto the last piece of a puzzle no one else can see.

Let's see if you're who I think you are, Vulture.

I put the bag over my shoulder and went back to my room; I don't want to be seen walking out the front door. It's dark enough that I should be able to slip out unnoticed. Once I step out onto the roof though, looking across at the Watson residence, something makes me stop moving.

MJ's face in the hospital when she learned I wasn't going to be in Queens for a while flashes through my mind.

I could go back to the apartment right now, and possibly be back before Ben even realizes that I'm gone—but I don't want to.

I make the leap across the yard onto her roof, and kneel next to her window.

The shingles creak softly under my feet as I crouch on the Watsons' roof, the night air cold enough to sting my lungs. From here, the whole neighborhood looks like it's holding its breath—porch lights off, windows shuttered, the kind of stillness that makes you feel like you've stepped into someone else's dream.

Her window glows faintly. Warm light spilling against the dark, soft enough to make you forget it's late September in Queens and not some quiet winter night.

I find myself just… standing there, watching her through the glass. MJ's curled on her bed in plaid pajama pants and a faded sweatshirt, a paperback in her lap, brow furrowed as her eyes move across the page. She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear without looking up, her foot bouncing absently.

It's so normal it almost hurts. The kind of normal I used to think I'd always have.

I take a breath, step closer, and rap my knuckles lightly on the glass. Not loud, just enough.

Her head snaps up. She blinks at me once, twice—like she's trying to make sure she's not imagining things—and then she's scrambling off the bed. The book hits the floor with a dull thud as she rushes to the window, fumbling with the latch.

When it slides open, the warm air from her room spills out, carrying a faint scent of something floral—her shampoo, maybe.

"P-Peter?" she stammers, eyes wide. "What are you doing here? H-how—"

"Can I come in?" I ask, a little sheepishly, half-smiling like maybe this isn't as strange as it feels.

She hesitates for only a heartbeat before stepping back. I swing my legs over the sill and land lightly on the carpet, careful not to jostle my shoulder.

"Peter, what—" she starts again, but I close the space between us and pull her into a hug. My good arm wraps around her, and she sinks into it without resisting, her hands bunching slightly into the back of my hoodie.

For a second, I just stand there with my eyes shut, letting her warmth seep in. It's the closest thing I've felt to safety in the last few days, and I hate how much I don't want to let go.

"I couldn't sleep," I say finally, voice low. "And with… everything… Ben needed something from home."

She pulls back enough to look at me, her gaze dropping to the book bag slung over my shoulder.

"You went into the house?"

I shrug faintly.

"It is my home."

Her expression softens, but there's still that edge of worry.

"Peter…"

"Nobody saw me," I add quickly.

Her brows knit.

"How did you even get to your room? You only have one good arm."

A small smirk tugs at the corner of my mouth.

"I was very motivated. Besides… I think you know how I did it."

It takes her a moment, but I can see the realization flicker across her face—remembering when she watched me leap from her porch to mine like it was nothing.

Her eyes search mine, as if she's deciding whether to ask the real question. I wouldn't blame her if she did. Though, she doesn't…

Instead, she just exhales, her shoulders sinking as some of the tension leaves her.

I do, setting the bag carefully on the floor, the feather tucked safely inside. For now, it's just the two of us in this quiet bubble, the world outside kept at bay by glass and drywall.

"Seriously, what are you doing here?"

"I really couldn't sleep," I shrug. "I keep replaying it, over and over again in my head."

"So, you came all the way here? That's a bit extreme, don't you think?"

She's right. It's not a great excuse, but what am I supposed to say? That the silence of my apartment is too loud? That I can't stand the way the air smells like hospital disinfectant and loss? Even if she does know about my powers, trying to explain myself might not be the right course of action.

"I wanted to see how bad it was for myself."

"Peter, you were in there when it happened."

"But I was fighting that thing. Couldn't exactly pay attention when I'm fending off a mutated angry bird."

The words slip out before I can stop them. It's a bad joke—stupid, really—but it's easier to make it sound like a comic book gag than to admit what I actually saw.

MJ raises an eyebrow. Her lips twitch like she's debating whether to laugh or tell me off. The pause stretches just long enough for the joke to feel hollow, and suddenly I'm wishing I could pull it back.

"Do you," she pauses, scrunching her nose like the question makes her sick to her stomach, "do you want to talk about it?"

"Not really," I shake my head, scooting against the headboard. If I talk about it, I'll see it again. If I see it again, I'll hear her voice. And if I hear her voice… I don't know if I'll be able to stop.

"I was referring to what I saw you do."

My lips press together before I can stop them. Great. Walked right into that one.

"Uh, that's still kind of hard to talk about. Mostly because… I'm figuring that out myself."

"What do you mean?" She raises a brow, crossing her legs so she's facing me completely. There's nowhere to dodge that look—it's not accusatory, but it pins me in place all the same.

"Is it because of the amnesia?"

A laugh slips out before I can stop it. Short, almost reflexive. The grin that follows sticks around a second too long, like it's holding the rest of me together.

"No," I shake my head. "It's not that. I know what caused it. I just don't know why. Or… the full extent of it."

Her eyes sharpen, like she's stepping closer without moving an inch. "What caused it?"

"Well, for starters… as it's been said way too many times, I was on a field trip at Oscorp. Talking to Dr. Octavius. Then this spider bit me."

I could go on. I could turn it into one of those overblown origin stories you'd read in a stack of comics at a convenience store, except she wouldn't really get it. No one could. There's so much I want to know—need to know—but all of it is just out of reach. So I give her the surface-level truth.

"It threw me into a seizure and put me in the coma."

"That gave you the amnesia?" she asks, eyes wide.

"Not sure on that one," I shrug. No, it's because I'm not Peter… but she doesn't need to know that. "I'm assuming it's related somehow. All I know is that since I woke up, I've slowly started noticing things being… different."

"How so?"

"Well, for starters… I can sense things are going to happen before they do."

"You can see the future?" Her brows knit, and I can't help laughing again, short and dry.

"What's so funny?"

"No, I can't see the future. Though… maybe precognition is part of it. Basically, I can tell when bad things are about to happen. Like the other night—when I fell on your porch and my head was killing me? That was why."

She studies me for a beat too long, and I wonder if she's trying to decide whether my headache really had anything to do with the Vulture showing up.

"Do you see me as dangerous?"

Oh, perfect. The kind of question where "yes" is wrong and "no" is also wrong. Well played, MJ… well played.

"You?" I smirk, leaning back just a little. "Well…"

She gives me this smile—playful, dangerous, the kind that says whatever comes out of your mouth next could ruin you. I swear, even my spider sense wouldn't warn me about this one.

"Yes, I do. You're the girl my family wanted me to meet more than anything… the one I met despite every hesitation I had. You're the first person I've been able to talk to without feeling like I'm walking around on eggshells. Seeing you is the highlight of my mornings, and you're… one of my best friends."

The word friend hits the air and I can see it land wrong. It's subtle—just the tiniest shift in her smile—but enough to make me want to rewind the last five seconds of my life.

"MJ…" I start again, softer now. "You terrify and excite me. You know exactly which buttons to press. Honestly… I think you might be the one person who gets me. I don't know what you really want me to say, but what I do know is that at the end of the day, you're the one person I can't imagine my life without. Sounds really stupid, given the fact we've only known each other for a few weeks but… you are my best friend."

Her eyes linger on me for a moment, and there's something in them I can't name. Not quite a smile, not quite anything else. She's still, but not in that frozen, uncomfortable way—more like she's holding something she doesn't want to spill just yet.

Her eyes don't move from mine, and the silence stretches just long enough for me to start replaying every single word I just said like a bad voicemail. My stomach knots, and I can feel my ears heating.

Finally, she exhales through her nose, tilting her head just slightly.

"Best friend, huh?"

There's an edge to it—not sharp, but enough to make my pulse jump.

"Yeah," I say, a little too fast. "I mean… yes. That's… what I said."

She folds her arms, one eyebrow lifting.

"So you break into your old house, sneak across rooftops, and show up at my window in the middle of the night… for your best friend?"

Ouch. That one lands square in the chest.

"Okay, when you say it like that—"

"There's only one way to say it," she cuts in, but her mouth curves upward like she's enjoying watching me squirm. "You don't risk your life climbing rooftops for just anybody, Peter."

My throat feels dry. I want to tell her she's wrong. I want to tell her she's right. I want to tell her… everything. But instead, I just rub the back of my neck and mumble, "Guess I'm not just anybody's best friend either."

She shakes her head, but there's this warmth in her eyes now—soft, dangerous in a completely different way.

"You're impossible, you know that?"

"Yeah," I say quietly. "I've been told."

"Alright, Tiger… what else can you do, besides make really bad excuses?" she asks, her voice warm enough to cut through the tension.

Thank God.

"I can stick to pretty much anything, I think."

"Stick?"

"I can crawl on walls and ceilings." I roll my eyes. "It sounds lame when I have to say it like that, but if I really want to, I'll never have to worry about dropping anything ever again."

"What if it's too heavy?"

"Can't you just let me have this?" I chuckle, shaking my head.

"So… wall-crawling and danger sense?"

"I call it my spider sense."

She narrows her eyes at me.

"Spider sense…"

"I'm strong, too. A lot stronger now. I can lift a car over my head like it's nothing."

"Bet you'll be able to impress that special girl in your life with that," MJ teases, poking my leg. "Should be real easy to sweep her off her feet with that."

"You know that requires me talking to a girl, right?"

"Oh, and I'm not?" She leans in, voice dropping conspiratorial. "You're just afraid of the consequences if you do."

"But you're MJ! That's different."

She smirks, all mischief and challenge. "I'm different? How am I different?"

I raise an eyebrow, pretending to think hard, though the corner of my mouth twitches. "Well, for starters, you're the only person who can make me feel like I'm less of a disaster—even with one arm in a sling."

She laughs, a soft, genuine sound that catches me off guard. "Hey, I'm a good influence."

"You're more like a caffeine hit I didn't know I needed." I grin, letting the tension slip away, if only for a moment.

"Aren't you superhero types supposed to be all mysterious and brooding? You're acting like you actually want to hang out."

"Maybe I do," I admit, feeling the weight in my chest ease, just a little. "It's nice… not thinking about all the messed-up stuff for a bit."

She nudges me playfully.

"See? Told you I'm good for you."

"Yeah, you are."

I take a breath, warming to the moment, and start ticking off the rest of what I've been figuring out lately.

"I'm faster, too. Like, not just 'can run a little quicker' fast. More like my reflexes kick in faster, and I can move before my brain even tells me to."

MJ's eyes widen, but she stays silent, watching me with that sharp, curious gaze.

"I'm stronger, like I said. And way more durable. Bruises and cuts don't stick around like they used to."

Her lips twitch—maybe a small smile, or maybe she's just trying not to laugh at the way I'm awkwardly listing this off like it's a shopping list.

Then I pause, the biggest one left. The one that's both a blessing and a curse.

"Oh—and I'm also healing faster."

Her eyes flick up, questioning.

"That's part of the reason I wanted out of the hospital today," I explain, voice low. "I'm healing too fast for them not to raise questions…"

"So, Norman having his specialists take care of you—"

"Is because his company is responsible for what happened to me. Yeah."

She goes quiet for a minute, and ultimately comes back into the conversation with a new look of realization.

"The fire… that's how you were able to get the kids out?"

I nod.

"I knew if I didn't do something, those kids wouldn't have made it. With my powers, it made me able to get to them before it was too late."

"Who all knows about your powers?"

"You, Ben, and Norman. That thing knows too." I motion towards the house. "That's all the people that need to know."

"Harry doesn't know?"

"I'm trying to keep him out of it, MJ. You only know because I had to move fast."

She looks like I just shot her.

"Were you planning on telling me?"

"I wanted to, but I didn't know how you'd take it."

She doesn't reply right away. There's this—contemplation, or perhaps confusion, I can't tell at this point—in her eyes. For a moment, it feels like I'm on a collapsing platform. Ultimately, after what felt like an eternity, MJ adjusts and nods.

"I wish you would have told me sooner."

"In my defense, you were the second person I told."

"Who was the first, Ben?"

"Yeah. It was after we got home from the fire."

"How did he take it?"

"Surprisingly well. I was expecting him to freak out, but he seemed happy about it. Now, I'm not so sure."

MJ scoots beside me, to where both of us were against the headboard for support. Her eyes soften into a sea of emeralds as she takes my hand.

"Did he say something?"

"No, but it's the way he looks at me now. I know he doesn't blame me, MJ. But it feels like every time he looks at me, he's blaming me for not being able to save her."

"Peter, it wasn't your fault. Ben—Ben's grieving. Give him some time."

Her hand stays in mine, warm against my cold fingers. She's close enough now that I catch the faint trace of her shampoo, that soft floral note I've always noticed but never mentioned. For half a heartbeat, my body leans toward hers—reflex, instinct, whatever you want to call it—before my brain catches up. I pull back a fraction, just enough that it probably looks like I shifted for comfort. I tell myself it's because I'm tired. That's a lie, but it's one I'm going to keep.

But focusing on what she said: time. It's funny to hear her say that, because I do get it. It's only been what… forty eight hours since everything went down? That's barely enough time to register what happened, but at the same time… it feels like a lifetime since I got to see May smile.

That's the part that gets the most, I think. Technically, I only knew her for a few weeks, but now it's hard to imagine not seeing her every day. Hell, I'd love to see that sly grin of hers whenever she saw MJ at my side right about now.

"What are you planning on doing, Pete?" she asks, and it's finally now that my plans really sink in, or rather…

The lack of one.

Yes, I told Ben that I was planning on making a costume and becoming a vigilante. I came to the house to get that stupid feather, because I think I could potentially trace it to Vulture's location, somehow. Is it a stupid plan? Yes, I know… this might be a world full of superheroes and supervillains, but it's not a damn comic book. I can't just magically figure out where a giant mutated Vulture-Man is hiding.

I mean, that's the goofy part of my brain that thinks this shit is so simple. In reality, it's a lot more complicated. So, I'll have to stick with the original idea I had and see if I could figure out Vulture's identity from the feather. Seeing as Beaky Buzzard really is part vulture, there's gotta be a way of tracing his DNA back to his human half—if there is one to find.

I know the man behind the flight suit, generally.

Adrian Toomes is the most notable character to fly around using that title, but I know there's others. I remember seeing one in a red costume… but that could have been Falcon. No, Falcon had white and red to his costume. I don't remember this guy having any other colors to his costume besides the metallic red hue.

What was his name? Ugh, this blows. What I wouldn't give for my old world's google. This would be so much easier. Eh, meta knowledge is overrated, and seeing as everything else in this universe seems to be upside down, I doubt it would be much use to me nowadays.

"Pete?"

Shit, how long was I sitting here not saying anything? Way to go, Parker…

"S-sorry… it's kind of a work in progress. I think I might be able to find out who the Vulture is."

"How?"

"Part of the reason I went home was because I wanted to see if the cops missed anything. We tore through the house like a hurricane, and I thought—maybe, just maybe he left a trail for me to follow. I found one of his feathers lodged in a vent. Hopefully, I can do a DNA test and track him down that way."

"That's a long shot, Peter. I mean, what if he was grown in a lab?" MJ holds her arms out. It's a viable theory, but that final interaction with Vulture tells me I'm right.

"I only survived because I managed to tear his wing off. When we crashed… I had him pinned. I could have, I could have killed him."

The image of Vulture's pleading eyes as I held that stop sign up over my head flashes before me.

"Do it… before I hurt anyone else."

There was a man trapped inside that monster, and I needed to know if by some miraculous possibility, I could save him. I want the Vulture dead, but May… she'd want me to try to help him.

If it comes down to it, we'll see what happens.

But regardless, the next time we see each other… he's not getting away.

MJ's eyes widen, her breath catching like she's just been hit with a truth too heavy to swallow all at once. She looks like she wants to say something—anything—but the words stick, tangled in the silence between us.

"I was so angry..." I break the quiet, voice low, barely more than a whisper. My fingers curl against my leg like I'm trying to hold it in. "I've never been that angry before. It kept taunting me the whole time... And all I could see was it—lifting May, holding her up like she was nothing more than a rag doll... and then her hitting the ground."

My throat tightens, chest aching. The air feels thick, like I'm trying to breathe through water. I have to blink hard just to keep my eyes on something—anything—that isn't her face in that moment.

"I thought she was gone right then and there. That I didn't even get to say goodbye..." My voice falters, cracks like old paint, the sound brittle enough to splinter in my own ears. Talking about it feels like scraping a wound open. Like reliving every awful second over and over again, stuck in a loop I can't break. "I was ready... ready to kill him."

I swallow hard, jaw locked, eyes fixed on some impossible point past the room, and for a moment the weight of it all pins me down like I'm bolted to the chair.

"I ripped a stop sign right out of the ground, MJ. Could have ended it then and there." My hands twitch, like I'm still holding that jagged piece of metal, my fingers remembering the weight. "But then... he looked at me. Looked at me." I blink, forcing the memory away, but it doesn't budge. "There was something in his eyes. He even begged me to kill him."

I pause, unsure how to put it into words without sounding crazy, my tongue heavy like it's resisting every syllable.

"It didn't sound like the guy I'd been fighting. Not the monster. I don't know how to explain it, but... I think... there's a person trapped in that thing."

"Peter…" she breathes out, barely above a whisper. It's all she can say, and I don't blame her. Hell, it's hard enough for me to even say it all aloud, let alone listen to it.

"I know it's wrong," I admit, voice breaking like glass underfoot, every word jagged in my mouth. "I shouldn't want to hurt someone like this… but MJ, I want to hurt him. I want to make him suffer." The malice leaks from me, sharp and serrated, splintering through every word.

She pauses, searching my face, her eyes steady but soft, as if she's trying to find me somewhere under all the anger.

"He killed May…" she says carefully, then hesitates, voice almost cracking like she's stepping into something fragile. "If you didn't want that—if you didn't want him to suffer—I'd be more worried. The fact you do means you're human."

"Wh-what?" I blink, caught off guard.

"Pete," she says, voice warm but firm, "I'm angry at my dad. There are days I say things to him I don't mean—horrible things."

There's regret in there now, quiet but heavy, and I think I know what she's said in the past. I'm no stranger to it, myself, but… hearing it from her is strange. I'd never expect it from her of all people.

"I still love him, and I know it's not equal to what you're dealing with in the slightest, but—it's normal to have those feelings. You're not broken for feeling that."

Her hand tightens around mine. It's small, but it feels like a lifeline thrown to someone already halfway under.

"Thanks, MJ."

"Of course…" she says, her voice softening. But then her brow furrows just slightly, the shift subtle but enough to pull me out of the moment. "But Pete, you said that thing knows who you are. What's stopping it from coming back?"

There it is—the question I've been asking myself, yet not daring to answer.

"Nothing. Even with his wing being gone, I don't know if that's going to hold him down for long. It's part of the reason I'm okay with not being in Queens right now."

"You're okay with it?"

"MJ, it was looking for the spider that bit me. And since I'm connected to it, that thing is going to come for me again. Or, something else will be… I can't let the ones I care about get hurt because they're simply around me."

I can almost feel the temperature leave the room as she takes in what I said. Maybe she realizes what I'm trying to say; if she does, she'd know it's the best course I can take.

"So… what? You're going to ghost me until you take care of it?" Her voice isn't angry, exactly — more like she's bracing for an answer she doesn't want.

"You're not the only one I'm distancing myself from until it's done… we'll see each other at school, but beyond that… I can't risk it."

MJ's brow creases.

"You can't close the rest of the world off."

"No…" I admit, the word dragging out like it weighs a ton. "But I can make it so you're in the least amount of danger possible."

She's quiet for a long moment, shifting in the bed like I just told her a relative passed away or something. The air between us feels thick, pressing in from every side. I meant what I said about not being good with comforting people or dealing with complex emotions. Right now, I might as well be a statue with a derpy smile — that's about as useful as I'm going to be.

"So…" she starts, blinking a few times, like she's trying to keep her thoughts from spilling out all at once. Her voice is weak. "When you leave, I'm not going to see you for a while?"

"Yeah," I admit, exhaling slowly. "We'll still see each other at school, though."

"It's not the same, Pete… and you know that."

I nod.

"I'd rather keep you safe."

"When are you leaving?"

"That depends," I shrug. "Do you want me to leave now?"

She shakes her head. I shift a little closer to her, and to my surprise she lays her head on my shoulder.

"Can you stay? At least until I go to sleep?"

I raise an eyebrow, but don't argue. I used to be the same way with my younger brother. I got so accustomed to sharing a room with him that when he finally had his own room, it took me a few weeks to get used to being alone.

"Sure."

"I'm having trouble sleeping," she said quietly, voice barely above a whisper, eyes fixed somewhere on the wall.

"Me too," I chuckle tartly. "It's why I'm here, after all."

At that, her hands trembled a little in her lap, and I could see the fight she'd been holding back. No more jokes, Pete… there's a time and place for everything. Now's not the time.

"Don't worry, I'm not going anywhere."

We sat like that for a while, letting the quiet fill the space between us. Eventually, I pulled her close, lying back onto the mattress with her head pressed against my neck. The world felt a little less heavy at that moment. She was soft and warm against me, her breath tickling my skin. My good arm wrapped around her, protective without squeezing too tight.

MJ, on the other hand, was doing everything she could to make sure I wasn't leaving.

"If you hug me any tighter, I might end up with a broken rib," I teased, voice low but light.

She laughed, muffled against my chest.

"Worth it."

I smiled, the tension easing from my chest.

"I'm going to be fine, MJ. Really…"

Her fingers dug lightly into my hoodie, but she never said a word after that. Her breathing slowed and evened out, the steady rise and fall against me like a quiet promise. No weight pressing down, no storm raging outside—just the two of us, wrapped in a moment suspended between chaos and calm.

When I finally moved to slip away, I hesitated at the edge of the bed. My heart slammed as I leaned in, fingers brushing a stray strand of hair from her face.

For a moment, I thought about staying… saying screw it and letting myself stay with her. But I couldn't.

I covered her gently with the blanket, my hand lingering a second longer on her shoulder before I whispered, "Night, MJ."

The softest breath of a smile was all I needed before I slipped out into the night.

By the time I hit the corner of 39th Avenue and 34th Street, the pain in my shoulder has sharpened from a dull throb to a stabbing rhythm, each step like a nail being driven into the joint. The cold bites at my skin, each gust of wind sneaking under my jacket like it's trying to finish what the Vulture started. I should've just stayed at the apartment. Ben's not going to be happy when he finds out what I did, but right now, that's background noise.

Once I can get back in the house—really get back in—I'll grab whatever's worth salvaging. My body's fighting me for every inch, and I don't have much left to give. The only person who can take the weight off my shoulders is miles away in Forest Hills, sleeping. She thinks I'm still lying beside her.

I'm staring down at the crosswalk signal when a scream cuts through the night. High-pitched. Panicked. Not the kind you mistake for anything else. My head snaps toward it, and the sound echoes in my skull like it's bouncing off the inside of my skull. There's a brief flare of pain behind my eyes, but then—almost without thinking—I'm narrowing in. The alley's maybe half a block away. Two figures. One pressed against the brick. The other leaning in, knife glinting in the spill of a flickering streetlight.

My fist tightens. My shoulder protests, the pain spreading like fire under the skin.

She's in danger.

The light's about to turn green.

I'm hurting.

I'm not in shape to play hero.

But—

I'm not letting anyone else get hurt tonight.

The deal I made with myself in that hospital bed comes back, word for word. Not a vow, not even a promise. Just… a decision. Quiet. Absolute.

Whatever it takes to keep the pain from winning.

Whatever it takes to keep anyone else from ending up in the ground.

The light shifts to green, but it's just a blur in my peripheral. I'm already stepping off the curb, the wind cutting across my face. Somewhere in the back of my mind, there's a voice pointing out the stupidity of this. The rest of me isn't listening.

One foot in front of the other. Faster now.

The city noise dulls behind me, replaced by the rhythm of my own steps.

The pain's still there. It always will be.

But right now, it's not slowing me down…

And pain can be shared vigorously.

Arsenal597 · 2025-12-03T23:18:26+0000

ONE DAY AGO

Noise in the city was nothing new, but what Felicia wouldn't give right about now for some peace and quiet. Their annual hunting trips always gave her a reprieve from the incessant commotion of city life.

It was one of her favorite hobbies that she'd shared with her father growing up. She got to be the predator, following trails, finding clues. Tracking for miles, learning to stay quiet, becoming one with their environment until they could manage the perfect shot… there was nothing like it.

Maybe that's why this felt so normal to her.

The city stretched in every direction—miles of concrete and glass under a sky gone charcoal with clouds. Manhattan's noise bled together into a single restless hum, rising up from the streets and bouncing off the walls of the urban canyon.

Felicia vaulted the last fire escape and landed on the rooftop in a crouch, the wind shoving against her side hard enough to make her boots slide half an inch. Not her smoothest landing, but nothing snapped, so she counted it as a win.

The grappling hook was still warm in her palm, the retracting line humming softly as it reeled back into its housing at her hip. The motion was already starting to feel natural—get the swing right, hit the apex, let the line pull you toward the next rooftop. Except when the wind kicked up like this, and she had to fight to keep from looking like a flag flapping in midair.

She pulled Walter's phone from her belt pouch, thumb flicking the screen awake. The tracker program was still running. Another ping—close. She zoomed in on the map until the grid narrowed to just a few blocks.

Kneeling near the edge of the roof, she pulled her hood up and let the wind buffet against her goggles. Down below, the street glowed with a patchwork of neon signs and sickly yellow lamplight. A bus hissed to a stop. Two guys argued outside a deli. Normal. Mundane. But the signal on the phone said the trail ended somewhere down there.

Her chest tightened.

The hunt was on.

And she knew hunts.

The air up here wasn't the same as the woods, but the rhythm was familiar—wait, watch, move when they're not looking. The first time she learned that rhythm, she was eight years old and carrying a bow half her size.

She could still smell the cedar of the riser under her fingers, the damp earth kicking up under her boots as Walter led her off the beaten path. They moved slow—painfully slow, for her impatient little legs—but her dad never rushed. He'd crouch to examine the ground, brushing leaves aside with the back of his knuckles, pointing out a bent twig or a fresh print in the mud like they were clues in some private treasure hunt.

"You gotta read the ground like it's talking to you," he'd told her, voice low. "Every mark's got a story. That one? Doe stepped here, maybe an hour ago. And that scrape on the bark? Buck's been marking his territory."

She'd grinned up at him, pretending she understood every word, even though it sounded like some secret grown-up language. But she learned to see it—how the forest kept a diary if you knew where to look.

They'd gone deeper, into a stretch where the light broke into narrow shafts between the branches. The air smelled clean in a way city air never could. Her dad stopped suddenly, one hand lifting to tell her to freeze. He pointed.

Up ahead, a deer stood in the clearing, head down, tearing at a patch of grass. Completely unaware.

Felicia remembered her heart pounding so hard she was sure the animal could hear it. She'd nocked an arrow, careful like he showed her, drawing back just enough to feel the tension in her shoulders.

"Not yet," Walter murmured. "You wait. You breathe. You let them think the world's safe."

She'd waited. A beat. Another. The world had gone so still she could hear her own breath. And then—

"Now."

Her release was clumsy, the arrow skimming past the deer's shoulder, but it startled the animal into bolting. She'd groaned in frustration.

Walter only smiled.

"You tracked it. You closed the gap. That's the hard part. Next time, you'll land it."

She'd asked him why it mattered so much to be quiet. To move slow.

"Because the prey always thinks it's safe," he'd said. "Until it's not."

The words carried her back to the present as she crouched above the street, phone screen glowing faintly in the shadow of her hood.

She clipped the grappling line to her belt and pushed off the ledge. The wind caught her, shoving her sideways mid-swing, but she adjusted, twisting her hips and landing in a low roll on the next rooftop. This time, she didn't even stumble.

The rookie kinks were working themselves out. The hunter, though—she'd been there all along.

Felicia slipped her goggles on, and the heads-up interface flickered alive, shading into a fluorescent red tint.

The world dimmed, the streetlamps and neon bleeding into black. Outlines began to pulse in her vision—thin heat signatures moving through the building below. A guard slouched near the front counter. Another pacing the back hall.

Her gaze shifted upward, settling on the pawn shop's squat facade. Walter had hit this place before—easy enough pickings with its outdated security and sleepy staff. He'd once called it a "comfort mark," something he could run on autopilot if he needed quick cash. But that was years ago.

Walter didn't push things anymore. Not with his knees starting to give him hell in the winter. Not with the city doubling its surveillance grid every other month. He could still outpace her in a sprint—just barely—but she'd seen the strain afterward. The quiet stiffness in his shoulders, the way he lingered over ice packs when he thought she wasn't looking.

That was the thing about her father—he'd never admit he was slowing down. But retirement had stopped being a plan and started becoming an inevitability.

Which made it all the stranger that his trail ended here.

She traced her eyes along the side of the building, spotting a window tucked above a rusted delivery door. Dark. Unalarmed. Perfect.

One silent swing later, her boots found the narrow ledge beneath it. The latch clicked under her claws, and she eased the window open just enough to slip through.

The back room was still and empty, the air thick with dust and that faint metallic tang of old coins and polished brass. Shelves loomed around her, crammed with forgotten electronics, cracked guitar cases, and clocks missing their hands.

She let her eyes wander over the scuffed tile until something caught her attention—faint arcs in the dust where the floor looked worn smooth. Lines leading to the edge of one of the larger shelving units.

Felicia crouched, brushing her fingers over the marks. Heavy piece, moved often. Someone was hiding something.

She tilted her head, scanning the room. That's when she spotted it—standing proud in the middle of a jewelry display: a marble bust of some smug-looking guy in a Roman toga. It didn't match the cheap pawn shop aesthetic, and it definitely didn't match the rest of the clutter.

Really? You've gotta be joking.

She strolled over, boots whisper-quiet on the tile, and set her fingers against the cool marble. A gentle lift of the head revealed a recessed button glinting under the fluorescent light.

How theatric…

She smirked, already imagining the secret passage or wall panel this was about to unlock—

A floorboard creaked in the next room.

Felicia's muscles tensed, instincts kicking in before thought. The goggles scanned for movement, picking up a glowing outline heading toward the door.

No time to debate.

Her grappling hook was in her hand before the sound reached the threshold. She fired upward, the line snapping taut as she shot toward the ceiling. The retractable claws on her gloves caught against the rafters, anchoring her in place. She flattened herself against the beams, breath slow, heart steady.

Below, the door opened. A man stepped in—mid-40s, work shirt half untucked, flashlight in one hand. He swept the beam lazily over the shelves, yawning.

Felicia didn't move.

The claws held her firm, the black weave of her suit melting her into the shadows. She kept her eyes on him through the red-tinted lenses, watching the outline shift as he turned toward the jewelry display.

If he pressed that button before she did, this was about to get a lot more interesting.

The guy was just about to paw at the bust when a tinny ringtone cut through the still air. He jerked back, muttered a curse, and pulled a cheap burner from his pocket.

"What do you want?" he growled, Boston dripping off every syllable like coffee off a diner counter.

From her perch in the rafters, Felicia's brows arched, and a slow grin tugged at her lips.
Oh, perfect. He's a walking mob cliché. All we need now is a Red Sox cap and a Dunkin' cup.

"No. I told you to not call me, remember?" He turned his back slightly, the flashlight beam wandering across boxes stacked high. "If someone's listening, we can get in a lot of trouble."

There was a pause. His shoulders stiffened. The annoyance was practically steaming off him now.

"For god's sake, Vinnie… how many times I gotta tell you? The boss doesn't do in-person meets. We only get to speak with his lapdog."

Felicia's gaze slid down to the floor, and her stomach gave a tiny lurch. The bust—oh, wonderful—was still sitting there with its head tilted back like it was waiting for a dental exam. The little button gleamed under the faint light.

Crap… rookie mistake, Felicia. Dad would've smacked me upside the head for that one.

She reached down to her belt, fingertips brushing over the neat line of tools. The grapple? Too loud. Smoke pellet? Overkill. Then her hand landed on the sonic coin—a thin disc the size of a quarter, smooth and unassuming. Perfect.

A flick of her thumb primed it, and with the lightest of tosses, she sent it skittering across the floor, far to the man's left. It came to rest against a dented metal shelf.

Three… two… one.

A high-pitched chirp like a rodent in distress broke the silence.

"Ah, for—" The man swung his flashlight toward the noise, muttering under his breath as he stepped away from the bust.

Felicia was already on the move. Her claws extended with a soft snikt as she crawled upside-down across the beam, lowering herself just enough to snap the bust's head shut with a soft click. She didn't even breathe until her hands were back on the ceiling brace.

Graceful as always, Hardy.

The thug was still poking at shadows when she melted back into them, waiting for her chance to slip deeper in.

The thug finally gave up on chasing shadows and lifted the phone back to his ear. His voice dropped lower, but the gravel was still there, like he couldn't help chewing rocks with every word.

"The Mayor's all riled up after that business in Queens," he said, pacing in a tight circle, flashlight beam jittering across the walls. "They're sayin' the bird's connected to those killings the reporters won't shut up about."

Felicia's brows knit behind the goggles.

Bird? What bird?

Silence on the other end. The man's lip curled, his free hand fidgeting with the flashlight.

"No, no… not the vampire killings, the other ones," he corrected sharply, voice lowering. "The ones where it looked like some wild animal tore 'em up."

Dad, what the hell did you get yourself into?

The thug stopped pacing, glancing toward the jewelry display. His jaw set, and with a quick glance over his shoulder, he stepped up to the marble bust.

Felicia held perfectly still, claws anchored in the rafters above, every nerve wired tight.

He didn't hesitate. Just lifted the head and jabbed the button like he'd done it a dozen times before.

With a low, mechanical groan, the shelving unit beside him shuddered and split open, dust raining down in faint clouds. What lay beyond made Felicia's pulse quicken.

A stairwell descended into the kind of glow she'd only ever seen in sci-fi movies. Cool blue light traced the edges of sleek walls. Metal gleamed where there should've been cinderblock. The air even smelled different—ozone and machine oil, sharp and humming with current.

Definitely not your grandma's pawn shop basement.

Felicia's lips curled into a smile, her breath whispering in her hood.

Ooh, it's enough to make me purr…

The thug muttered something into the phone—too low for her to catch—before tucking it into his pocket. He started down the stairwell, shoulders hunched like a man walking into confession.

The wall mechanism whined, preparing to close. Felicia didn't think. She dropped soundlessly from the rafters, landing in a crouch behind him. One beat, two, and she slipped through the gap just before the shelves ground shut again, sealing them both inside.

The air down here was cooler, cleaner, almost sterile compared to the dust-choked pawn shop. Light panels hummed faintly in the walls, and the steps descended farther than she expected, like they were leading under the whole block.

Her claws flexed against the railing as she shadowed the thug's descent. Every sense was on edge, every instinct whispering the same thing:

She'd found the trail.

And whatever was waiting at the end of it, Walter Hardy was tangled up in it.

"The Mayor doesn't need to know nothin'," the thug grumbled as his voice carried down the stairwell. "What he don't know won't hurt him."

Felicia's smirk was sharp as glass.

Guess that depends on who's doing the hurting.

Felicia crept down the last few steps, her claws grazing the cool railing, careful not to let the metal scrape. The stairwell opened into a cavernous chamber that stretched wider than any basement had any right to.

She pressed herself into the shadows along the wall, eyes adjusting, heartbeat thrumming with that familiar mix of thrill and unease.

It was a workshop. A big one.

Rows of workbenches groaned under the weight of half-dissected machines, their guts spilling wires and copper coils. Fluorescent panels buzzed overhead, throwing everything in a pale, surgical glow. The space was alive with movement—men in grimy coats carrying crates from every direction, the clatter of boots echoing against the concrete floor.

And in the center, hunched over a bench stacked with tech scraps, was an old man.

He looked like he belonged in some Victorian print instead of a high-tech chop shop—long, bony frame draped in clothes that seemed one size too big, a face carved sharp with age and disdain. Great goggles swallowed half his features, round and bulbous like insect eyes, the lenses flashing with every spark from his soldering iron. An Ebenezer Scrooge in safety gear.

Felicia stayed low, letting the shadows cling to her like a second suit. She watched the thug approach, phone tucked away now, voice projecting to be heard over the grind and hum of the room.

"Hey boss, just got word from Vinnie. We're gonna have a delay in our next shipment."

The old man paused, hand hovering mid-solder, the hiss of metal against metal going quiet. He lifted the goggles up onto his forehead, revealing eyes that looked perpetually unimpressed with the world. He scoffed, a sharp exhale that carried all the patience of a man forced to babysit fools.

"What seems to be the hold-up this time?" His voice was sandpaper dipped in vinegar.

"Them Damage Control schmucks are too active in the area. Apparently the Big Man's getting some heat on his tail."

"Wonderful…" The old man's lip curled as he pushed back from the workbench and stalked toward a battered chair in the corner. "This is why I prefer not to be involved." He sank into the seat like it was a throne of irritation. "Is that all?"

The thug shifted, scratching the back of his neck before continuing.

"The Inner Demon gang's been robbing some of Oscorp's convoys lately. It's makin' gathering your supplies more difficult."

The old man pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering something under his breath before snapping, "What happened to our acquisition of Stark's tech?"

"Waiting to hear back on it," the thug answered quickly, like he was used to getting barked at.

Felicia barely heard them after that. Her gaze had already drifted toward the walls—and that's when the air left her lungs.

Tech. Not just any tech. Her father's.

The sleek lock mechanisms with his signature etching, the grappling designs, even the cracked plating from a prototype gauntlet she'd seen tucked under his workbench years ago. It was scattered across the room, scavenged and mounted like trophies, half-assembled into contraptions that looked too dangerous to name.

Her throat tightened, a mix of anger and disbelief crawling up her chest.

Dad?

Her claws curled against her palms.

Felicia stayed hidden, breath steady, eyes flicking between the boss in the chair and the stolen ghosts of her father's work gleaming under the sterile light. Whoever this old man was, whatever operation he was running—it wasn't just business.

It was personal.

The goggles caught the light as the old man adjusted them on his forehead, his eyes narrowing like shutters. For a moment, Felicia thought he'd go right back to soldering—but instead, his gaze ticked to his wrist. Not a watch, not exactly. Some strange, compact device that hummed faintly with a low, mechanical whir. His mouth twisted into a grimace, the kind that deepened every wrinkle on his face until he looked more like a gargoyle than a man.

"Enough," he snapped, voice like gravel dragged across metal. "Clear the room. Now."

The thug blinked, caught off guard.

"But boss—"

"Now." The word cracked through the workshop, sharper than a whip.

There wasn't any arguing after that. The heavyset man muttered something under his breath and motioned for the others to follow. One by one, the crew shuffled out with crates still in their arms, boots echoing against the concrete stairs until the sound dwindled into silence. The workshop was suddenly too big, too quiet, every corner buzzing faintly with the hum of untested machinery.

Felicia held her breath, buried in the shadows above, heart pounding so hard it felt like the floor might hear it.

That's when the old man turned, hand reaching not for another stray part or a soldering tool—but for a weapon. An energy rifle, patched together from tech that looked wrong in a way she couldn't place. It was sleek and jagged all at once, with copper coils and glowing seams. He lifted it with an ease that didn't match his age, then leveled it at the darkness.

Right at her.

"Come on out," he said, his tone almost weary, but steady enough to send a chill down her spine. "I know you're there."

Felicia closed her eyes for half a second and mouthed a curse under her breath. Rookie mistake, thinking she could slip by unnoticed. She raised her hands, slow and deliberate, before stepping out of the shadows.

"Slowly, now…" the old man ordered, not lowering the rifle an inch.

Her lips curled into the faintest smirk, a reflex she couldn't kill even with a gun aimed between her eyes. So much for blending in, Felicia.

Felicia forced herself to keep that lazy, disarming smirk fixed on her face, even though the rifle barrel hovering in her direction made her skin prickle with gooseflesh. The old man didn't twitch. Didn't shift. He just held her there, eyes narrowing behind his goggles, his finger loose but ready on the trigger.

"How'd you find this place, girl?" His voice wasn't raised, but there was venom in it, drawn-out and deliberate, like each word had been soaked in poison before leaving his tongue.

Felicia shrugged, trying to feign boredom.

"Your guy left the back door open."

His mouth twitched, but it wasn't a smile. More like the ghost of one that had died long before she was born.

"Cute… another one with a sense of humor." He tilted the rifle a fraction higher, steady as stone. "How'd you get my tech?"

Felicia tilted her head, feigning offense.

"Your tech?" She let out a dry laugh, just sharp enough to mask the pulse hammering in her throat. "I built this."

His upper lip peeled back into something like a snarl, yellowing teeth catching in the glow of the rifle's core.

"Bullshit," he spat. "I know my work when I see it… even if it has been gutted."

Her brows knit together, her smirk faltering for the first time.

"Excuse me?"

He didn't answer with words—not right away. Instead, his free hand ghosted down to that strange device clamped around his wrist, fingers dancing across its surface like a pianist on ivory keys. A sharp click, then a low hum vibrated through the air.

Felicia flinched when her vision spasmed. The world inside her goggles stuttered like a broken VHS tape, pixels bending and warping until her entire HUD scrambled into nonsense. Static burned across her sight—then, cutting through the digital snow, a symbol appeared.

A symbol she didn't recognize.

But he did.

His.

The Tinkerer's mark seared bright in her lenses, undeniable, like a brand across her eyes.

Her throat went dry.

"Wh–what the hell…" she muttered, lifting her hands higher out of instinct, as if surrender would stop the invasion crawling over her vision.

The old man's grin widened, cold and joyless.

"I told you, girlie… you're wearing my babies."

Felicia's hands curled slightly, nails biting into her palms through her gloves. "My father and I made these," she shot back, teeth clenched. The confidence in her tone sounded thinner than she wanted, but it was there—clinging like glass about to crack.

"Right," he sneered, the rifle dipping just a fraction lower but still fixed in her direction. "And you expect me to believe your father is the Black Cat?"

That stopped her heart for a beat. She swallowed, forcing her mask of arrogance back onto her face.

"How do you know that?"

His chuckle was low, humorless, grating—like broken machinery coughing to life.

"Because, sweetheart, I sold him half the claws he ever used to shred his way through New York." His gaze sharpened, pinning her in place as much as the rifle did. "And if you're here, wearing my tech, either he's gone soft enough to let you play dress-up… or you're here without his blessing."

The room felt smaller suddenly, the walls tighter. She was in his corner now, not the other way around. Every flicker of neon light bouncing off the rifle looked like her reflection in a coffin lid.

Felicia fought to keep her voice steady.

"You don't scare me."

But the glitching HUD burned in her eyes, the symbol of a man who wasn't guessing anymore. He knew. And she couldn't shake the feeling that one twitch of his finger would leave her sprawled across the workshop floor before she even had the chance to prove otherwise.

The rifle's barrel didn't move. Neither did Felicia. She could feel the faint hum of the power coil thrumming in her teeth, the glow of its capacitors brushing her skin like static.

"How do you know my father?" she asked, sharper than she meant to.

The man chuckled, a low, gravelly sound that rolled across the workroom.

"I'm the one asking the questions here, remember? Surely, if he's really your old man… you'd know who I am, and what my connection to him is."

Her jaw tensed.

"He never talks about his business much."

"Intriguing," Tinkerer mused, shifting his weight so the shadows carved deeper into the creases of his face. "And yet he was willing to help you with your little get-up there? Doesn't sound right to me." He laughed dryly, the sound more like a cough from a machine than actual humor.

"Just because I know what he does doesn't mean I know everything." Felicia kept her tone steady, even as her stomach coiled. Her eyes flicked toward the racks of equipment bolted on the walls—familiar outlines, pieces of her father's arsenal half-dismantled, pinned like insects on display. "If you sell him your tech, then why is his gear hanging here?"

Tinkerer's gaze slid to the wall. He snickered lightly, like she'd asked something naïve.

"What, you think I stole it? Please. I would never degrade myself by crawling back to the old generation."

"Then how did you get it?" she pressed.

"We made a trade."

"Right." She folded her arms, claws glinting in the low light. "And you just said you'd never go back to something old."

His grin sharpened.

"If you really want to find out, put the claws away. Otherwise, it's going to take me a few hours to clean you off the walls." The way he said it—calm, matter-of-fact—landed harder than any shouted threat.

Her pulse ticked in her throat. For a moment, she thought about lunging forward, about calling his bluff. Instead, her hands lowered slowly to her sides, claws retracting with a soft mechanical hiss.

"That's better." His rifle finally lowered, though he kept a finger resting on the trigger. With the other hand, he tapped the device strapped to his wrist.

A pulse shuddered through her body. Her goggles flickered, HUD glitching, every system blipping red with an alien glyph. Her claws powered down at once. The grapnel in her belt locked. Even the micro-motors in her suit stiffened like her body had suddenly been chained.

Her breath hitched.

"What did you do?"

"I put a lock on your equipment." Tinkerer's smile widened, mocking. "Just a safety precaution." He tilted his head, motioning her forward with a small curl of his fingers. "Come closer. Let me get a good look at you."

Every instinct in her body screamed don't move. Still, she stepped forward, each stride loud against the concrete floor.

When she stopped a few feet away, she reached up, tugging back her hood.

The man's eyes softened. The change was jarring—one second the wolf baring his teeth, the next an old neighbor leaning over a fence.

"You've grown, kiddo." His voice dipped into something almost nostalgic, almost kind. "Walter wouldn't have you here unless he thought you were ready."

Her chest tightened.

"He didn't send me here."

Tinkerer blinked, the warmth faltering.

"…What are you talking about? Then why are you here?"

"Because this is my father's last known location." Her words were quiet but heavy, like she had to drag them out.

The rifle dipped a fraction, his brows drawing together.

"Last known… Walter's missing?" His eyes widened with a flicker of something that looked like genuine surprise. Then suspicion narrowed them just as fast. "You don't think I had something to do with it, do you?"

"I followed his coordinates here, and you've got his gear on your wall… seeing as he had it a few weeks ago, it's a bit suspicious." Felicia's voice cut cleanly through the room, though her arms crossed over her chest betrayed how tightly she was holding herself together.

The old man—Tinkerer, though he hadn't offered a name yet—didn't flinch. He merely leaned back, goggles catching the low light as though amused by her accusation. "He came to me, needing equipment. I owed him a few favors over the years for helping me get supplies… so I took his old gear off his hands and gave him some upgrades."

Felicia's lips curved into a thin line. Her father, begging scraps from someone else's table? It scraped against everything she knew.

"He came for new equipment? That doesn't make sense. Dad never showed me anything."

"Walter said he had a job to do." Tinkerer's voice was maddeningly calm, the words deliberate, like every syllable had already been measured before it left his mouth. "Apparently, important enough that he was willing to come out of retirement for."

Her heart stuttered at that. Retirement? Like it had all just been… a pause? She snapped her gaze back to him.

"What job?"

But the old man only shrugged, like the answer wasn't worth the air it would take to say.

"He wouldn't tell me. And frankly… I'm not one to ask. In my business, details get you killed." He dragged a weary hand over his face, then sank into a nearby chair, the metal legs squealing against the floor. "He didn't tell you he was coming out of retirement?"

"No." Felicia's head shook once, sharp, as though trying to knock the idea loose before it could settle in. "This doesn't make sense…"

"It rarely does." His dry smile reappeared as he picked up a tool from the workbench, twirling it between grease-stained fingers. "You get used to it."

"No, not that." She took a half-step forward, eyes narrowing. "The pawn shop. Dad told me he used to rob this place all the time for easy money."

The laugh that burst out of him was raw and genuine, clattering against the rafters of the workshop. He pushed the goggles up onto his forehead, shaking his head with incredulity.

"Seriously? Walter's never robbed the pawn shop! Is that what he told you?" He chuckled again, though there was no warmth in it. "He came here to do jobs for me! That's where he got the money from."

The words slammed into her, hard enough that for a moment she forgot how to breathe. The pawn shop—her father's so-called "training ground," the legend he'd passed down like family scripture—was nothing but smoke. She blinked, the stories she'd carried with her since childhood suddenly splintering, fractured under the weight of this stranger's voice.

And that's when the silence wrapped around them, heavy and suffocating.

The words hung in the air like smoke that refused to clear. Felicia's arms tightened across her chest, her nails lightly scraping at the sleeves of her suit, but her eyes didn't leave the old man. Her father's voice echoed in her head—stories of smashing glass cases, slipping past guards, pawning off easy cash—and now this brittle creature was telling her it was all a lie?

"Jobs for you?" she repeated slowly, her voice low but edged.

Tinkerer leaned back, the chair creaking beneath his wiry frame, and for the first time his posture wasn't all menace and mockery. It was almost casual, though his wrist stayed dangerously close to that infernal device, the same one that had already shut her down once. His little leash.

"That's right. Work. Jobs. The kind of thing you don't brag about to your kid while tucking them in at night. Walter wasn't stupid." He sniffed, pulling a rag from the table to wipe grease from his fingers, as though their conversation was just another chore in his shop.

Felicia's stomach turned. Her father—her father who taught her how to balance on the rooftop ledge, who showed her how to land as quietly as a shadow, who told her the rules of the game with the charm of a man who owned it—working under someone? That didn't fit.

"You're lying," she said flatly, though there wasn't as much fire in her tone as she wanted. "You want me to think my father was your errand boy."

The old man chuckled. Not cruel this time, not venomous. More like the chuckle of someone amused by a child's stubbornness.

"Girl, if Walter Hardy had an empire, I'd be paying him rent."

Felicia's jaw tightened, but her mind was racing too fast for anger to take hold. Her father's "easy scores." The money that always seemed to appear, even after long silences. The way he disappeared for nights, sometimes weeks. She thought she'd inherited his life, his story—but what if she'd only been fed the edges of it, the parts that kept her eyes bright and loyal?

"Why would he lie to me about that?" she asked, and for a split second, her voice cracked through the ice she'd carefully layered over it.

Tinkerer tilted his head, studying her with an unsettling patience.

"Maybe to protect you. Maybe to keep you away from me. Or maybe…" He let the thought trail, lips curling faintly. "…maybe he didn't want you to know just how deep in the muck he was. Fathers, they like to polish their own statues, don't they?"

Felicia's throat tightened, but she forced her arms to drop to her sides, stepping forward. The room felt narrower, the walls lined with her father's old gear glinting like silent witnesses. She was caught between them: her father's ghost stories, Tinkerer's corrosive truths, and the dangerous device still humming faintly on his wrist.

"You expect me to just take your word for it?"

"No," he admitted, spreading his hands like a preacher with nothing left to hide. "But you came here looking for answers, didn't you? Whether you believe me or not, Walter Hardy's been tangled up in my business for longer than you've been alive."

Her mouth opened to retort, to hurl back something sharp—but nothing came. Because under all her suspicion, there was that gnawing thing, that rattling thing at the base of her chest: doubt.

The balance shifted again, almost imperceptibly. She wasn't cornered anymore—but she wasn't standing steady either. The room itself seemed to sway, like the ground beneath both of them was too unstable to hold the truth without cracking.

Felicia's eyes flicked from Tinkerer's smirk to the claw gauntlets hanging on the wall, to her own powered-down gear clinging uselessly to her skin.

Tinkerer leaned back in his chair, the old thing squealing in protest, though he seemed perfectly at home in the noise. He rubbed at the corner of his jaw, eyes narrowing like he was watching two reels of film play in his head, trying to line up her father as he remembered him with the girl standing in front of him now.

"Look, kid…" he started again, his voice slower now, less sharp than before. "Your father wasn't anyone's errand boy. Don't go thinking he took handouts or played second fiddle. He did the jobs that paid the most, the ones everyone else was too scared or too stupid to touch. If he thought he could do it—" he let out a breath that sounded almost like a laugh, though there wasn't any humor in it, "—then there was nothing that could stop him. Nothing."

Felicia's lips pressed into a thin line. She'd heard versions of this before, in passing, in whispers, in the way people tensed up when her last name came up. But hearing it here, in this cluttered shop that smelled faintly of oil and rust, it felt different. It felt heavier.

"He made his fortune through those jobs," Tinkerer continued, leaning forward now, elbows on his knees. His hands, still stained with grease, threaded together. "Stealing from the rich, the kind of people who thought their money made them untouchable. Walter didn't just pull off scores. He took the kind of scores some of us could've only dreamed of." His eyes unfocused for a second, and for a moment Felicia swore she saw him smiling—not at her, but at the memory.

Her throat tightened.

"How long was he retired for?" she asked, the words slipping out before she could stop them.

"Since you were born."

The words hit her like a punch to the ribs.

"He got out of the game then," Tinkerer went on, softer now, as though the sharp-edged dealer had been replaced by someone older, wearier. "Said he didn't want to miss seeing you grow up."

Felicia blinked. Her mind ran the phrase back again, and again, but it didn't sound right in her father's voice. Her father had told her things—hard things, half-truths. He'd made sure she knew how to take care of herself, to sharpen her edges, to never expect kindness for free. But he had never once told her this. That she was the reason he'd put down the claws, the reason he'd walked away from the life.

Her arms fell to her sides. "He never told me that," she whispered.

"Yeah," Tinkerer said with a shrug. "He wouldn't have. Walter wasn't much for sentimental speeches. He kept his reasons to himself. But believe me, kid, I knew him a long time. That was it. You."

Felicia swallowed hard. The air between them shifted again. She no longer felt like prey being measured up. If anything, the room itself seemed unsure now, neither belonging to her nor him. Just unsteady ground, threatening to give way under both their feet.

"I doubt your old man would want you looking for him…" Tinkerer admitted after a beat, dragging a hand down his face. His eyes, tired now, studied her like he was trying to piece together what was left of Walter in her. "He didn't want you involved in that life."

Felicia let out a breath that might have been a laugh if there'd been any humor in it.

"Yet he made me this." She gestured to herself—the claws strapped to her gloves, the light armor hugging her frame, the sleek black fabric she'd stitched together with her own hands. All of it was cobbled from scraps of tech Walter had left behind.

Tinkerer's gaze flicked over her, more calculating now.

"Did he say it was specifically for you to follow in his footsteps, hmm?"

Her silence answered for her.

The corner of his mouth lifted—not smug, but knowing.

"That's what I thought." He leaned back in his chair again, metal shrieking under the weight. "Walter didn't make you that suit. You made it. Took his scraps, gutted his toys, and turned them into something new. That wasn't him pushing you into the family business, that was you deciding you wanted in."

Felicia's chest tightened.

"That's not true."

"Isn't it?" Tinkerer tilted his head. "Tell me, why come here if not to dig deeper? Why wear his claws, his colors, if not to step into his shadow? You want to find him, I get it. Blood ties are blood ties. But don't go blaming him for the choices you're making right now."

Felicia hated that his words stuck. She wanted to tell him he was wrong, that she was doing this because she had to, because her father had gone missing and someone had to pick up the trail. But the way he said it—like he'd already seen this story play out before with other kids, other names—it made her hesitate.

Her claws flexed at her sides, the metal whispering faintly as it caught the light.

"I'm not him."

"No," Tinkerer agreed. "You're not. You're greener. Sloppier. Too loud when you think you're being quiet. And you've got that look in your eye."

"What look?" she snapped.

"The one that says you don't know if you're trying to save him, or if you're already looking for permission to replace him."

The words landed hard, but she didn't flinch. Couldn't. She just held his gaze, her jaw clenched, her heartbeat thrumming hot in her ears.

Tinkerer didn't push further. He just sat there, letting the silence settle, letting the balance between them tilt back and forth like a coin refusing to land.

Felicia kept her stance tight, hands folded against her chest like she had something to prove just by standing there. The place smelled like burnt copper and hot solder, a tang that made her nose sting. Machinery hummed from all sides—the whole workshop seemed alive, groaning with gears and spitting static sparks as if it was daring her to breathe too loud. Tinkerer hunched over his console, long fingers clattering across the keys with a rhythm too quick for someone his age. He didn't even look at her when he spoke, just kept on typing as if she were nothing more than background noise.

"I just want to find him, that's it." Her voice cracked at the edges, but she didn't let it fold.

He snorted, the sound like gravel in his throat.

"Alright, then. Keep telling yourself that, kid. But I really didn't have anything to do with your old man's disappearance. I make weapons and tools. Anything beyond that—has nothing to do with me."

Felicia's jaw clenched. She wanted to argue, to throw something back at him, but there was a weight behind his tone that left little room for rebellion. He'd lived through a world she was only just peeking into. A part of her hated how small that made her feel.

"Did he say anything about that job?" she pressed.

The old man paused mid-keystroke, his head tilting just enough that she caught the profile of his expression—creased and unreadable, though his eyes carried something unexpectedly heavy.

"Just that someone called in a favor, and it was important he completed the job asap. Apparently lives were at stake. I never took Walter for being the heroic type, but the look in his eye said otherwise."

Felicia's lips parted, but no words came out. Heroic wasn't the word she'd ever associate with her father. Not the way he kept his secrets, not the way he hid his life from her. But hearing Tinkerer say it with that surety… it shook something loose inside her. She didn't buy it—not completely—but she couldn't shake it either.

"Thanks, I guess," she muttered, her voice shrinking to the floor. She motioned toward the way she came in. "Sorry for busting in here."

Tinkerer grunted, finally leaning back from the desk. The chair creaked under his weight, the sound punctuated by the distant whir of some unseen machine. "Derek's going to get a long talk for not being aware of his surroundings. As long as you didn't break anything, I'll let it slide this time."

Felicia wasn't sure if he was being lenient or just brushing her off. Maybe both.

The man stood with surprising energy, moving to another console cluttered with old coffee cups and tangled wiring. His hands danced across the keyboard with a fluidity that betrayed years of obsession. "I doubt it'll be much help, since it seems once Walter left here he managed to turn off his tracker, but when it comes to my tech I can always keep an eye on the energy signature. My programmable matter has a frequency of its own. I limit its use unless I'm the one behind the wheel."

"Programmable matter?" Felicia repeated, trying to sound unimpressed, though the words tasted foreign on her tongue.

He smirked without looking up.

"Ah, to be young and dumb."

"Excuse me?" she scoffed, one hand on her hip. "I'm not dumb."

"Yet you broke into my workshop and made claims with no actual proof to back it up." His words cut sharper than she expected.

Her cheeks burned. Ouch didn't even cover it. She opened her mouth, ready to spit something back, but the comeback fizzled before it reached her tongue.

He continued, his voice carrying the faint amusement of a teacher explaining to a stubborn student.

"In layman's terms, matter that can be reshaped at will. Change how stiff the material is, thickness, composition… change it to what I require."

Felicia's eyes flicked to the walls around her. Every surface carried some unfinished project—half-built gadgets that twitched like they were trying to breathe, scraps of armor plating stacked like discarded puzzle pieces. If programmable matter was behind all this, it explained the uncanny edge everything seemed to radiate.

"That's in my father's equipment?" she asked, softer now.

"Pfft." He let out a bark of laughter, shaking his head. "He'd be so lucky. But no… I only put it in his tracker… Though, it's disappointing he'd try and hide his movements. Luckily, all of my tech houses the same signature, so I could track them."

"You think it'd be able to tell me where he went?"

"Potentially." He shrugged, his voice maddeningly casual. "Depends on whether he went underground with the damn thing… let's just see."

He tapped in another sequence, and the monitor flared to life. Felicia leaned forward instinctively, her heart thudding faster as the screen shifted to a map of Manhattan. Dots pulsed across it, tiny glimmers of the tech scattered through the city like breadcrumbs.

Her breath caught when one pulse lingered at a familiar block—her apartment building. From there, the trail unraveled like spilled thread: across the map to a pawn shop, then snaking toward the West End before halting at a single, imposing mark.

Oscorp.

"Hm. Intriguing." Tinkerer's lips curled into something between curiosity and concern. "Looks like Walter made a stop at the Oscorp Archives."

"Oscorp? Like Norman Osborn?" Felicia asked, though she already knew the answer. The name carried its own shadow.

"It would appear so. That's the last place the tracker's energy signature was traced to. Unless he turns it back on, I won't be able to find it. It'll have been dormant too long."

Felicia's chest tightened. Her father's trail—so close and yet dangling just out of reach.

"Doesn't that make it hard to trace?" she asked.

He finally turned to face her, his gaze sharp, calculating.

"I only did it for Walter. When it comes to my other clients, they don't have the luxury of knowing about the trackers I've planted in them."

Felicia froze, her mouth dry. The way he said it was so casual, like it was the most natural thing in the world—like privacy, safety, none of it mattered when you lived in this world.

She wasn't dumb. Maybe reckless, maybe green, but not dumb. And in that moment, staring at the cold gleam of the monitor and the shadows on Tinkerer's face, she understood exactly what kind of people her father had kept company with.

And what kind of people she was choosing to deal with now.

"Kid, I don't know what's going on with your father, but you need to be careful. Once you put that thing on, there's no going back... whatever life you had before, it's not going to be the same. You understand me?"

Felicia stood frozen, goggles hiding the twitch in her eyes, the faint way her lips tightened when Tinkerer's words hit a nerve. Once you put that thing on, there's no going back.

"I don't care," she said, voice sharper than she intended, her arms stiff at her sides. "I need to find him. That's all that matters to me."

Tinkerer leaned back in his chair, shoulders slouching like a marionette whose strings had been cut. His face was creased and grizzled in a way that made it hard to pin down whether he looked more tired or more dangerous. He studied her, the kind of stare that stripped people down until there was nothing left but bone.

"As long as you understand the implications of being the Black Cat," he said finally. "That name will chew up your past and spit it out. You'll lose more than you realize—friends, trust, maybe even your future. If you're lucky, you'll just end up a ghost in the alleyways." He exhaled through his nose, almost amused. "But if you're unlucky… well, you've already seen what happens to people in this city when they play with teeth they can't control."

Felicia swallowed, shifting her weight from one boot to the other. He wasn't wrong. She knew it. But the flicker in her chest—the stubborn, unrelenting fire—refused to be snuffed out. She was going to find her dad.

"Yeah," she muttered, voice like steel dragged across pavement. "I get it."

Tinkerer didn't argue. He just turned back to his monitors, the green and blue glow painting the wiry edges of his face.

"Do me a favor, then. Get out of here. I've got work to do. And you've got searching to do, I surmise."

Felicia hesitated for a beat longer than she should've. Something about leaving like this felt… unfinished. Still, she nodded, tugging her gloves tighter around her fingers as she stepped toward the exit.

"Thanks," she said, the word half-hearted, but still genuine in its way.

She paused at the base of the stairs and turned back.

"By the way—" she gestured vaguely toward her goggles. "That symbol. What's it stand for?"

Tinkerer's lips curled into a sly grin, a shadow creeping across his sharp features.

"It's my brand, dear. I'm the Tinkerer." His eyes glittered with something unreadable—half menace, half amusement. "If it's any consolation, I hope you find him."

Felicia bit down on her tongue to keep from answering right away. She couldn't tell if he meant it or if it was just another little game of his, one more riddle wrapped in static. Still, she forced a small nod.

"I hope so too."

She adjusted her goggles, fingers brushing along the frame, before straightening. At the flick of Tinkerer's wrist, the device strapped across his arm flared to life. A low hum filled the air as her suit responded, her gear sparking, realigning, the HUD in her vision snapping back into its rightful shape. The strange, alien symbol that had burned into her display moments ago flickered away, leaving only her own system's normal interface. She exhaled through her nose, the relief subtle but noticeable.

"See you around," she said, though her tone carried more defiance than politeness.

"Come back if you want to do some work," Tinkerer replied, already half-absorbed in his screens again. "If you're half the thief Walter is, I've got some uses for you. More than a few, actually."

Felicia sneered, baring her teeth in a grin he couldn't see through the mask but would've felt in her voice.

"We'll see."

She turned on her heel, boots clattering softly against the steps as she ascended back toward the world above. The air felt different as she moved higher, less stifling than the cavern of machines and secrets below. She could still hear the hum of Tinkerer's tech, still picture his crooked smile lingering in the glow of monitors, but every step away from that basement felt like reclaiming a sliver of herself.

When she finally pushed through the exit and stepped into the night, the cold air smacked her cheeks like a wake-up call.

She pulled her hood back up and stared up at the endless sprawl of the Manhattan skyline. She had a trail to follow now, but there were more questions being raised now in her mind. What exactly had her father gotten himself into with Oscorp? What was so important he'd come out of fifteen years of retirement?

Arsenal597 · 2025-12-03T23:19:13+0000

It took a few days, but Felicia was able to figure out a way into the archive building Tinkerer had shown her. They weren't wasted though—hours of scoping the place out from rooftops, ducking into alleys when patrols doubled back, and even once pretending to be a pizza delivery girl just to confirm who was walking through the front doors. Now, crouched low on a half-lit rooftop, she had her eye on the prize.

From the outside, the building looked like nothing more than a forgotten husk of city bureaucracy. Dirty stone walls. Faded plaques. Windows that hadn't seen a squeegee since before Felicia was born. But the illusion cracked the second your eye lingered too long. Guards roamed with assault rifles gleaming under the floodlights, their armor far too advanced for your standard gun-for-hire detail. These weren't rent-a-cops. Their helmets were slick, faceless, with faint blue pulses of circuitry running across the plating. Even their movements felt military—crisp, rehearsed, no casual slouching at posts.

Oscorp security, most likely. At least, what Oscorp security had become. Felicia had studied enough news clippings of Oscorp's heyday to know Norman Osborn had never kitted out his guards like this. They used to wear stiff uniforms and carry pistols, nothing more. The new regime under Alistair Smythe seemed paranoid. Overcompensating. Still, even Smythe was a pencil-neck, not a warlord. This much firepower? Something else had them on edge. Something worth protecting.

Felicia popped a dumpling into her mouth from the grease-stained Chinese takeout box at her side. Cold sesame oil clung to her tongue, but she chewed slowly, watching the patterns of guard rotations through her binoculars. "Shift changes are frequent," she muttered to herself, legs bouncing in time with her nerves. "Probably don't know every face that goes through those doors. If it were less important, I'd try and swap places with one of the incoming guards…"

But no, that would be sloppy. This wasn't just another break-in at a high-rise or pawn shop—this was the city's locked-away, eyes-only archive, the kind of place only powerful people knew even existed. The kind of place that had her father's name tangled up in its files. Her window of error was thinner than the glass lenses on her goggles.

She licked her thumb, flicking through the pages of the stolen blueprints she had tucked into her bag, and let the takeout box rest at her side. The building's plans were frustrating—most of the schematics were half-erased, like someone deliberately tried to make breaking in harder—but she'd pieced together enough. The true archive wasn't on the ground floor. That was just bait, a normal-looking set of file cabinets to keep anyone too nosy satisfied. The real prize lay deep underground, hidden below the southeast corridor. To reach it, she'd have to go through the ventilation system, then into the elevator shaft.

Felicia wrinkled her nose. Ventilation. The most cliché route in the book. Every comic, every spy flick, every wannabe thief with a crowbar thought air ducts were the golden ticket. In real life, they were cramped, noisy, and about as subtle as dragging a chainsaw through a library. Most buildings wouldn't even support a person's weight inside them, let alone provide easy exits. But the Tinkerer had confirmed this system was an exception. Reinforced for maintenance crews. Traversable.

She tapped the side of her goggles and the UI flickered to life, overlaying faint digital traces across the building. According to Tinkerer, her father's gear—and by extension, his movements—could be tracked through the same server that ran her suit. The specifics had made her eyes glaze over, but the old man had promised the instructions were simple enough: get to the underground archive, patch in, and she'd have a map of Walter Hardy's breadcrumbs.

Felicia's heart drummed, uneven but determined. She slid the binoculars back into her bag, wiped the grease from her fingers on her leggings, and crouched lower against the lip of the rooftop. The next shift change was seconds away. If her observations were right, she'd have a three-minute window to get inside before the next unit circled back. That meant no hesitations.

She adjusted her gloves, flexing her fingers as the sharpened claws caught the moonlight. Not just for show. Her first time sparking them to life, she'd accidentally shredded one of her bedsheets. Tonight, she was hoping they'd chew through steel just as easily.

"Alright, Hardy," she whispered, pulling the mask tighter over her face. "Time to see if you're a cat, or just a rat in borrowed fur."

The shift change began. Guards barked orders, boots stomped in rhythm, one unit stepping off while the replacements filed in. She counted the seconds in her head—ten, twenty, thirty—before rolling over the edge of her perch and landing silently on the adjoining rooftop. Her boots absorbed the shock, the faintest hiss of hydraulics masking the thud.

She sprinted low, practically crawling, before flattening against the vent shaft she'd marked earlier. The cool metal smelled of rust and city soot. One hand slid across the grill until she found the latch, the other igniting her claws with a quiet electric whine. She dug them in and pulled. Sparks skittered across her gloves. The grill bent, shrieked, then tore free.

The noise was louder than she'd hoped. Felicia froze, pressing her body against the vent as a guard below stopped mid-step and turned his head. Her breath caught, throat bone-dry. For one long second, she thought she'd blown it on the very first try.

Then another guard called out, "C'mon, don't lag behind!" Boots shuffled. The first guard moved on.

Felicia exhaled. She squeezed herself into the opening, dragging the grill inside with her to minimize suspicion. The vent was narrow, metal groaning beneath her weight, but it held. She crawled on hands and knees, goggles cutting the darkness with faint blue outlines. Each motion felt like balancing on a knife's edge—one wrong shift and she'd either tumble through or clang loud enough to bring a squad running.

Her timer ticked in her head. Two minutes left.

She scrambled faster, body tense, every movement an exercise in control. The vent bent downward, leading toward the southeast corridor. She slid carefully, claws scraping lightly to slow herself. Her stomach twisted from the drop, but she landed in the junction quietly enough.

Behind her, the muffled sound of boots thudded. The next shift. They were back already. Her window was closing.

Felicia scrambled forward, heart hammering, until she spotted the faint outline of another grill. She didn't hesitate this time. Claws flared, metal tore, and she wriggled her body through the gap just as voices echoed closer from the hall below.

Her boot slipped, catching on the frame. She cursed under her breath and yanked hard, body straining. At the last second, she freed herself, tumbling onto the narrow ledge of the corridor below and hugging the shadows. The grill clattered softly behind her, but no alarm was raised.

She'd made it in. Barely.

Felicia pressed her back against the wall, chest rising and falling like she'd just run a marathon. Adrenaline burned through her, equal parts terror and exhilaration. Her lips pulled into a grin she couldn't quite stop.

This was it… no turning back now.

She walked down the hallway until she found the elevator. There was no way she'd be able to enter and exit the elevator so clearly. All it took was one wrong stop and her whole plan was blown to bits and smithereens.

The blueprints had shown an opening into the elevator shaft on this level, a perfect route down if she was careful enough. Which was a big if. She found the tiny vent opening on the wall a few feet to the right of the doors.

Well, there's that… Now, where's the elevator?

Felicia pressed her goggles to scan again—pale outlines of moving shapes flickered faintly down the vertical drop. The elevator was already on its way down. She had to move. Now.

She pulled herself through the vent's mouth, swung her weight, and dropped onto the steel support beam just above the elevator car. Her claws sparked faintly as they caught the metal, the sound too loud in her ears, but mercifully lost under the hum of the machinery. She crouched low, holding her breath, letting the vibration of the moving car buzz through her bones.

Four voices carried up through the grate at her feet, muffled but clear enough if she focused.

"Guy has clearance, so it's none of our business." One voice said—flat and tired, like this was just another shift.

"Doesn't he give you the creeps, though?" another asked, a nervous edge tightening his tone.

Felicia tilted her head, ears straining to catch every syllable.

Creeps?

"Look, we're not paid to get creeped out by every slimy geek that Oscorp hires. Are we?" The third asked. He had a bite to his words, sneering like he was trying to sound braver than he actually was.

She smirked to herself. Must be the leader.

The elevator rumbled lower, the cables groaning slightly under the weight. She pressed herself flatter to the car, every sense keyed in.

"Didn't you hear that noise though when we came in? Sounded freaky, like something else was in there with him."

Felicia's brow arched behind the goggles.

Something else?

"It's an old building. Plenty of weird sounds to be heard, especially underground," the leader dismissed. "Probably just a train going by or something."

Felicia almost laughed, the sound bubbling in her throat before she forced it down. That line always worked in movies too—ignore the obvious. Totally won't come back to bite them in the ass any time soon.

But she didn't feel quite as amused when the elevator shuddered, braking hard. Her claws clenched against the metal frame. Every vibration felt heavier and louder, like the machinery itself was groaning.

What exactly was this geek doing in Restricted Access that had the guards spooked? Felicia's pulse quickened at the thought, but she shook it off. Curiosity was bad for cats. She needed to focus on finding her father.

The elevator finally thudded to a stop, and the guards' chatter cut off with it. Felicia waited, breath shallow, until their footsteps receded into the corridor below. Only then did she unhook her claws and swing toward the vent on the opposite wall.

The metal grating squealed faintly as her claws slid into the seams, prying it loose. She froze, heart hammering, waiting for some shout from below. There was nothing but the fading echoes of boots in the distance.

Good.

She slipped inside, pulling the grate back into place behind her, and crawled forward until the shaft widened enough to give her room. Ahead, faint light spilled through a vent cover, casting a pale sliver across her goggles. She adjusted the claws, flexed her fingers once, then shoved gently against the grate. It popped free with a soft groan of steel.

Felicia took a breath, and then dropped.

Her boots kissed the ground like a cat's paws, knees bending to absorb the weight. She straightened, scanning the dim corridor around her. It stretched narrow and long, walls reinforced with concrete and polished steel. There were no windows. Merely fluorescent strips buzzing faintly overhead, giving the space a sterile, bunker-like feel.

"My, my… Oscorp's got quite the space, don't they?" Felicia murmured, lips quirking despite herself. The sound of her own voice in the hush steadied her nerves.

She reached up and tapped the side of her goggles. The UI flickered, then resolved into sharp lines. A second later, a tiny orb of holographic light blinked into existence just ahead of her—glowing faintly like a wisp. It floated forward a few feet, then stilled, waiting.

Felicia blinked, then chuckled low in her throat.

"Not what I was expecting, Tink…" she whispered, her voice bouncing softly against the cold walls. "But I'll take it."

She stepped forward, and the orb darted further ahead, always just out of reach, bobbing slightly as it guided her deeper into Oscorp's underworld.

Her claws flexed at her sides, silent and eager. Whatever this archive held—her father's trail, Walter's path, or this mysterious "geek"—she was walking into something much bigger than stolen tech or a rookie break-in.

But that was fine.

If Oscorp wanted to keep secrets, she'd be the one to pry them loose.

Felicia followed the faint, pulsing orb of light as it floated down the hallway, sticking to the shadows to the best of her ability. She came to the end of the hallway and crouched. The holographic ball shimmered like a will-o'-the-wisp, waiting just ahead, before darting downward into the dark like it was daring her to follow. She pressed her ear against the door and listened.

The sound of motors—big ones—churned below, along with the sharp metallic scrape of machinery shifting. She risked a glance.

Her eyes widened.

It wasn't some dingy storage cellar. It was a control room overlooking something far larger—a massive loading bay sprawled beneath her like an underground city. Conveyor belts slithered between platforms, and fully automated forklifts hummed as they navigated tight lanes with eerie precision. The machines moved crates with the kind of care no human worker ever had, aligning them perfectly before vanishing back into their routes like ants serving a hive.

And guarding that hive? Dozens of men in Oscorp black, rifles slung, helmets reflecting the pale glow of overhead fluorescents. The air carried the tinny echo of radio chatter, clipped words bouncing between frequencies Felicia couldn't tap into. She shifted her weight silently in the vent, careful not to let the metal groan under her.

But what froze her was the sight along the rafters.

Snipers.

At least three of them, their rifles resting on tripods as they scanned the floor below with hawk-like patience.

Felicia's lips curled into a whisper of disbelief.

"Snipers? What the hell is in this place worth hiring snipers for?"

She adjusted her goggles, zooming in just enough to confirm.

Looks like Oscorp isn't just protecting property down here.

She almost missed the sound of heels clicking faintly, yet ever so sharp against the polished metal walkway outside the control room. Felicia's ears twitched at it, body moving before her brain had even caught up.

She bit down a curse, flicked her wrist, and the grapple fired with a muted thup. The claw latched onto a ceiling beam, and she yanked herself up into the shadows. Her body coiled against the beam, limbs clinging with all the instinctive fluidity of a cat darting up a fence. A second later, the door hissed open.

Felicia froze, every muscle locked, breath steady.

A woman stormed in, muttering under her breath. Blonde hair pulled back tight, lab coat swaying with her stride, the kind of posture that screamed authority even when buried under exhaustion. Her heels clicked across the metal floor like a metronome of irritation.

"Stupid protocols…" the woman hissed, tossing a clipboard onto the console with a loud smack. "I ran this department for three years, and that jackass thinks he can come in and just change everything?"

Felicia tilted her head, narrowing her eyes from above.

The woman didn't stop. She paced across the control room, hands flying with angry gestures.

"Norman would be appalled by this. We had order, we had results. And now—now I'm supposed to clear every single requisition through him?"

Felicia's lips curled in a faint smirk, but her mind was racing. She didn't know much about Oscorp's upper brass, but Norman was one you didn't forget easily. Whoever this "him" was, he wasn't making friends down here.

The scientist slammed her palm against the console and muttered something Felicia couldn't catch, then stormed toward the opposite door. Her heels carried her away, each step clicking fainter until the door sighed shut behind her.

Felicia let out the breath she'd been holding. No one saw her.

She tilted her goggles toward the holographic trail. The little orb flickered and drifted forward, toward the next chamber.

"Lead the way, Tink," she whispered, her voice barely a breath.

She crawled silently across the ceiling beams, her body low, muscles taut and fluid. Every motion was precise but natural, like she'd done this her whole life—even though part of her brain screamed she hadn't. She was learning as she went, instincts sharpening with every risk she took.

By the time she reached the far corner, the trail dipped into another corridor. Perfect.

She waited, listening. The patrols below were steady. The hum of machinery droned on, masking her. With one fluid motion, she dropped from the rafters into another vent slot. Her boots touched metal with the softness of falling snow. Not a single head turned.

The vent sloped forward and down, narrower this time. She followed the trail on hands and knees until it opened up into a grate overlooking a dim corridor. The lights here flickered faintly, less sterile than the bay she'd just passed.

Felicia crouched by the grate, muscles coiled. The orb floated lazily into the corridor, waiting for her.

Time to move.

She popped the grate with a careful push, and dropped through the gap. Her body twisted midair, legs tucking tight, then she extended them just before impact. She landed in a crouch, graceful and silent, the way a cat might settle on a windowsill. The faint swish of her suit was the only sound in the corridor.

She straightened, brushing dust from her gloves, and glanced around.

The hall stretched long and narrow, lined with half-lit panels that buzzed faintly with static. Pipes ran along the ceiling, dripping condensation that stained the concrete floor in long streaks. The smell here was different—less industrial, more damp, like the bowels of the city had crept into Oscorp's underbelly.

She tapped the side of her goggles, recalibrating. The lenses flickered before stabilizing. The orb popped back into existence ahead of her, glowing softly.

The light bobbed ahead, drifting a few feet forward before vanishing and reappearing again. Felicia followed, each step measured, her boots whispering against the concrete. With every move, the orb danced further down the hall, like it was pulling her deeper into Oscorp's labyrinth.

And she followed.

Because if this place really was hiding something worth snipers, worth guards, worth the kind of secrecy most companies only dreamed about—then perhaps it was hiding Walter, too.

And she wasn't leaving without him.

But everything was starting to feel weird. There's a vibe to a place, no matter where you go. Felicia felt relatively confident coming into the Archive, but now… she was uncertain more than anything.

The enhanced security, the guards being spooked, and the overall labyrinth she was in right now was shaking her confidence. Why would an Archive need snipers watching?

A flicker of doubt clawed at her. Walter would've slipped through here like smoke, carving a clean path without breaking stride. Felicia felt more like a kitten sneaking into a lion's den, chasing a holographic trail that suddenly felt less like guidance and more like bait.

Felicia trailed the holographic path deeper into Oscorp's bowels, her boots silent against the concrete floor. The glowing breadcrumb trail Walter had left her flickered like some ghost leading her by the hand. Every step carried her farther from the loading bay and into a corridor choked with dust, the kind of forgotten hallway no contractor had walked in years.

Her breath misted faintly in the chilled air. The deeper she went, the colder it grew. By the time the hologram winked to a stop, she'd entered what looked like a storage room—rows of squat metal containers, stacked crates, and machinery shoved into corners as though it had all been hidden away rather than organized. Oscorp was burying their secrets, not just storing them.

The hologram pulsed one last time in front of a container larger than the others, then fizzled out. Felicia paused, crouching low beside it. The container wasn't ordinary. A cooling system hummed softly at its base, faint frost clinging to the seam around its door.

"Great," Felicia muttered, voice barely audible, "what am I about to find—frozen peas?"

Her hand hesitated over the latch. Everything about the container screamed perishable. Medical? Biological? Something that needed to be locked down and refrigerated. Her gut whispered don't.

She ignored it and pulled.

Cold air rushed out, brushing her face with the faint tang of sterilized metal. Inside wasn't food or equipment, but files. Stacks of them. Felicia reached for the nearest, her glove trembling only slightly.

The name stamped across the top stopped her breath.

Richard Parker.

Her brows shot up. The file folder was heavy, dense with papers and diagrams. She flipped the cover open, skimming words she didn't entirely understand—dense scientific jargon, phrases like "retroviral compatibility" and "genetic stability." One phrase, however, leapt out clean and brutal:

Cross Species Genetics.

Felicia's stomach turned cold. She didn't like the sound of that. That sounded like something pulled straight from a horror movie, and it normally never worked out well.

Her gaze swept further inside the container. Papers were scattered in organized stacks, but in the very center sat an empty cradle, circular in design, as though it had once held a canister or cylinder upright. A placard was etched across the steel lip:

Test Subject X-12.

Felicia stared at the hollow center. The slot was empty, dustless, recently empty. Whatever had been here was gone.

"What the hell…" she whispered. Her fingers hovered over the label, tracing the X-12 like it might burn her.

She shut her eyes for a beat.

Is this what Dad came out of retirement for? Dad, what were you doing?

Felicia grabbed the files, stuffing them into her bag before her nerve faltered. The weight pulled at her shoulder instantly, the papers dense and ominous, like she was strapping down guilt itself. She closed the container with care, sealing it until the frost crept back over the seam.

That was when the sound came.

Soft. Barely audible. A scrape of leather on metal, a faint exhale that didn't belong to her.

Felicia froze. Her head snapped toward the doorway, and instinct carried her into the shadows between two stacked crates. She flattened herself into the darkness, forcing her breathing to steady. Her pulse, however, betrayed her, hammering against her ribs like a warning drum.

The door eased open.

Someone walked in.

Felicia expected a guard, another scientist, maybe one of the grunts she'd dodged earlier. Instead, the figure who entered made her blood chill more than the refrigerated air ever could.

A man in a mask. Not just any mask, but a stylized jackal's head—sleek and angular, pitch black, its carved muzzle stretching forward with the cruel grace of something predatory. The eyes were narrow slits, opaque and glinting faintly in the low light.

The rest of him was dressed to kill: a dark red suit, tailored and sharp against the monstrous mask. The blend was jarring—ritualistic terror wrapped in expensive fabric, like some god of death had decided to attend a board meeting.

Felicia's eyes widened before she could stop herself. Her stomach dropped.

What the hell?

The man moved with an unsettling calm, like he belonged here, like the room itself shifted to accommodate his presence. He didn't glance around nervously, didn't hurry, didn't act like someone sneaking into Oscorp's forgotten chamber. No—this was someone who expected to be here.

Felicia's throat tightened. Every ounce of unease she'd felt earlier in the loading bay now boiled into genuine fear.

She shrank tighter into the shadows, barely daring to breathe, the cold air stinging her lungs. The files in her bag suddenly felt radioactive, like they were pulsing against her side, begging to give her away.

Jackal slithered across the room, the leather of his shoes whispering against the concrete floor as he approached the container. The sound of metal scraping against metal rang out when he tugged the heavy door open. For a heartbeat, the light cut across his profile—the sharp cheekbones, the sneering lips, the eyes that glowed faintly like an animal peering out of the dark. He leaned forward, peering into the void of the container.

And then, a low growl rattled out of his throat. His fingers curled into claws against the steel edge, nails screeching as he dragged them across the surface.

"Of course… why would it be so simple?" His voice broke into a hiss, bitter and venomous. "I warned you, Norman…" He tilted his head back, glaring up into the rafters like the ceiling itself had betrayed him. Then, with a snap of his voice that cracked the silence: "Jimmy!"

The low, thunderous whoomp of wings slicing through the air, a rhythm that didn't belong in this enclosed space. Every flap carried weight, like a leather tarp being torn again and again, echoing across the walls. Dust stirred loose from the beams above, sprinkling down like ash.

The doorway shuddered under a shadow, and then it stepped through.

The figure ducked slightly to clear the steel frame, its feathers catching the dull overhead light. Dark red—like they'd been dipped in rust, or blood left too long to dry. Felicia pressed herself tighter into the shadows of the shipping racks, breath sticking in her throat. She couldn't see it fully, but what glimpses she caught were enough to freeze her blood: metallic claws clicking against the concrete, talons too sharp, too deliberate to be natural. They weren't grown—they'd been installed, grafted, shoved into flesh that never asked for them.

The head turned toward Jackal, and that's when she saw the beak. Jagged and chipped at the edges, smeared with a dark brown that she knew, deep down, wasn't rust. Strands of hair—dark, greasy, tangled—hung around its shoulders like a curtain. It wasn't some clean avian mask. It was a man's skull stretched and broken until it resembled something that belonged in a nightmare aviary.

And when it spoke, Felicia's stomach turned cold.

"Yes… master?" The voice scraped from its throat like gravel dragged across stone. Low, guttural, soaked in an unnatural echo, as if the world itself recoiled at letting such a sound exist.

Jackal's expression softened, almost paternal.

"Were you able to get anything from our little thief?"

The creature shifted, talons curling.

"No… he's been resilient."

Felicia's hands curled against the shelf. Her knuckles whitened. Walter. They were talking about Walter.

Her lungs filled like she'd been dropped into ice water.

Jackal tutted, clicking his tongue.

"Maybe we're going about it wrong, then. Did it look like he was living alone?"

The beast paused, as if replaying its memory.

"No. There were signs of another."

Felicia's stomach knotted. They knew. They knew someone else had been there.

Jackal's lips stretched into something resembling a smile.

"Then perhaps we find the one he was staying with… and use them to get the leverage we need."

Her nails bit into her palms. She forced herself not to move, not to make a sound. Her whole body screamed at her to run, but the second she did, it was over.

Jackal continued, his tone casual, almost conversational.

"Now, about your partner. How's his recovery coming?"

The beast shifted its shoulders, feathers rustling with the sound of knives scraping together.

"The procedure is going well. The wing is regenerating as expected. Should I go after—"

It froze. Its entire body went rigid, head snapping to the side like a dog catching movement in its periphery. Then, slowly, deliberately, the creature's chest expanded.

It sniffed.

The sound wasn't human. It wasn't even an animal. It was deep, primal, a wet dragging of air through a cavity too broken, too altered to belong in nature. A long inhale, like a wolf pulling the scent of blood into its sinuses. The beak lifted slightly, nostrils flaring, and Felicia swore she saw its tongue flicker inside the darkness of its mouth.

"There's someone here…" it growled.

The words dropped into the air like lead.

Felicia clamped her mouth shut, teeth grinding down on the inside of her cheek to stop herself from gasping. Her pulse hammered against her ribs so hard she thought it might rattle the shelves.

Jackal hummed softly, amused.

"Hmm, what a shame. Find them and kill them. No witnesses."

Felicia's eyes widened. Her stomach dropped into her shoes.

The creature's wings snapped open with a violent rustle, slamming against the walls as it launched itself forward. The wind of it rushed down the aisle, whipping her hair into her face. It didn't walk. It didn't stalk. It flew. Straight into her direction.

Her legs moved before she could think. She stumbled backward, heart slamming, the shelves rattling as she pressed herself against them. Every instinct screamed fight-or-flight, but fighting wasn't an option. If she tried, she'd end up as dried blood on its beak…

The sound of talons scraped concrete, metal against stone.

Felicia clamped her hand over her mouth. She could hear it sniffing again, closer this time, the noise echoing in her ears. The breath it pulled in sounded almost wet, like it was savoring the molecules of her fear, separating them out one by one.

The air shifted. A shadow swept over her.

The monster rounded the corner, wings scraping the walls. Its head twitched unnaturally, too sharp, too sudden, locking into place like a broken animatronic. The beak clicked once, twice, and then a final third time as it turned its head right to her hiding place.

Felicia's legs wanted to give out. Her whole body screamed to run, to flee into the dark and never stop. But she knew she wasn't going to be able to outrun something that could fly.

Her father's words rang in her ears again.

"The prey always thinks it's safe until it's not… because the most dangerous predators are the ones you don't know are watching."

She wasn't going to die here… especially not to this thing.

Felicia's hand trembled as she slid her fingers across the small satchel at her belt. She didn't have much—tools, tricks, trinkets she'd designed to disorient or distract. Nothing meant for this. Her thumb brushed over the ridged edge of one of the sonic coins.

The monstrous silhouette lingered in the doorway, feathers shifting, claws flexing with the faint scrape of metal on concrete. The smell was what got to her—the sour bite of dried blood wafting across the room, mixing with the copper tang already stinging her nose. Its beak twitched as it breathed, the kind of deliberate inhale that wasn't for survival, but for the hunt.

She forced herself not to breathe too loudly, not to make the mistake prey always made in horror movies. But her pulse was so loud it felt like it might give her away anyway.

Her thumb pressed down on the coin. The device whined to life, the pitch building almost imperceptibly, and then she flicked it with practiced ease across the warehouse floor. It clattered in the far corner.

The creature's head snapped in that direction instantly, like a hawk sighting a mouse. The sound wasn't loud, but in the quiet, it was deafening.

Felicia didn't wait.

The scrape of her boots on concrete sounded like gunfire in her ears. The creature's wings flared, feathers rattling like sabers. She didn't dare look back—looking back would mean slowing down.

"THERE, YOU IMBECILE!" The Jackal's voice cracked across the warehouse like a whip. "Get after her!"

The explosion of noise nearly knocked Felicia off balance. The creature lunged forward, wings pumping, and the door it passed through didn't just open—it tore off its hinges with a screech of metal and burst apart, alarms screaming to life overhead.

Red emergency lights bathed the room in pulses, each flash making the nightmare loom larger, a strobing horror sprinting after her.

"You fool!" Jackal screeched behind them, her voice warping in the alarm's wail. But the monster was already gone, too intent on the chase to care.

The narrow corridors ahead blurred into smears of shadow and steel, her body barely keeping pace with the panic driving it. Every muscle screamed to stop, but adrenaline kept her moving, forcing one step after another.

The flapping was what rattled her most—those wings weren't silent. They churned the air in deep, guttural beats, each one rattling in her ribcage, closer, then closer still. Sometimes the wind of its passage brushed her neck, hot and rancid, like it could snatch her any second.

She dove through a narrow gap between stacked crates, pulling a bola from her belt. It wasn't meant for something this big, but she hurled it at the shape looming through the shadows behind her.

The weighted cords whipped around the creature's wings, tangling the feathers. It shrieked—a noise that split the air, shrill and unholy—and slammed shoulder-first into a steel wall. The whole bay shuddered. Dust rained down.

Felicia didn't cheer. She didn't even breathe. She just kept moving, weaving between obstacles, climbing over fallen beams, searching for any path back to the one place she might have a chance—the control room above the loading bay.

Her lungs burned, throat ragged, but the shriek still echoed behind her. Metal tore. The crash hadn't killed it—hadn't even slowed it for long.

By the time she reached the stairwell, her calves were on fire. She forced herself upward two steps at a time, hearing the scrape of claws against the walls behind her. The steel bent under its grip. It was tearing its way up after her.

She burst through the door at the top, chest heaving, and stumbled into the control room. The wide windows stretched out across the bay below, and her stomach sank.

Twelve men stood there, armored and armed, rifles already aimed at her.

"Stand down!" one barked, his voice harsh, mechanical through his helmet's speaker.

Felicia froze, raising her hands slowly. Her throat tightened.

"Wait—no, you don't understand—"

The door behind her rattled once, then caved in.

The creature stepped through.

Every rifle snapped away from Felicia in an instant, barrels tracking the nightmare instead. For one horrifying heartbeat, she almost felt relief. Almost.

"What the fuck is that thing?!" one of the guards yelled.

The monster's head tilted, and the red light caught its beak, its claws, its glistening feathers. It smiled—or at least, its face twisted into something that made Felicia's stomach turn.

"No witnesses," it hissed, voice like steel dragged over teeth.

Its wing flared wide, scattering a storm of feathers that weren't feathers at all—razor-edged shards that tore through the air and slammed into the overhead lights. Bulbs exploded in showers of glass.

The room plunged into darkness.

Then came the sound.

Wings roaring, screams muffled by the gunfire flashing in bursts, strobing the monster's form as it darted between them. Its beak snapped down, claws raked across armor, throats ripped open in the dark. Bullets tore the walls apart, but none seemed to slow it.

Felicia hit the ground, crawling under the control panel, heart hammering as the flashes painted the nightmare in fragments. Here—its talons sinking into a man's chest. There—its beak tearing at another's helmet. Blood sprayed across the glass windows in streaks that glowed red in the emergency light.

The arm dropped into her lap with a wet, meaty smack.

Felicia froze. For half a heartbeat her brain didn't even register what she was holding. Just a weight—heavy, slick. Then her gaze snapped down and the world tilted. Fingers. A hand, limp and pale, veins bulging through shredded flesh. A guard's arm, torn jagged at the elbow where sinew and bone stuck out like snapped cables.

A choked scream ripped out of her before she even knew it was happening, echoing shrill under the table. The stench hit next, iron and rot and gunpowder all rolled together. She shoved the thing off her with a violent jerk, scrambling backward on hands and knees, panic thundering through her ribs.

Her head cracked against the underside of the console—pain flared white hot—and then the shadow hit her. A sweep of air, a rush of feathers like knives. The wing slammed into her side and she was airborne, glass exploding around her in a glittering shriek as her body tore through the control room window.

The loading bay yawned beneath her. For a split second she was weightless, staring at the void below, heart free-falling faster than her body. Then pain detonated across her ribs, fire up her arm, as she realized she was plummeting.

Instinct screamed louder than fear. Her hand snapped to her belt, fingers fumbling at the grappling gun. She fired on pure reflex—thwip—the hook shot and bit into steel above. The rope went taut, jerking her so hard her shoulder almost wrenched clean out. She swung down in a wide arc, boots clipping air, glass shards raining past her like shooting stars.

She crashed hard on the metal walkway, rolling into a heap next to a sniper who'd abandoned his post at the railing. He spun, rifle snapping up, finger already tight on the trigger.

Felicia barely moved in time, twisting low, her braid whipping his barrel aside as the shot cracked against the far wall. She hissed and lashed out with a boot, kicking the rifle from his hands before darting back. Breathless. Rattled.

Then she heard it.

That sound.

A screech—like steel tearing apart, like death given lungs. It froze the air in her throat. Everyone's heads snapped toward the shattered window above.

"Oh no…" she whispered, voice cracking, skin crawling cold.

The beast launched itself through the jagged hole in the control room, wings shredding what glass still clung to the frame. It hit the air like a thunderclap, feathers scattering like blades of black glass. The floodlights washed over its form for a split second—claws dripping, beak smeared crimson—before it plummeted toward the snipers.

Chaos erupted.

Men shouted, some firing up wildly, others scattering across the catwalks. The beast fell on them with a soundless glide, the air itself bending around its wings. Its talons hit the first man with enough force to crunch metal underfoot, pinning him before tearing him in two like paper.

Felicia ran. She didn't think—her body moved, screaming to survive. The catwalk shuddered under her boots as she vaulted over crates and railings, clutching her grapple gun like a lifeline. A swipe of claws sliced through the air where her head had been a moment earlier. She ducked low, heart hammering, sweat slick on her palms.

A screech ripped behind her—piercing, triumphant. She fired the grappling line again, hook biting into the far wall. It yanked her up and across the bay, swinging her just as a wing slashed through the space she'd been sprinting. She flew in a wide arc over the loading zone, wind howling in her ears.

The beast followed.

It launched off the railing, wings snapping open like sails, momentum cracking the air like thunder. She caught a glimpse of it chasing her mid-swing—eyes gleaming in the light, blood dripping from its claws—before she let go and rolled across the steel plating.

Bullets hammered into the walls behind her. She glanced back just long enough to see the beast tear another sniper apart, rending flesh from armor, the gunfire only strobing its nightmare outline. Her stomach lurched as one man screamed while being dragged over the railing, his body pinwheeling down into the shadows below.

Felicia hit the ground hard, breath knocked from her lungs. She tumbled into the corpse of a downed sniper, his body crumpled grotesquely. Her hands landed on cold flesh, and she recoiled—but her eyes caught the gleam of his rifle.

"No… no, no, no—" she muttered, shaking her head, chest heaving. This wasn't the plan. She wasn't supposed to be armed. She wasn't supposed to be seen.

But the monster's shadow fell over her again, and instinct shredded her hesitation.

She yanked the rifle free, checked the chamber with a trembling hand. Her mouth was dry, eyes wide, every nerve screaming in revolt at the thought of firing.

"So much for being quiet…" she groaned bitterly, shouldering the weapon.

The beast lifted its head from a torn corpse. Its beak opened, hissing wet, and its gaze locked straight onto her.

Felicia's pulse spiked.

It spread its wings, feathers brushing the walls, then launched like a missile.

She screamed and fired.

The recoil slammed into her shoulder, but the shot landed true. A burst of sparks and smoke erupted from the beast's chest, the impact sending it reeling mid-flight. It screeched, twisting, and then crashed hard against the opposite platform. Steel groaned and gave way under the impact, the creature tumbling down into the shadows below the loading bay.

Felicia's whole body shook.

She didn't wait to see if it was dead. She didn't believe it was dead. She fired her grapple again, the line pulling her back toward the control room. She swung, boots scraping the wall, and hauled herself through the jagged wreck of the window. Her breaths came sharp, shallow, her body trembling with adrenaline and pain.

The control room was ruined, smoke curling up from shattered consoles. She stumbled toward the elevator shaft, chest heaving, blood roaring in her ears. If she could just get to the vents… if she could just disappear back into the crawlspaces, maybe—just maybe—she could make it out alive.

"Come on, come on, come on…"

Felicia sprinted through the narrow hallways, boots slamming against the steel floor, each step echoing louder than her pounding heartbeat. The building felt like it was shaking, the rafters groaning with every thunderous beat of wings in the distance. The sound was growing closer—thick, heavy gusts of air pushed through the hall like the sky itself was about to cave in.

She didn't dare look back.

Her claws skittered against the elevator panel as she reached it, fingers fumbling, trying to pry it open. "Come on, come on—" she hissed, panic breaking through her cool veneer. The door gave a metallic groan and slid apart, just enough for her to wedge herself inside. She hit the controls with frantic stabs of her finger, and the doors began their agonizingly slow close.

The creature came into view, faster than she thought possible. Arms outstretched, claws gleaming in the emergency light, its beak wide in a rictus of hunger. It slammed against the elevator door just as it sealed, the force rattling the car, sparks spitting from the seam. Felicia staggered back, nearly falling to the floor. For one awful moment, she thought it was over.

The doors buckled inward with a screech. Claws—jagged, metallic, wet with blood—forced between the gap. The creature's eyes, glowing faint and hungry, burned into her as it pried the doors open inch by inch. Felicia's breath caught in her throat.

The car jolted upward suddenly, gears whining as the elevator began its climb. For half a second, relief surged in her chest—then died instantly as the thing's talons scraped along the closing seam, leaving gouges in the steel. Its snarl followed her up, echoing through the shaft like a curse.

Felicia's hands shook, but her instincts kicked in. She looked up. The hatch. She leapt, claws sparking as they slashed across the metal cover until it snapped loose. She shoved it aside and scrambled onto the roof of the car, body slick with sweat, lungs burning.

The elevator groaned below her, shaking like the weight of the creature's rage could collapse it. Felicia didn't stay long enough to find out. Her grappling line fired with a thwip, embedding into the shaft wall. She swung herself across, hooking onto a maintenance vent. Her arms ached from the force, but she forced her claws into the grille, tearing it open with a desperate grunt.

She pulled herself into the narrow duct, body contorting catlike through the space. The air tasted of rust and oil, thick and choking, but it was better than the reek of blood that still clung to her. She dragged herself forward, claws clinking against steel, forcing her breathing to quiet even as her lungs screamed for air.

The sound followed. Far below now, but rising—an unholy screech that made the vent vibrate around her. Felicia froze, chest pressed to the metal, every muscle burning with tension. Her heart hammered against her ribs. For a moment, she swore she could hear it crawling through the shaft after her, those wings scraping, claws digging for purchase.

She forced herself forward, faster. Each inch was a battle against panic, but the thought of being caught was worse. Finally, the vent gave way to the rooftop grate, and she shoved it open, crawling into the night air.

The cold hit her like a slap, the wind sharp against sweat-slick skin. She gasped, dragging herself upright. The city spread around her in indifferent neon glow, but behind—the building pulsed with red warning lights.

Felicia didn't linger. She fired her grappling hook, launching across to the nearest building. The line yanked her forward, her body arcing over the street as sirens wailed faintly in the distance. She landed rough, rolling across gravel, knees jarring with pain, but she didn't stop. She couldn't.

She risked one glance back. The archives loomed, dark except for the scarlet pulse of emergency lighting. Then it came—the sound that carved into her bones. A scream, raw and furious, ripping out of the building's broken windows. It was a sound of hunger denied, a predator robbed of its prize.

Felicia gasped, her breath ragged. The night swallowed her heartbeat, but the scream stayed. She knew it wasn't over. That thing wasn't dead. It might not even be hurt.

Her legs carried her forward before thought could catch up. Over another rooftop, another line fired, another landing. The sirens grew louder, police swarming the streets below, but they weren't for her. They were for the slaughter she'd just left behind.

Felicia didn't stop moving until her lungs burned and her legs threatened to collapse beneath her. The city blurred past in streaks of neon and rain-slick steel as she grappled rooftop to rooftop, refusing to even glance behind her. She didn't need to. That sound—the echo of wings splitting the air like thunder—was etched deep enough into her skull that she swore she'd never unhear it.

By the time she found the safehouse—one of the dozen her father had drilled into her memory when she was barely old enough to drive (he made her learn when she was six)—her body was trembling from a cocktail of adrenaline and exhaustion. The door was hidden behind a half-rotted wooden fence in a quiet, half-abandoned block, a place where even the rats didn't like to linger. She keyed in the code with shaking hands, forcing herself not to fumble the sequence, and ducked inside as though the shadows outside might peel back to reveal talons.

The stale air of the room hit her instantly, dust and old smoke clinging to the walls, but she didn't care. She stripped out of her ruined suit, dumping the blood-smeared, claw-snagged leather in a heap on the concrete. Her reflection in the bathroom mirror stopped her cold.

Pale skin, smudges of dried blood—not all of it hers—dark streaks down her neck where the spray had caught her. Wide eyes that looked more haunted than defiant. For a second she thought she saw it there, behind her—something hulking, its wings folding inward like knives. She spun so fast she nearly slipped, claws springing from her gloves in instinct. Nothing. Just shadows.

The shower hissed to life, steam filling the cracked-tiled stall. She stood under the scalding water longer than she should've, letting the grime wash away, watching the blood spiral down the drain until she could almost convince herself it was all gone. Almost. Her muscles screamed from the beating she'd taken, but the sting of bruises was nothing compared to the memory of those claws wrenching open steel like paper.

By the time she stepped out, wrapping herself in a plain black hoodie and jeans, she felt human again. At least on the outside. She shoved her damp hair under a beanie, trying to make herself invisible. A girl on the street. Nobody special.

The café she chose was small, tucked between a laundromat and a pawn shop. The kind of place where night-shift workers came for coffee that tasted like asphalt and warmth that was just barely better than the street outside. She slid into a corner booth, sat with her back to the wall, and ordered something she didn't touch.

Her bag sat heavy on the table, the files she'd risked her life for stacked inside. She drew them out carefully, spreading them open in the low light.

She went over every piece of paper, and everything seemed to point to Norman Osborn and Richard Parker. But what did that man in the mask and that thing have to do with it all?

Her chest tightened. They have Dad. They have to. She traced her gloved finger over the writing, biting her lip so hard she nearly broke the skin. But what the hell am I supposed to do against that thing?

The words echoed in her mind, drowned out by another memory. A flash—screams cut short. A body falling. A severed arm, warm and slick, dropping into her lap.

Her hand jerked, scattering the papers across the table. The café's fluorescent light above her buzzed, flickered, dimmed. She swore she could hear wings in the ceiling, claws raking metal. She forced her eyes shut, shaking her head hard enough to hurt. When she opened them again, the café was still whole. Just a handful of customers sipping burnt coffee, eyes glazed from fatigue. No monster here. Not yet.

Felicia pressed the heel of her hand into her temple, dragging a shaky breath through her nose. The papers stared back at her. Cold, factual, unbothered. Like they hadn't been carried through hell itself to get here.

Her knee bounced beneath the table, her body ready to move even though there was nowhere safe to run. No amount of hot showers or crowded diners could change it: that thing was still out there. Waiting. Hunting. And she was suddenly, horribly aware—it had seen her.

She had looked into its eyes when it tore through men armed to the teeth, and she knew it had marked her.

Felicia gripped the edge of the table until her knuckles went white. The city outside hummed with sirens and restless engines, alive in a way she couldn't feel right now. Every shadow felt too deep. Every sound, too sharp.

She whispered, so low it could've been mistaken for a prayer.

"I'm not ready for this."

Arsenal597 · 2025-12-03T23:21:00+0000

ONE WEEK AFTER MAY PARKER'S DEATH

I woke up in a fog, the kind that presses down before you even open your eyes. Heavy. Suffocating. The ceiling swam into focus, but all I could smell was iron. My nose was clogged, raw, and the taste of blood lingered in the back of my throat. I grimaced, and the sound of it—the crunch, the boot on concrete—flashed through my head like it was waiting for me to wake up.

I rolled onto my side, the sheets cold and twisted, and pushed myself upright. My head throbbed. My shoulder flared too—still a phantom ache from that night. The night it all fell apart. The pain wasn't sharp anymore, just a shadow that liked to remind me it was there.

I swung my legs over the edge of the bed. Toes on the floor, arms heavy, body stiff. Fresh wetness slid down from my nose. I wiped at it with the back of my hand. Red smeared across my skin. Always red.

Then the flashes came again. Gunfire rattling down a narrow street. Heat from an explosion rolling against my face. My knuckles slamming into the side of a van, the metal caving in like silly putty.

I shook my head like I could throw the memories off, but they stuck, heavy as lead.

The walk to the bathroom felt longer than it should've. My body knew where to go, but it was like moving underwater—each step slow, thick, disconnected. My shoulder twitched again, phantom pain crawling under my skin. I pressed my fingers into it as I reached the sink, like maybe I could ground myself, but it just reminded me of everything I couldn't forget.

I bent forward, staring down as a drop splattered against the porcelain. Then another. Each one loud in the silence.

Plink. Plink.

I turned on the tap. The water ran cold, steady, and I cupped my hands into it, splashing my face. The blood spread instantly across the white sink, curling in little rivers, bleeding into the drain like ink. I watched it, detached, like it belonged to someone else. Like I wasn't the one standing here dripping into the basin.

But it was mine. Just like the anger… and the grief.

I braced both hands against the counter. My reflection looked back, pale and washed out, eyes rimmed red. My nose kept leaking, slow and stubborn, and I hated the sight of myself—hated that I was bleeding when I should've been crying for her.

May.

The name sat sharp in my throat, cutting when I tried to swallow it down. I saw her smile, soft and easy, but the image never stayed. It broke apart into flashes of fists and fire, into sirens wailing, into the moment the cops pulled me back before I did something I couldn't take back.

I slammed my fist against the sink. Porcelain rattled. The blood swirled faster down the drain.

My chest hitched. For a second I thought I'd scream, but nothing came. Just the silence pressing in, thick and suffocating.

What was I supposed to feel? Grief for her. Rage at myself. Guilt at the world. It all fought inside me, tangled up so tight I couldn't tell one from the other. I didn't know whether to collapse or break something. So I did neither. I just stood there, stuck in the middle, knuckles white on the counter while the stranger in the mirror glared back at me.

The water kept running, but it didn't clean anything.

I splashed my face again, harder this time. Drops clung to my lashes, chilled my skin, but the red spread across the porcelain anyway. No matter how much I rinsed, it stayed. Too deep. Too permanent.

Her face rose again. Then the wings, the shadow, the blow to my shoulder that sent me reeling. Norman's doctors said the injury was healing fine, but should I still be feeling this pain? Even though the bones were mended, moving it hurt like hell.

I pressed a hand over the scar, fingers digging into the phantom ache. It burned faintly under my skin, like the anger itself had branded me.

I straightened up, staring at the boy in the mirror with the empty eyes and pale face. It barely looked like Peter Parker in front of me anymore.

I shut the tap. The sink was a mess, streaked with red and water stains. I should've wiped it clean, but I couldn't. It felt wrong, like pretending none of it happened. Like pretending she wasn't gone.

So I stayed there in the doorway for a few minutes, staring at the mess in the sink, wishing I could trade the blood for tears.

I finally shut the bathroom light off and stepped back into the apartment hallway. My face was still damp, my nose stinging raw, but the blood in the sink had been left behind. It didn't feel cleaned so much as abandoned, like the mess was going to sit there and accuse me later.

The air out here was colder, sharper. I followed it down the short hall until I saw Ben in the bedroom doorway, his back half-turned toward me as he worked at the knot of his tie. The suit was dark, almost too dark against his skin, and the way he stood there — shoulders heavy, head bowed — made my chest tighten.

He looked up when he heard me. His eyes caught on my face, then flicked to my hands. I curled them instinctively, but it didn't matter. He'd already seen. The raw skin over my knuckles. The cuts, the faint scabs that hadn't been there last night. He didn't ask. He didn't have to. The silence was already too loud between us.

For a second, I thought he might say something. Thought he might press, ask, force me to tell the truth. But all he did was look at me a moment longer, a kind of searching glance that left me feeling pinned to the floor, before he smoothed down his tie and tried for casualness.

"You alright, Pete?"

The words landed soft, but they still felt heavy. I swallowed and nodded once.

It was all I could manage. My throat locked up around anything bigger.

Ben's gaze lingered, like he didn't quite believe me, but he let it go.

"Might want to get ready soon," he said. "The service starts in a couple hours."

"Ok…" My voice cracked quieter than I meant. I forced another nod, even if it felt empty. "Where'd you put my suit?"

"It's hanging on your door."

"Thanks, Ben."

That was it. That was all we said.

I wanted to tell him more. Wanted to admit the truth that every night I'd been slipping out into alleys, picking fights I wasn't ready for, training myself by bleeding in places he'd never find me. But I couldn't. Not when he already carried too much. Not when May's death had hollowed him out just as much as me. He didn't deserve more weight. He didn't deserve the fear of knowing I was out there daring the city to break me worse than it already had.

So I walked past him, quiet, his eyes trailing after me as I moved back down the hall. My door creaked when I pushed it open, and sure enough, the black suit hung waiting. It swayed slightly in the draft, as if reminding me time was still moving forward whether I wanted it to or not.

I pulled it down from the hook, carried it inside, and sat on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped beneath me, too soft, too temporary. This apartment wasn't home. Just another borrowed space, one more reminder of how much had been taken.

My eyes drifted to the closet. Last night's clothes were still there, hanging limp on a hanger. Stained, stretched. The fabric mask I'd thrown together sat draped over the collar — nothing but a strip of red cloth, a beanie, and a pair of sunglasses to cover my face. Not a suit. Not anything that would've made May proud. Just scraps. A disguise stitched together by desperation.

I stared at it too long. Long enough that the flashes tried to wedge their way back in. Fists denting metal. Sirens. A gunshot too close. I blinked hard and leaned back until my shoulders hit the bed, eyes on the ceiling.

It felt like I could lie there forever. Just sink into the fog and never move.

But eventually, I pushed myself up. My chest felt hollow as I peeled out of the clothes I'd slept in and worked my way into the black suit. Every button felt heavier than it should've, as though the weight of the day had been stitched into the fabric itself. By the time I slid the jacket over my shoulders, I felt like I was already drowning in it.

I grabbed the sling from the chair in the corner, slipping it over my right shoulder. My arm didn't really need it anymore — not the way it had less than a week ago. Most of the wounds were already knitted over, faster than anyone should've expected. But that was the problem.

I had to fake it.

Had to limp the way people thought I should. Had to act like every move hurt more than it really did. Couldn't let them see how fast I was healing, how different I was. The world didn't get miracles without asking questions, and I couldn't afford those kinds of questions.

I tightened the strap on the sling, adjusted my arm, and tested a subtle limp as I crossed the room. It felt wrong, like lying with my body instead of my words, but it was the same lie I'd been telling every day since.

I stopped by the closet again before leaving, eyes falling back on the mask, the scraps of fabric pretending to be a suit. I didn't touch it. Just stared.

It looked pathetic hanging there. But it was all I had.

I drew in a slow breath, let it out shakily, and turned back to the door.

The hallway was still quiet when I stepped out, the only sound being the muffled shuffle of Ben moving around in his room, his suit jacket brushing as he adjusted it. I didn't bother saying anything this time. Words felt useless. Pointless. Like the weight between us was bigger than anything either of us could push through.

So I walked back to my room, sat on the bed in my suit, and stared at the wall until the silence pressed down heavy enough to almost feel solid.

I didn't know what else to do anymore. Didn't know if there was even a right thing to do.

I was just drifting.

The ride to the church was quiet. Too quiet. The hum of the car engine filled the silence like a low drone, but it wasn't enough to cover the thoughts pressing in on me. Ben sat behind the wheel, both hands steady, eyes fixed straight ahead. I didn't bother trying to talk. Words felt useless, like pouring water into a broken glass.

By the time we turned onto the street, I could already see the crowd. Black suits, dark dresses, umbrellas tucked under arms or clutched in hands just in case the clouds decided to split open. The sky looked like it wanted to—thick storm clouds rolling in, bruised purple and gray, swallowing the light. Fitting. Almost too fitting.

The closer we got, the more the sight pressed into me. More people than I expected. More than I wanted. Dozens already gathered on the church steps and spilling into the lot. Their voices buzzed together in a low murmur, the kind of sound you don't want to hear but can't avoid. It made my chest feel tighter.

Ben eased the car into a spot near the side. We sat there for a moment, neither of us moving. His fingers flexed against the wheel, like he wanted to say something, but nothing came out. Eventually, he just sighed through his nose and reached for the door handle.

I followed.

The air outside was damp, heavy with the promise of rain. It smelled like wet pavement and ozone, like a storm was crouched just out of sight, waiting. I shoved my hands into my pockets as we started across the lot, the sling pulling at my shoulder, a reminder of the lie I had to keep carrying.

I couldn't bring myself to look at anyone directly. Faces blurred into a sea of pale skin and dark clothes, all of them staring, all of them murmuring. A few people nodded at Ben, soft words slipping toward him as we passed, but I couldn't hear them clearly. I kept my eyes on the ground, on the cracks in the pavement, on the way the storm light turned everything a shade grayer than it should've been.

Still, some faces cut through the fog whether I wanted them to or not.

MJ stood near the steps with Anna at her side, her hair pinned back, her eyes hollow. Anna kept one hand on her shoulder like she was bracing her against the world. MJ glanced up just long enough to catch sight of me, and for a second, I thought about walking over, saying something. But the thought died before I could move. What could I possibly say that wouldn't sound broken?

Not far from them, Harry was standing with Norman and Gwen. Harry's suit didn't quite fit right, a little too loose in the shoulders, but he wore it anyway, head bowed. Norman stood tall beside him, cane in one hand, his face paler than usual but unreadable. Gwen hovered near them, her hands folded in front of her, eyes darting between the church doors and the crowd as if she wasn't sure where to land.

Further back, Flash stood with Lonnie and Kong, the three of them huddled together in awkward silence. No jokes. No bravado. Flash's hands were shoved deep in his pockets, his jaw tight as he stared at the ground. Lonnie shifted from foot to foot. Kong looked like he didn't know what to do with his arms.

It should've felt strange, seeing all of them in one place like this. But it didn't. It just felt wrong. Like the world had folded in on itself and decided everyone I knew should be here to watch me unravel.

I kept walking, the distance between me and the steps shrinking even though my legs felt like they were moving through cement. Every sound dulled. The shuffle of shoes on pavement. The soft coughs, the whispers. The wind tugging at coats and skirts. It all faded into a low hum behind the pounding of my heartbeat.

This was the last place I wanted to be.

The church loomed ahead, its stone walls darkened by years of weather, its steeple clawing up into the storm clouds. The stained glass windows glowed dim, muted by the heavy sky. It felt less like a place of comfort and more like a shadow crouched on the block, waiting to swallow us whole.

My stomach turned. Every step closer felt like walking toward a drop-off I couldn't see the bottom of.

Ben's hand brushed my shoulder lightly, guiding me toward the stairs. I didn't flinch, but I didn't look at him either. My eyes stayed locked on the doors, the dark wood framed by the crowd shifting to make space for us. The movement made me feel exposed, like every gaze was burning through the thin fabric of my suit.

I heard someone whisper my name. Couldn't tell who. Didn't want to know.

All I wanted was to disappear. To melt into the cracks in the pavement, slip away from the weight pressing down on me. But my feet kept moving, one after the other, dragging me forward into the heart of it.

The storm clouds rolled lower, dimming the light even further. A cool gust of wind swept through the lot, carrying with it the faint scent of rain. The crowd shifted uneasily, umbrellas opening just in case. The first few drops spattered against the stone steps as Ben and I reached them.

It was perfect, in the worst possible way.

I kept my head down as we moved past the others, every face blurring at the edge of my vision. I couldn't let myself linger on them. Couldn't let myself stop. If I did, I wasn't sure I'd be able to start again.

The church doors groaned open, and the dim light spilled across us. I stepped inside, the hum of the crowd muffling behind me, and the weight in my chest sank deeper still.

This was it. The place where the world was going to make me say goodbye.

And it already felt like it was crushing me alive.

The doors shut behind me, and it felt like the air itself had been nailed closed.

I'll be honest here. I'm not too familiar with churches. In the entirety of my life, I've probably only been inside one a grand total of ten times. None of them had been for religious purposes. Food pantry visits, a wedding, and the rare visitation. That's about it.

Still, I can't help but look around and think it's a beautiful place. The kind of beauty that doesn't scream at you, but quietly settles in the way stained glass swallows light and spits it back out in fractured colors. I'm sure May would have thought it was lovely. She always had that way of finding the good in things—of turning quiet spaces into something warm.

Most of the architecture reminds me of my younger days, back when video games were my only window into the world. Back when dungeons, castles, and pixelated cathedrals were just backdrops for quests. Now, standing here, it's bizarre to realize this place looks like something out of those games. Arched ceilings that seem to stretch on forever, carved wood so polished it gleams, the faint echo of footsteps bouncing off stone.

It's crazy to think that in the last month, I've seen more of the world than I had in the last twenty-four years. Not just seen it—felt it. Bleeding in alleys, running across rooftops, staring down monsters that weren't supposed to exist. It's a different kind of world than I'd ever asked for, and somehow I'm stuck in the center of it.

Death gives you that extra perspective, I suppose. It leaves you sitting there, forced to sift through the mess of your own choices. Suddenly, the things you brushed off or told yourself didn't matter—they all come storming back. The extra stops you could have made. The moments you skipped out on. The what-could-have-beens. They don't stay buried. They claw at you.

And now, sitting in this church, I can't stop replaying all the nights I could've spent with Ben and May but didn't. The evenings I ducked out early, hiding in my own little bubble instead of sitting down on the couch with them. I didn't have to say anything, didn't have to do anything, but I could have just… been there. Somehow, despite my best efforts to make my time matter—I screwed it up again.

How is it that even though I got the chance to say goodbye to her, it still feels like I didn't say enough? My mouth said the words, but my heart keeps arguing it wasn't enough. That there's still something left unsaid clawing at my throat. Imposter syndrome is a bitch, especially when the person you're replacing is still lodged in the back of your skull.

Or at least, I'm pretty sure that wasn't a hallucination that night. I doubt even I—someone with an overactive imagination and way too much time to let his brain rot in fantasy—could have made that up.

Peter deserved to be the one to say goodbye to May, not me. She raised him, not me. Her stories, her sacrifices, her entire world revolved around him, and I—what? I just happened to wake up in his skin one day and hijack his life? And yet somehow I'm the one who got to hold her hand at the end.

Sure, I know what some might say.

Oh, you are Peter Parker. The past is prologue, it can't be changed. Embrace this life.

Yeah, easy enough to say when you're not the one thrown headfirst into someone else's existence. For all intents and purposes, my old life is over and I am Peter. I understand the sentiment. I even get it on a deeper level. But it doesn't change the gnawing feeling that I shouldn't have been the one to be there in her final moments.

And then there's Peter's voice, still rattling around in the back of my head. The way he told me to just be Spider-Man. Just be him. Just carry on. Easy advice to give when you're the one asking someone else to live your life. Harder to follow when every waking second keeps dragging me back to that night, to the sound of glass shattering, wings tearing through walls, and May's body on the floor.

"Thank you, everyone."

The voice cracks through the fog like a microphone turned on too close to the speaker. My head jerks up before I realize it, and suddenly I'm aware of how long I've been drifting. How long I've been sitting here stewing inside my own head while the world kept moving forward without me.

The seats are filled now. People I know, people I barely recognize, all gathered together under the same roof, wearing the same faces of grief. Ben is beside me, his posture heavy, his hands locked together like they're the only thing holding him in one piece.

I didn't even notice. I didn't even notice him sit down.

Behind me, there's a shift in the air—gentle, familiar. I turn, and MJ is there, her presence steady as always. She's already smiling softly at me, like she knew I'd eventually look her way. Like she's been waiting for me to come up for air.

"How are you doing?" she asks, her voice so low it barely makes it past the hum of the church.

"Been better." The words taste like ash on my tongue, but they're the only ones I can manage. "You?"

"Worrying about you." she admits, and I can feel my stomach tighten in response. It's not what I want to hear. She shouldn't be worrying about me right now. "Are you getting much sleep?"

"No, not really…" I shrug, an image of the Vulture's smile flickering into view. "Nightmares."

She looks like she's about to say something, but the person on the microphone gets louder. When I turn and look, my stomach doesn't just tighten up, it damn near does a somersalt. The person standing at the podium is…

No. There's no way.

At the podium in a form fitting suit and tie, with a light beard and long hair pulled into a bun:

Martin Li…

I know I haven't been myself these last few days since everything went down that night, but still. You'd think I'd notice if one of my potential rogues was about to deliver a speech at my aunt's funeral, right? But no, here I am looking at Martin Li of all people.

F.E.A.S.T. still exists. It's a part of Marvel lore that I wouldn't expect to be excluded nowadays. If I'd been thrown into the Raimi universe, then I'd probably consider it. Given that Li wasn't even a character until after the events of Civil War, it makes sense for the Raimi-verse to not have Li or F.E.A.S.T.

Me, I'm lucky enough to be in a world where Li and F.E.A.S.T. both reside. Feels like I've gotten to hear more about my potential rogues in the last few weeks than I've heard anything about my potential allies. Hell, beyond Tony Stark, I don't think there's been even a hint of anyone heroic in the slightest.

"It's great to see so many familiar faces today, despite the circumstances that brought us together. Today, we're saying goodbye to someone that shouldn't have had to go so soon. More than that, we're here to celebrate someone who lived as though each day mattered. Someone who lived for others…"

God, the words sound genuine, but all it's doing is making my skin crawl. I almost wish I didn't know anything about Spider-Man, because Martin Li's presence is enough to make me wish that Vulture had finished what he started that night. The last thing I want to do is end up in another fight, especially not at May's funeral of all places.

I hate that I'm thinking about it. I shouldn't be thinking about getting into a brawl here. This is supposed to be all of our chances to finally start grieving and processing this tragedy. Yet, all I can think is that I could get to put on that mask and start pounding heads in. My knuckles are practically aching for that chance.

What is wrong with me?

Am I that angry?

I loathe funerals as much as the next guy, but I rarely went to them. Grandma didn't have a funeral. She was cremated and I don't remember whether there were any official proceedings. I was too young to remember, I suppose.

But when my cousin's boyfriend passed away a few years ago, I could have gone to the visitation. I didn't, and I'll admit I regret not doing that for the rest of my life. My family wasn't close. I'm pretty sure I've made that clear in the past—but I was often treated like the black sheep of my family due to being my mother's kid. I was one of the few non-alcoholics in the family, and I've promised myself day in and day out since I was around seven years old that I'd never drink. My aunt and cousin argued, and often made me feel like an outcast.

I've only admitted this to a few people, but the real reason I didn't go to that visitation is because I didn't want to admit to myself that he was really gone. The guy was like a brother to me, and I know that probably makes me sound awful. I should have been there, but I didn't want to admit that I was never going to see him again. I didn't want to face reality, and deal with my family's baggage all at once.

So, standing here… it's surreal. Everyone else I've lost, it was because of cancer, suicide, or something out of our control. May, though… I could have saved her. Should I be able to stand here right now? Why should I get to be here, while she's gone?

Just… why?

"I met May Parker years ago, when F.E.A.S.T. was only an idea scribbled on paper. I had dreams of what this city could offer its most vulnerable, but I also had doubts. Doubts about whether it was possible. Doubts about whether I was the right man to carry the mission. Then, May walked in. She didn't ask me what the plan was, or how much it would cost, or who would run it. She just rolled up her sleeves, smiled, and said 'Alright, let's get to work.'

"I think that was May's superpower, in a sense. She could walk into a room filled with anger, despair, and exhaustion… and yet, somehow, in minutes, people remembered how to smile again. She believed in the dignity of every person who walked through those shelter doors, no matter who they were, or what they carried with them. That kind of belief… it's not something you can teach. It's something rare. Something holy, even…"

And now it's gone. She's not going to get to share that with anybody else, because I wasn't good enough…

"I've seen May stay late, night after night, because one man needed someone to talk to, or one child needed to know they weren't forgotten. She didn't just change lives. She saved them… mine included."

His voice is shaky when he says it. He looks different than I expected him to be. Li looks like he's barely holding himself together right now. How close were they? I mean, I get it. I get they worked together at F.E.A.S.T. but… how did May save him?

Not the time to be asking that question, Pete. If I'm really that curious, I can talk to him later.

"In many ways, May was the best of us. So, I'm not surprised that her final act in life was protecting one of the people she loved most."

When he says it, I can feel my heart nearly stop. My face gets hot, and it feels like my lungs are collapsing. His eyes are now on me, and just like that… I want to disappear from sight.

"Yes, May is gone, but she will forever live on in our hearts. Today, I ask you to honor her the way she lived. With open hands and open hearts. With the courage to believe this city can be better than it is. May Parker may no longer walk among us, but her spirit is still alive. It's alive in the walls of F.E.A.S.T—in the countless acts of kindness she inspired, and in the responsibility she's left us — to carry her work forward."

He straightened, his voice resolute now.

"May was proof that heroes don't need masks or powers. As long as we remember that… if we live by her example… then she will never truly be gone."

There's clapping that follows as Li steps down from the podium and heads towards his seat. As he passes my row, we lock eyes; I don't know if there's any malicious intent there, but I find myself weary nonetheless. Something tells me we'll be having a chat soon, though. Whether it's while I'm in the mask or not, I suppose that remains to be seen.

Seriously, Martin Li of all people? My luck just keeps getting better.

MJ's hand touches my shoulder, and what animosity I have for Li is washed away. Right, this is a funeral. Not a death match. There's going to be no violence here today, just believe that. As long as you believe that there's nothing bad going to happen here, it'll be fine. Don't manifest that shit.

But then, I see motion in the corner of my peripheral.

Ben's walking up there before I get a chance to process everything. He doesn't march, doesn't stride—he shuffles. Every step looks heavier than the last, like each inch of that carpet is made of lead. He's quiet for a minute once he reaches the podium, bracing himself against it like it's the only thing keeping him upright. His knuckles are white, his shoulders trembling beneath his jacket. I'd been so locked inside my own head, drowning in static, that I hadn't noticed just how wrecked he looks.

There are deep, dark bags hanging under his eyes, bruises painted by sleepless nights. His skin looks pale, waxy almost, like he's been living on nothing but coffee and grief. His cheeks sag, his posture is bent, his breath shallow. If I was rough, Ben was worse—maybe not physically, but emotionally, spiritually, he looked broken down to the studs. He's not just tired. He's hollowed out.

And it hits me—hard—that I've been so wrapped in my own storm, I let myself forget. Ben lost her too. And maybe… maybe it hit him harder. That's not how I usually am. That's not how she'd want me to be. I've let myself get swallowed by anger, let the fog choke out everything else. My judgment's clouded, my vision narrow. But this is my family. This is all I've got left. And I've been neglecting that.

"Thank you, Martin…" Ben rasps, his voice scratchy, gravelly, older than I remember. His throat sounds like it's made of sandpaper. He manages a tired smile toward the man who spoke before him. "May thought of you as another one of the family."

I find myself watching him with a kind of stunned attention. Every wrinkle in his face feels sharper, deeper, like they've been carved there overnight. He looks like he's aged a decade in a week. His movements are stiff, his breath labored. The man who used to laugh so freely, who used to nudge me in the ribs when I got too serious, now looks like he's standing at the edge of a cliff with nothing but wind and darkness below. It's genuinely heartbreaking.

I'm so focused on him—on memorizing every line of pain—that I miss the first few words of his speech. By the time I lock back in, he's already opened the wound wide.

"May and I met right after high school," he says, staring past the crowd, maybe past time itself. "We were only married for ten years, but we had twenty-six wonderful years together. And I cherished every single one of them. Every single day that I got to spend with her."

His voice cracks on the word cherished. I feel my throat tighten.

"One of the first things we decided from the start was that parenthood wasn't in the cards for us." He clears his throat, blinking back tears. "I couldn't have children. And we thought—well—we thought we'd be happy as we were. It was enough. Her and me. Always her and me. But then, as you know, fate has a funny way of rewriting plans."

My stomach knots before he even says it.

"My brother, Richard—may he rest in peace—had a beautiful boy. And he entrusted him to us."

Oh god. Oh, fuck. He's talking about me.

My chest heats up, like every eye in the building is suddenly on me, spotlighted. I want to sink into the floorboards, vanish into the wood. As if I didn't already feel enough eyes burning holes through me, waiting to see how I'm taking all this.

Ben breathes deep through his nose, steadying himself. His lips tremble, but his eyes—God, his eyes—shine like he's looking at the best thing he ever had.

"May loved him like he was her own," Ben says, his voice thick. "Peter was her pride and joy. Always. She'd be so excited when he came home from school with a new award, or some wild idea, or a half-baked science project. Most of it seemed like nonsense to me." He lets out a broken laugh, soft but full of warmth. "But May… May loved how enthralled Peter was. That curiosity of his. She used to tell me it was like watching a spark catch fire."

There's no air in my lungs. Just this heavy ache pressing against my ribs, rattling through me.

He goes quiet for a moment, staring at the podium like he needs to remember how to breathe. Then he looks up again, and I swear I see him clutch tighter to that wood like it's the only tether left.

"Peter wasn't something that just happened to us," Ben says. "He was a blessing. A gift. A second chance I never expected life to hand me. And May… she didn't just accept that role. She embraced it. Every bedtime story. Every scraped knee patched up. Every lecture she gave when he pushed boundaries. She put her whole heart into it. She gave Peter the love only a mother could."

The words sting like salt in an open cut, because they're true. Too true.

"And that's why…" He falters, his lip trembling, tears slipping free despite his best effort. "…that's why she made the choice she did. When that monster came for Peter, when the world went dark and cruel, May didn't hesitate. She put herself between him and death, because that's who she was. She would have traded every breath she had left to make sure he got one more. And she did."

I can't breathe. My vision's blurring, and I grip the edge of the pew until my fingers ache. He said it out loud. The sacrifice. The weight of it. And it doesn't feel noble. It feels unbearable.

Ben's shoulders rise and fall, a shudder running through him as he forces himself to keep going.

"I don't know," he admits, his voice cracking apart. "I don't know how I'm supposed to go on without her. I don't know what my days are supposed to look like now that she's not there beside me. I wake up and everything feels empty.. Knowing that she's not there, it breaks me all over again."

The silence in the church is suffocating. Just the storm rumbling outside, low and heavy, like heaven itself is mourning with us.

"But…" He swallows hard, lifting his head. His eyes flick toward me, and the weight of that gaze pins me where I sit. "But I know this. As long as I've got Peter, I'll keep moving forward. Because May loved him, and I love him, and he deserves more than a man who gives up. She believed in family. She believed in love. And so help me God, I'll hold onto that. Because that's what she'd want. And that's the only way I know how to honor her now."

He presses a trembling hand flat to the podium, breath hitching.

"Everything will be okay. As long as I've got Peter, it has to be."

The words echo through me like a bell toll. Heavy. Final. A vow, a plea, a wound all in one.

And I don't know if I believe him.

But sitting there in that pew, drowning in the fog, I want to. God, I want to.

I suppose that it was then natural that I had to do a speech. Never been good at them, not even with preparation. Which might feel a bit contradictory, given my dream of becoming an author from the moment I could even write my name. Though, if it weren't for such a devastating occurrence… I might be able to free-ball it a little easier.

"Peter?" Ben says my name, and it breaks me out of my thoughts

I could feel everyone's eyes on me as I stood, and my legs already felt unsteady before I even took the first step toward the podium. My throat had gone dry—no surprise there—but I forced myself to keep moving, one careful step at a time, like I was dragging the weight of the entire week behind me.

What can I say that I haven't rattled off so many times already? What can I bring to the table that would be a good representation of myself and Peter all in one go?

I find Ben in the crowd, sitting rigid in the front row. He looks smaller than I ever thought I'd see him—his shoulders hunched, his hand gripping at the edge of his chair like he was bracing for another hit. I try to give him a soft smile, something reassuring. It's about the most I've been able to do since we left the hospital. He lifts his eyes for half a second, and in them I see exhaustion, grief, and love. All wrapped together in a look that tells me he's holding on for me just as much as I'm holding on for him.

For a moment, I can almost picture Peter sitting there next to him, hand on Ben's arm. And right beside them—May. She's smiling at me in my head, calm and warm, as if she's telling me, You've got this. There's nothing to worry about.

But there is. There's everything to worry about.

I step up to the podium, my left hand brushing the edge for balance. The wood is cold under my palm. The mic squeaks faintly as I lean in, and I hear myself breathe before I hear myself speak.

"Man, hard act to follow after those two."

It comes out shaky, half a chuckle, half a sigh. My voice sounds too thin to belong to me, but it gets a small ripple of polite laughter from the crowd, and that's enough to push me to keep going.

"You know, I've been told that I'm quick with my words when I get nervous. I tend to make jokes in really serious situations. It's… it's kind of a defense mechanism." I pause, swallowing. "But it's hard for me to bring myself to do that now."

I shift my weight, feeling the sling dig into my shoulder, and tighten my grip on the podium. The wood creaks faintly beneath the pressure of my hand, though no one else seems to notice.

"I had an accident about a month ago now," I continue, "and it cost me precious memories that I don't know if I'll ever be lucky enough to get back. And in the days since I woke up from that coma, the one constant I had was May. She and my Uncle Ben were what grounded me as I figured out what I was stepping back into. Everyone tells me that—that May loved me more than anything in this world. I don't… I don't know if I deserve that kind of love. But I know that she was a light at the end of the tunnel. May was able to give light when it felt like there wasn't any."

A murmur of agreement ripples across the room. I keep my eyes down, focused on the slight crack in the podium wood near my thumb, because if I look at anyone right now, I'll break.

"I don't remember much of my parents," I say, softer this time, "but the one thing I do remember is the night they left. It was the first night I stayed with my aunt and uncle, and I was devastated. I wanted my parents… I mean, how do you comfort an eight-year-old kid who has no idea if they're ever going to see his parents again?"

The memory creeps into my chest like a cold draft.

"Dad—the only thing I really remember now—is him telling me that I couldn't go with them. God, I stood at the door watching the street—hoping they'd come back for me—for hours. By the time May finally pulled me away, I think I'd been crying so much I'd lost my voice."

I draw a shaky breath. My throat feels raw, like I've been scraping sandpaper against it.

"May… she didn't have to say a word to get through to me. She had that way about her, being able to help without needing to say anything. She was amazing like that."

I pause. There's something clawing at me from inside, itching to be said. My chest tightens, a tingling that feels like butterflies battering against my ribcage—but each wingbeat burns, sharp, like they've been electrified.

"I guess the point I'm trying to make here is, May managed to keep me steady in my weakest moments. Without her, there were many days I would've completely fallen apart. So waking up these last few days, and not seeing her smile at me as I walk into the kitchen, or hearing her singing as she tended to the garden, or even just sitting in her chair… it's hard. It's hard to handle."

My voice catches on that last word. The mic hums in the silence, and I swear everyone can hear me fighting to keep it together. I glance at Ben again. His eyes are glassy, and that nearly shatters me.

"If she were here right now," I say quickly, like if I don't keep moving, I'll stop, "she'd cheer me up with a science joke. Tell me to be more like a proton—" I force a weak smile, "—always positive. I wish that were easy, but right now I just feel like an electron."

A groan rolls through me as soon as I say it. That was stupid… why would I say that? My eyes squeeze shut for a second. God, talk about being a cringy bastard.

The silence that follows doesn't help. If anything, it makes me want to crawl out of my own skin. I grip the podium tighter, and the wood gives a quiet crack under my hand. A thin fracture splinters across it where no one but me can see.

"Mr. Li is right about one thing, though." My voice steadies a little. "May didn't need a mask or superpowers to help anyone. She was a real hero. And if May taught me anything, it's that no matter how many times you get hit, you need to get back up. You need to get back up and keep moving… so that's what I intend to do. I'm going to focus on making sure that every day, I make her proud. No matter how long it takes."

A low rumble of thunder rolls faintly in the distance. Heads turn, shoulders shift, and I can almost imagine May smiling at me again through the storm.

I step away from the podium slowly, my good hand brushing against the side for support. The crowd blurs as I descend the steps—faces, colors, eyes—but I barely see them. My pulse is still in my ears. My chest is still heavy.

And there's a part of my speech I didn't say aloud.

I'm going to make sure that the bastard responsible for taking her away never hurts anyone else.

The thought lingers like a vow carved into stone, heavy and certain.

The vow still echoes in my head as I leave the podium. Heavy. Final. It feels like something I carved into myself without even realizing it. The room is too tight, too suffocating with whispers and eyes, so I slip out under the excuse of air.

Outside, the storm has finally broken. Rain hisses against the street, bouncing in silver splinters off the pavement. I duck under the awning, dragging in lungfuls of damp air, but it doesn't ease the weight in my chest. If anything, the storm makes it worse—like the sky itself is mourning, refusing to let me breathe.

"That was quite a speech up there," Martin Li's voice catches me off guard as I step outside for a minute. I'm just barely out of the rain under the awning, and Li already has an umbrella ready, the black canopy glistening with drops that patter down its edges.

"Th-thanks," I nod lightly, still trying to get my lungs to work right. "Your speech wasn't bad either."

"It was more difficult than I'd like to admit." He exhales through his nose, then glances at me with this half-smile that's polite but heavy, like it's pulling double duty to mask how drained he really is. "Normally I have a team that gets me index cards to read off for speeches."

Li chuckles at his own joke. A small, self-aware laugh, but not forced.

"I'm kidding. I'm no politician, and I would never let anyone else put words in my mouth. What I say is of my volition."

"If it's any consolation, I didn't have anything prepared either."

For a second, the two of us stand there listening to the steady rhythm of the rain as it drums on the street. The air smells of wet pavement and old brick, a mix of something raw and grounding that feels almost too real after sitting in that suffocating room. Li doesn't fill the silence right away, and somehow that makes it easier to stand next to him. There's a strange sense of comfort in his presence, like we're both just clinging to the edge of something bigger than either of us can hold.

He tilts his umbrella slightly, angling it toward me in this quiet, wordless gesture. "May… she had a way of making people feel braver than they thought they could be. She did that for me once. More than once, actually."

I look over at him, curiosity nudging past the grief sitting heavy in my chest. "You said May saved you. How?"

Li goes still, his eyes fixed on the glimmering wet asphalt beyond the awning. For a long moment, I think he isn't going to answer. Then he speaks, voice lower, more fragile than I've ever heard it.

"I don't talk about it a lot," he admits. "But… my family were immigrants. When we came to the U.S., the people who were supposed to help us—people we trusted—betrayed us. Everyone over eighteen was executed. No hesitation. No mercy. I watched them get gunned down in front of me, and there was nothing we could do. No time for goodbyes. Just… gone."

His jaw tenses, eyes glassing over as if he's not seeing the rain anymore, but some other place. Some nightmare that never stopped replaying.

"The kids who survived, we weren't spared out of kindness. We were rounded up and sold. Like cattle. That's the word they used. Cattle." His voice catches on the word, his hand tightening on the umbrella handle until his knuckles whiten. "I remember the fear. The smell of sweat and dirt. The way grown men appraised us like livestock. I thought my life would end there, or worse—go on forever that way."

I swallow hard. The weight of what he's saying presses against my chest. He's not telling me this like a speech. He's telling me because it hurts him to hold it in.

"I was rescued during a raid," he continues, voice quiet now. "Authorities stormed the compound. People screaming, chaos everywhere. Some of the kids ran, some didn't make it out. I did. I was placed into the foster system after that. I should've been grateful, but the system was… cold. Rotating homes. Never long enough to feel like family. I carried all that pain with me. The guilt, the rage, the feeling that life had already been decided for me before I'd even had a chance to live it."

His throat bobs with a hard swallow. Then he shakes his head faintly. "Eventually I aged out. No safety net. No direction. I wanted to help people like me—the forgotten ones—but I was drowning in my own bitterness. And then… May found me. Or maybe I should say she noticed me, which is rarer than people realize. She saw past the anger, past the shame. She made me believe I could turn my pain into something worthwhile. That I could build something instead of just surviving. F.E.A.S.T. only exists because of her. At my weakest moment, she didn't look away. She reached for me."

His eyes shift toward me, searching my face with a softness that's almost unbearable. "That was May's gift, Peter. She saved me from becoming someone I didn't want to be. Someone who would've let the darkness win."

The rain keeps coming down, steady and merciless, but under that awning the world feels smaller. More intimate. I don't know what to say, not really. My throat is tight, my chest heavier than it was even inside. But for the first time since the funeral began, the ache doesn't feel so lonely.

The rain hasn't let up. It falls in sheets just beyond the edge of the awning, hissing against the pavement and bouncing in tiny splashes that glitter under the streetlights. Cars roll by on the avenue, tires hissing against slick asphalt, every one of them a reminder that the world doesn't stop just because mine has. I can still feel the heaviness of the service clinging to my chest, thick as tar. I've been holding it all in, white-knuckled, jaw tight.

Li stands a few feet beside me, his umbrella tilted neatly against the downpour, the kind of picture-perfect composure you only ever see in men who've carried storms far heavier than water. He doesn't push, doesn't smother me with condolences or platitudes. He just exists beside me, steady.

And it's strange—comforting, even.

I glance at him, trying to read his expression in the dark. He's calm, but his eyes are sharp, reflective. Not just watching me, but weighing me, like he's making space for me to speak if I want to.

The words come out before I've really thought them through. Maybe because I need to ask someone who isn't family, someone who won't immediately look at me like I'm fragile glass.

"Does the pain ever go away?" My voice is quieter than I intend, but it feels right that way. "Does it… does it get easier the longer time goes on?"

Li doesn't answer immediately. He exhales slowly, like the question pulls something old and heavy up from inside him. He lowers the umbrella just a fraction, letting the rain tap harder against the fabric.

"It never goes away," he says at last. His voice is measured, but not rehearsed—raw in a way I didn't expect. "Not really. Pain leaves its mark. It changes how you see yourself, how you see the world. But…" He glances at me, his eyes softer now. "We learn to handle it better. We learn to breathe through it. To carry it differently. And, sometimes, to turn it into something else."

I swallow, the knot in my throat shifting but not quite gone.

"Like what?"

"Purpose," Li says simply. He's looking out into the street now, not at me, as though the memory's clearer there in the rain. "When I lost my family, I thought the grief would bury me. For years, it nearly did. But when May found me—when she gave me a chance to make something meaningful—suddenly that grief had a direction. It didn't hurt any less, but it… mattered differently." He pauses, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "From what Ben and May told me about you, Peter… you're good at that. Turning things into something positive. Finding the spark in the wreckage."

I almost laugh, because it doesn't feel true right now. Not with everything sitting so heavy on my chest. But the way he says it—like he actually believes it, like he sees something I can't—it almost makes me want to believe it too.

Li goes on.

"I know it's hard right now. The pain feels endless, suffocating. But no matter how bad things get, or how good things get, life has a way of leveling out. It won't stay like this forever. You'll learn to breathe again. To stand a little taller. And one day… you'll look back and realize that May never really left. She's still here."

His words settle between us, quiet as the rain.

For the first time all day, the tension in my shoulders eases. Just a little, but enough. I let myself lean against the wall, closing my eyes for a second and letting the sound of the storm wash through me. Maybe he's right. Maybe the pain won't disappear, but maybe that's not the point. Maybe the point is to live in a way that makes it worth carrying.

I open my eyes and glance at Li again. He's not watching me anymore—he's giving me space, like he knew I needed the silence just as much as the words.

"Thanks," I murmur, voice rough but honest. "I… I needed to hear that."

He nods once, not making it into a big deal.

"Sometimes," he says, "we all do."

And for the first time since the funeral began, I feel like I can actually breathe.

"I hate to ask," Li says after a pause, his voice lower now, hesitant, "but I've heard a lot about that night… What killed May?"

For a moment I can't find the words. The rain is dripping in sheets off the edge of the awning, the wind carrying mist against my cheek. My throat feels tight, raw, but I force it out.

"A monster," I say flatly. "Half man, half vulture. It tore through the house like a bulldozer. I don't even know how Ben and I are alive right now."

The words hang there like smoke, sour and heavy. Then, I give him a quick explanation of that night. How Vulture had been standing over Ben when I came in, and I tried to get it away from him. It threw me around like I was nothing but a plaything to it, and just as it was about to come for the kill, May stepped in.

I tell him that I'm not really sure how I lived long enough to be saved by the guy in the red mask, or how I managed to make it until that family found me wandering the streets.

Li doesn't answer right away. His expression—soft only a moment ago—hardens with a kind of solemn weight. Then, almost unexpectedly, his hand lands on my shoulder. Firm. Steady. Not comforting so much as grounding.

"Don't worry, Peter," he says, and his voice is calm, deliberate, like someone promising more than they probably should. "May's killer will be brought to justice. I can assure you of that."

I blink at him, caught between confusion and suspicion. "How?" I ask before I can stop myself. My brow knots, trying to read him.

His lips curl into the faintest smile—not cruel, not warm, but something unreadable in between.

"Trust me."

It should be reassuring, but it doesn't land that way. Not at all. Because right then, in the slanting gray light, as the rain shifts and a clap of thunder rattles over the horizon, I swear I see it. His eyes—just for a second—shift in a flicker of something unnatural. A strange photonegative glow, like the world inverted itself inside his gaze before snapping back to normal.

My heart nearly drops out of me.

Did I really see it? Or was it just the lightning?

Li lets go of my shoulder, straightening his umbrella as if nothing happened.

"But I've taken enough of your time," he says evenly, almost too casually. "I'm sure there are plenty of people who want to see you."

I nod stiffly, my throat dry, trying to convince myself I imagined it. But my chest is tight, my pulse hammering as if my body knows something my brain refuses to process.

And the worst part? A small, treacherous part of me feels like I just signed a death warrant for the Vulture.

I should be glad. I should want that. The monster murdered May and nearly killed Ben. If anyone deserves it, it's him. But the way Li said it… the look in his eyes… I can't tell if what's coming is justice, or something far worse.

The rain picks up again, drumming harder against the awning, and for a second I feel like I'm standing in the eye of a storm I can't see the edges of.

Gwen caught me just as I was slipping back through the side doors of the church, her hand brushing my arm like she'd been waiting. Her face was pale but steady, her voice low so it wouldn't cut through the hush hanging over the sanctuary.

"Peter. My dad's here. He wants to see you."

I gave her a small nod, shifting the weight of my sling as if that could ease the constant ache gnawing in my shoulder.

"I've got a minute."

The pallbearers were gathering near the front, their hands poised on the polished wood of the casket. People were beginning to shuffle, murmur, some rising to follow. Gwen steered me the opposite way, toward a quieter alcove off to the side, where the stained glass painted the wall in broken color and the hum of the crowd dimmed to a whisper.

Captain Stacy was there, tall and broad in a plain black suit that still somehow looked like a uniform on him. He wasn't the type you could picture out of uniform — every line of his posture carried the weight of authority. When his eyes landed on me, though, they softened, his mouth tugging into something closer to warmth.

"Peter," he said, voice even, low, measured. "Good to see you up and moving, son."

I let out a dry laugh that didn't quite stick.

"Doesn't feel that good." I hitched my right shoulder a little higher in the sling, as if to underline the point. "Gwen said you wanted to talk?"

"Yes, actually I do." He glanced toward the pews, where Uncle Ben sat like an anchor in the sea of black suits and mourning faces. "But I'd like your uncle to be involved. It's regarding the investigation."

A look passed between Gwen and me — half an apology, half a warning — before I went to wave Ben over. He came with that steady, quiet stride of his, like a man already carrying more than his fair share of weight.

"Captain," Ben said, his voice polite but cool. "You wanted us?"

"Yes." Stacy clasped his hands in front of him, every word deliberate. "First thing, I wanted to apologize for not being there to speak with you myself that night. The Mayor's office has us stretched thin. We've had a lot of bizarre goose chases lately… vampire killings, if you can believe it."

I gave a small nod.

"Heard about that. I get it. Can't expect you to be everywhere at once."

"Still," Stacy said, his eyes flicking back to me, "I read Mahoney's report. Peter, I'm glad you're okay. And secondly—" he exhaled, like he was shifting gears — "I wanted to ask if either of you noticed anything unusual in the days leading up to the attack."

Ben's voice hardened almost instantly.

"What do you mean by unusual? Do you think this was planned?"

"That's what we're trying to find out," Stacy replied evenly. He didn't flinch at Ben's tone. He was used to anger, used to grief. "This 'Vulture' character has been on a string of attacks. Most of his victims weren't as fortunate as you two, all things considered."

I shook my head before Ben could speak again.

"I didn't notice anything. Neither of us did. Besides me getting suspended, nothing was off."

Stacy nodded once.

"Good. With any luck, it was a crime of opportunity. The storm gave ample cover. Left half the force scrambling to keep up."

That's when Gwen's voice cut in, unexpected.

"What about the guy in the mask? The one who saved Peter?"

All three of us turned toward her. She had that stubborn set in her jaw, the kind she got when she wasn't going to let something drop.

Stacy sighed through his nose, just faint enough to catch.

"Yes. Him." His eyes flicked to me before settling back on Gwen. "He's gone from birdwatching to assault charges. He's been sighted across Queens and Manhattan. He's dangerous. If you see him, I'd advise you to stay away and call the police. We don't need another of his kind running around."

I felt my brows rise, the disbelief spilling out of me before I could clamp it down.

"His kind?" I echoed, almost scoffing. "What kind is that, exactly?"

"The vigilante kind," Stacy said flatly. His eyes narrowed, not in anger but in conviction. "The more these… superpowered folks think they can take the law into their own hands, the worse this city's going to get. I get it, son, he saved your life. That creates bias, and bias clouds judgment. But you need to understand — he doesn't get to make himself judge and jury. Not here."

The words landed heavy, pressing in on all sides. Ben's silence was a wall. Gwen's eyes flicked between me and her father, her lips parting like she wanted to speak but didn't dare.

I clenched my good hand against the sling strap, heat prickling at the back of my neck. How was I supposed to argue? To defend a mask I couldn't admit to wearing? To sit there while this man dismissed the only reason I was breathing right now?

Ben wasn't saying a word, not one—just watching me. His eyes had that weight to them, heavy and patient, like he was studying a suspect who hadn't confessed yet. I could feel it even without looking straight at him, that quiet pressure pressing down. It made the air thicker, like the church walls had suddenly grown closer. I shoved my good hand in my pocket, tried to look anywhere else.

I latched onto Stacy instead, his suit neat but creased in places from long hours on the job. The man carried himself like he'd been standing in the same posture for twenty years, chin squared, shoulders back, always bracing for the next bad call.

"What if the guy is just trying to help?" I asked, letting it out softer than I meant to. It slipped through my teeth, almost defensive, like I'd said something dangerous in the wrong crowd.

Stacy's head tilted a fraction, eyes narrowing in the way only a cop could. The kind of look that pinned you down without ever needing cuffs.

"Help?" His voice sharpened, rising a notch. "You help by reporting crimes to the authorities. You don't go Batman on a guy in an alley and leave him with multiple broken bones."

That hit me square in the chest. I froze, every muscle locked tight. Batman? It wasn't supposed to sound so ridiculous, but the word carried weight when Stacy spat it out—comic-book nonsense bleeding into real life, twisted ugly.

"That's what he's doing," Stacy pressed on, his hand slicing through the air like he was cutting down any argument before it could rise. "He's assaulting criminals and putting them in the hospital. Does that sound like he's trying to help?"

The words echoed against the polished floorboards, too loud, like the church had swallowed them and didn't want to let go. Gwen's mouth opened like she wanted to cut in, but she hesitated, biting it back. My throat went dry.

Ben's eyes were still on me, harder now.

"I think maybe we need to cool off for a second," Ben said finally, his voice firm but even, like the steady hand on the wheel when a car starts to skid.

But I sighed instead, dragging a hand down my face, biting my lower lip until I tasted the faint copper sting. My eyes squeezed shut.

"No, you're right," I admitted quietly, hating how small it sounded. "But that night… he did help."

The words sat between us like a stone no one wanted to pick up.

Stacy didn't move right away. He studied me, the kind of stare that wasn't judgment exactly, but calculation. Like he was trying to decide if I was just another kid too stubborn to know better or something worse, something dangerous.

The silence was so thick I swore I could hear the muffled shuffling of the pallbearers outside, their shoes dragging across the linoleum as they prepared the casket. A hymn carried faintly down the hall, organ pipes straining against the weight of the day.

Ben's hand shifted on my good shoulder. Not a squeeze, not even a real touch—just a presence. Enough to remind me he was there, still watching, still waiting for me to tell him something I wasn't ready to.

And Stacy… Stacy didn't let go of the bone he'd sunk his teeth into. His jaw was tight, eyes sharp. When he finally spoke, it was softer, but no less certain.

"Even the worst people in this city think they're helping when they cross the line, son. Doesn't make it right."

Stacy held my stare for another long beat, the lines around his eyes tightening, something unreadable flickering behind them. Then his shoulders eased, just slightly, like he'd made a decision not to press harder. He let out a quiet breath through his nose, the sound harsh in the stillness of the church.

"…We're looking into some possible sightings of the Vulture," he said at last, his voice returning to the level, professional cadence of a cop slipping back behind the badge. "If we get anything concrete, I'll be in touch."

The words landed heavier than they should have. Not just a courtesy. A promise. A warning. Maybe both.

Before I could respond, the faint scrape of wood against tile announced the pallbearers moving into position. Six men in dark suits, their hands steady on the polished casket handles. The air shifted with them, the room bowing under the weight of what they carried.

Ben's hand finally left my shoulder as he straightened, his expression unreadable, though I could still feel the gravity of his gaze. Gwen stepped closer to her father, and the four of us moved together, almost wordless, following the slow procession out through the side doors and into the pale light of the graveyard beyond.

The organ's hymn followed us out, echoing softer, fading into the chill wind that carried across the rows of weathered stones.

And just like that, the church gave way to earth and silence.

As we follow the pallbearers to May's final resting place, the guilt is starting to creep back up on me. I should be one of the people carrying the casket, but nobody is going to let the guy who was just on death's door a week ago do something like that, especially with one arm.

MJ is walking with me, our arms looped together. I won't lie, it makes it feel bearable having her at my side. We haven't spoken since the beginning of the funeral, but I don't think it really matters right now. I'm just happy to have her here with me.

I look over towards the parking lot, and see multiple vehicles pull in. It looks like a convoy… who the hell is that?

The limo in the center of the convoy opens up, and out comes an absolute behemoth of a man. I mean, I thought Vulture was huge… no, scratch that… I thought my old classmate Abe was massive standing at 6'5", but holy shit. He's in a bright white suit that contrasts the rest of the scene. His size is on the heavier side, but… that's not what makes it click together with who I'm seeing. It's only when I see his bald head that it even registers.

Mayor Fisk is here.

What the fuck?

It's hard to even put him into words. "Big" doesn't do it justice. He isn't just some overweight guy in a nice suit—he's built like a wall given human skin, the kind of presence that takes up the entire frame when he steps into view. Every inch of him looks sculpted to intimidate: wide shoulders that could carry a car door under each arm, hands like slabs of stone, a neck so thick it makes his head look almost too small for the body it's attached to. And yet, somehow, there's a grace to how he moves. No lumbering, no clumsy heaviness. Just control. Command.

Even his clothes make a statement. The white suit is immaculate—snowy fabric so pristine it might've been tailored this morning. It doesn't just stand out against the dark coats and muted grays of the crowd; it dares you to look away, knowing you can't. The tie is black silk, sharp and understated, but the diamond pin glinting at his collar tells me everything: this man doesn't just have money—he is money. Wealth, power, and muscle all stitched into one towering body.

The air shifts around him. People notice. Heads turn, conversations pause, even the drizzle seems to slacken for a moment as though the weather itself doesn't want to mess with him. There's an almost magnetic pull to the guy—half awe, half fear. No bodyguards flank him, not yet, but you can see the outline of men in black suits stepping out of the other cars, hovering near enough to respond if needed. And the thing is… it doesn't even feel like he needs them. Fisk could probably fold three of them in half with one arm if it came to it.

I can hear someone whispering behind me, hushed but urgent:

"That's Mayor Fisk…"

Fisk doesn't look at anyone right away. He just surveys the scene like he owns it—like all of this, the church, the cars, the people, hell, the ground under our feet, is part of his empire. His gaze sweeps slowly, like a searchlight. When his eyes land on me—just for a second—I feel pinned in place. There's no smile, no warmth, just this weight pressing down, like he can see straight through me to every secret I've tried to bury.

MJ shifts closer against my arm, maybe feeling the same chill I do. I try not to stare, but how the hell do you not look? He's impossible to ignore. It's like standing next to a mountain that decided to walk into a funeral dressed like a goddamn angel of death.

And all I can think is: why is he here?

Fisk didn't move straight toward me. That would've been too obvious, too direct. No — he lingered at the edge of the crowd first, offering quiet nods, shaking a few hands, letting people come to him. And they did. God, they did. People who wouldn't give you the time of day on the street suddenly leaned in, whispering their names like prayers, their smiles taut with reverence. The man had gravity, and it pulled everything toward him whether you wanted it to or not.

I tried to look away, focus on the procession, on May, on literally anything else — but my eyes betrayed me. I kept checking, stealing glances, as if not watching him would somehow be worse.

And then it happened.

The crowd seemed to part without him asking, as if instinctively clearing a path. His polished shoes made no sound on the stone walkway, but each step carried the weight of inevitability. His head turned just slightly, his gaze cutting through people until it landed squarely on me.

Pinned.

MJ's arm tightened around mine. I think she knew before I did that he was coming for me.

By the time he reached us, I could feel my pulse rattling in my ears. He loomed in close, and the world around us dimmed — the chatter, the drizzle, even the sight of the pallbearers moving toward the grave. All of it seemed to fade into background noise.

Fisk extended a hand.

"Mr. Parker," he greeted, his voice a velvet blade.

I hesitated—just for a heartbeat. But refusing wasn't an option. Not here. Not with everyone watching us.

So, I gave him my hand.

"I'll see you in a minute, Pete." MJ smiled softly, before walking away. I really wished she hadn't gone anywhere.

Fisk's hand was enormous, a slab of flesh and bone that swallowed mine whole when I shook it. His palm was warm, unnervingly soft, like it had never seen a day of honest labor in its life, yet I could feel the weight of him in the gesture. He didn't just shake your hand — he occupied it, possessed it, as if to remind you that every motion in his orbit belonged to him.

"It's a pleasure to meet you." His voice carried that velvet-covered gravel, the kind that could charm you into leaning closer before you realized you were already being pulled under. He smiled with the kind of warmth that should've felt safe. It didn't. "I wish we could have met under better circumstances. You have my deepest condolences."

I forced myself not to flinch.

"Thank you, Mr. Fisk."

The words came out stiff, rehearsed. The truth was, my skin was crawling. Shaking his hand felt like shaking hands with the devil — and you don't get points for refusing the devil in public. That's the game. Everyone in the room saw the Mayor, not the Kingpin of Crime. Refusing him would've looked like spitting on the coffin.

"I know this must be strange," Fisk went on, releasing me but not really letting me go. His presence stayed anchored, looming over the quiet murmur of mourners behind us. "You're probably wondering why the Mayor would come to your aunt's funeral."

No, I wasn't. I knew exactly why he was here. A man like Fisk didn't show up to offer condolences. He showed up to plant a flag.

"As you've probably seen on the news recently," Fisk continued, his eyes twinkling like he was delivering a bedtime story, "New York has fallen victim to malicious predators that seek to harm its citizens. I've been working with Captain Stacy to try and mitigate the damage this—" he tilted his head, feigning casual interest "—what did you call him when Detective Mahoney came to visit you? The Vulture?"

I froze. He knew exactly what I'd said. Every word. Every syllable. He wasn't asking; he was showing his cards.

Fisk's lips curled like he was stifling a laugh. "Such a primitive title. I wouldn't give the beast the satisfaction."

"Well," I muttered, the corner of my mouth twitching, "it sounded better than Birdman."

The chuckle he gave was low and amused, like a king indulging a court jester. "I suppose that is something we can agree on."

"So, you came here to tell us that the cops are looking for him?" I asked, forcing my tone flat, even. If he noticed the tension in my shoulders, I wasn't giving him the satisfaction of hearing it in my voice.

"No, not quite." He leaned closer, the smell of expensive cologne and something faintly metallic clinging to him. "I came to make a promise… that your aunt will not have died in vain. My task force is doing everything it can. Rest assured, justice will be served, and the monster responsible will be found."

The task force. His army of armored thugs. The same ones who left bruises on innocents and smiled for the cameras afterward. My stomach turned. He spoke like the Vulture was already his prey, like May's death was just a convenient excuse to tighten his grip on the city.

And beneath all that, the worst part: I believed him. If Fisk wanted Vulture dead, Vulture wouldn't live to see the season change.

"Sir," I said carefully, my voice thinning like a wire pulled too tight, "I mean no offense… I, I'd like to believe you, but if that were true… that thing would have already been dead weeks ago."

For the first time, his smile slipped. Just a fraction. Enough to show the steel underneath.

"I will admit," he said slowly, savoring each word, "there have been obstacles. But we are doing more than some wall-crawling vigilante."

There it was — the jab.

"Yeah, well… it's because of that vigilante that I'm even alive right now." The words shot out before I could stop them. A defense, sharp and reckless.

Something cold flickered in his eyes, quick as a knife glinting under the streetlight. His jaw tightened, then relaxed with a sigh that almost sounded sympathetic.

"I'd ask you to refrain from placing your trust in someone who thinks he's above the law, but I can understand the sentiment."

Then his gaze sharpened. The softness drained from his tone, leaving behind something harder, colder. "Though, that is part of the reason I'm here. How are you standing here right now?"

"What?" My brow shot up.

"By all accounts," Fisk said, almost whispering, "you weren't able to even stand a week ago. The reports were quite detailed, frankly. How is it that you've recovered so quickly that you're able to be at the funeral?"

The hairs on my arms prickled. Reports. Detailed reports. He was watching me. Of course he was.

"I'm hurting," I said, my throat suddenly dry. "But I wasn't going to miss this."

"I can believe willpower playing a part in it," Fisk replied, tilting his head in mock admiration. "But to hear you were discharged less than forty-eight hours after your ordeal… it's just, alarming, to say the least."

The world seemed to shrink, my chest tightening like invisible hands were pressing down. I could feel him probing, pressing against the edges of my secret without knowing what it was. If he kept pressing, I'd crack. I could almost see the headlines — Mayor Outs Vigilante at Dead Woman's Funeral.

Then a hand landed on my shoulder.

I nearly jumped out of my skin.

It was Ben. His grip was steady, grounding. Captain Stacy stood beside him, his lined face a mixture of weariness and something like protective fire.

"Sorry to interrupt, but Peter… they're getting ready to lower the casket," Ben said softly. He didn't just speak; he pulled me out of the quicksand.

Fisk's gaze didn't leave me. Not even when I turned to follow Ben. His stare burned into my back, silent, calculating.

As we walked away, I caught Stacy's voice behind us, low but firm, like a warning shot. "Leave that boy alone… he's done nothing wrong to warrant an interrogation."

"Captain," Fisk rumbled, his words smooth and patient, "you may not understand it now… but if we are to maintain order, we need all variables accounted for."

Variables. That's what I was to him. Not a person, not a grieving nephew. A variable.

Great. Just great.

"What was that about?" Ben whispered once we were far away enough.

"I'll tell you later… but it wasn't good."

The ropes groaned as they lowered the casket, and all I could do was stare. The sound was steady, deliberate, almost cruel in how final it was. The earth waited with its open mouth, hungry and patient.

Ben's hand rested on my shoulder, firm and grounding, but it didn't stop the hollow ache chewing away inside me. MJ lingered at my other side, close enough that I could feel her presence even without looking. Everyone else—faces I knew too well, faces I barely wanted to see—formed a circle around the grave. Norman Osborn, rigid with grief disguised as pride. Harry, shifting awkwardly beside him. Gwen, pale and silent, eyes glued to the dirt like she could somehow keep it from swallowing May whole. Flash and Lonnie hung back, their usual noise dulled into uneasy silence. Captain Stacy stood like a statue, and Li like a shadow at the edge of it all. Anna was weeping openly, clutching at tissues as though they were lifelines.

So many people. So much company. And yet… I'd never felt more alone in my life.

I kept waiting for May's voice to cut through the quiet, to scold me for slouching, or to tell Ben not to worry so much, or to remind me there'd be dinner waiting at home. But the silence never broke. There was no warm laugh to soften the air. Just the casket sinking lower, the ropes whining under the weight, and the pit swallowing every ounce of light.

This was it. No storm to cloud it over. No adrenaline to numb it. No distractions left. May was gone.

I told myself I needed to figure out how to get back on track, whatever that meant. How to pick up the pieces of a life that didn't look anything like the one I woke up into. Everyone here—Ben, MJ, Li, Gwen, Flash, all of them—they made it clear I wasn't standing in the dark by myself. But the truth? Even with their hands on my shoulders, their words in my ears, I couldn't shake the feeling that I had nobody who really understood. Nobody who could see what this had done to me.

And still… buried under the grief, under the bitterness and the guilt, there was something else. A sliver. A thread. The faintest spark of hope that maybe, just maybe, this didn't have to be the end. That I could claw my way out of this darkness, or at least learn how to live in it without letting it consume me.

The ropes squeaked one last time. The casket settled. The world moved on, whether I wanted it to or not.

I stood there, surrounded by everyone I had left, and quietly promised myself that somehow—somehow—I'd find a way forward.

Because if I didn't, then May really was gone.

Arsenal597 · 2025-12-03T23:21:54+0000

"We need to come up with a way to give you adequate protection the next time you go into a fight," Norman sighed as I slipped my shirt back on from my follow-up examination the next day.

The light in Oscorp's medical bay was harsh—clinical and humming faintly overhead—its glare bouncing off steel counters and diagnostic monitors that still glowed with my vitals. Everything here was immaculate, sanitized, as if the room itself disapproved of what I was putting my body through. The faint antiseptic smell clung to the air, mixing with the low hiss of an oxygen line from the far wall.

The physician who had just been poking at my ribs gave me a polite nod, muttered something about "remarkable cellular recovery" under his breath, and packed up his tablet. His assistant stripped off latex gloves with two sharp snaps before dropping them into the disposal unit. Neither lingered—the second Norman cleared his throat, the medical staff took it as their cue to shuffle out, their lab coats whispering against each other as the door sealed behind them. Leaving me alone with him.

"Despite the fact you're healing at a remarkable rate, a stray bullet can be catastrophic."

"I suppose it's a good thing I'm fast, then." I laugh sourly, trying to make the sting in my ribs sound less important, but Norman's eyes snap to mine like I'd just called him incompetent. That glare—sharp as glass, heavy as judgment—locks me in place.

"I'm doing fine, Norman," I mutter, but it doesn't sound convincing even to me.

"Fine is not the word I'd use. You're being reckless." His tone isn't raised, isn't sharp—just calm, cold, matter-of-fact. The way a surgeon might tell you an artery's been nicked. "Sloppy." He swivels in the chair, fingers moving over the console with practiced confidence until one of the monitors flickers to life. "What would you call this?"

The footage plays in grainy black and white: me bouncing across a rooftop the night before May's funeral, ducking and weaving through streams of gunfire like some caffeinated rabbit. Then the frame whites out as an energy blast detonates, and my little dance ends with me rag-dolling into a wall hard enough to leave a dent.

"That was just unlucky. The guy had an energy rifle. Even with my reflexes, it's hard to dodge those."

"And precisely why getting you equipped with some form of body armor is going to be beneficial." His voice has that patient but ironclad quality, the kind you can't out-argue because it isn't a suggestion—it's already a conclusion.

"It'll slow me down! My whole moveset is about agility."

"Peter, you're grossly underestimating the tools you have at your disposal now." He shakes his head like I've disappointed him, then rises, long coat brushing the sterile tile as he motions for me to follow.

We step out into the hallway. The air outside the med bay isn't any warmer—Oscorp Tower always feels like it's running a few degrees below human comfort, the hum of ventilation cutting through the silence. Floors gleam under too-bright LEDs, walls lined with brushed steel and dark glass, the whole place humming like a machine that never sleeps. The doors slide closed behind us with a hiss, and Norman's stride carries us down the corridor and into the elevator, which swallows us in mirrored steel and low, mechanical groans.

"Seriously, you think I'd want to restrict your movements?" he goes on, tapping a command into the panel as the lift ascends. His reflection in the elevator wall looks pale, tired, but his eyes burn sharp with purpose. "I had to pull favors with some unruly characters to get access to the footage from the night you fought the Vulture. Not that you were questioning it"—his glance is sharp enough to pin me—"but I took the liberty of making sure it wouldn't get to the authorities."

"Thanks," I say, because what else can you say to that? 'Thanks for preventing my mugshot from being stapled to a police bulletin'?

"The estimated speed that beast moves upwards of ninety-five miles per hour," Norman continues, voice tightening with disgust at the thought. "And that was during a storm with a wind speed of sixty miles per hour. Your reflexes will help, but it's not going to be enough to stop you from getting hurt."

I blink, thrown by the number.

"Ninety-five? Really?"

He nods.

"That's conservative. With a headwind, its actual output could've been closer to one hundred and fifty. You shouldn't have lasted thirty seconds against it."

The words hit harder than I expect, like a fresh bruise forming under my skin. He's not saying it to scare me—just laying out the math. And the math says I'm a miracle wrapped in bandages.

I hadn't considered Vulture was moving that fast. It didn't feel like he was moving that quickly… Well, it felt fast as hell. But not that fast.

The elevator dings, and the doors open into Oscorp's R&D floor. The shift in atmosphere is immediate—where the medical wing was sterile, this level is alive with the low growl of machinery. Glass partitions reveal labs cluttered with prototypes and schematics, robotic arms soldering micro-circuits with tiny flashes of light. The smell of ozone and heated metal hangs faintly in the air.

Norman strides forward, his shoes clicking sharply against the polished floor. "Your reflexes are extraordinary. I'll admit, part of me doubted the extent until I began running projections against the footage. You are not merely fast, Peter—you're anticipating before the danger is even there."

I shrug, trailing behind.

"Spider-sense. Like a sixth sense. Think of it as… hazard radar."

He gives me a look, equal parts intrigued and analytical.

"Which raises a critical point. We haven't properly tested your abilities in a controlled environment. You've relied on instinct and circumstance, but instinct can only be honed so far without data. I intend to change that."

"Tests? You make it sound like I'm a rat in a maze."

"If the rat had the capacity to bring down predators the size of trucks, yes," Norman replies dryly. "What you call 'instinct' may be measurable, repeatable. If we're to engineer protection that enhances your agility rather than hinders it, we need to know precisely how fast you are—and how far you can be pushed before you fail."

The word fail hangs heavy in the air.

I shove my hands in my pockets, forcing a crooked smile.

"You know, you really know how to boost a guy's confidence. Nothing says 'you're doing great, champ' like imagining me face-planting in a crash test."

For a moment, Norman actually smirks—the sharp edge of his features softening into something almost fatherly.

"I'd prefer you walk away from your battles intact. Humor me, Peter. Let's find out what you're really capable of."

"If we're trying to find out what I'm really capable of… I have an idea for something that might help me, but I'm trying to figure out the formula for it right now."

"What do you have in mind?"

It's what I've been wanting to make since I realized I was Peter Parker. His web shooters are practically his calling card. The most iconic part of his entire loadout, whether it be his powers, costumes, or gadgets… Everyone knows about his web shooters.

I'm not sure what's changed, but I've been making connections to things that I've never been able to before. I don't know if it's because of my fight with Vulture causing me to fully accept this reality, or the ability to speak with Peter himself, or what exactly… but I've been smarter. Not that Norman would agree, but I've been able to think clearer when I'm not down in the dumps.

Yeah, I was absorbing information quicker once I was studying, but nothing like this. At times, it feels like my brain is working so much faster than the rest of my body. The way the webs worked in the comics, it was always in a tiny ultra-dense cartridge that could fit in a small pouch. Depending on the version of the web shooters, the devices themselves ranged from bulky to being able to hide in plain sight. If I were to have it my way, I'd go with the Insomniac versions or even the TASM web shooters. Peter could use those in public and nobody could tell.

But I'm running on less knowledge and capabilities than Peter did. Yeah, Norman's right, I do have Oscorp resources at my disposal—but that's not something I want to rely on. Spider-Man should not rely on others to build his technology. That's what everybody hated about the MCU Spidey. I wasn't upset about it, seeing as Peter was able to create his web shooters by himself, but… yeah. I want to do it by myself.

Not that it'll make much of a difference in the long run, but I've paid pain-staking attention to detail over Peter's multitudes of web shooters. I'll need to run something like the classic or the Homecoming web shooters before I can even hope to streamline it to a smaller size I can wear at any given time.

"Well," I make sure nobody is around to hear us for the moment. "I can do almost everything a spider can, except create webs. I'm trying to change that."

"You want to create your own webs?" Norman scrunches his brows in contemplation, before ultimately smiling. The expression is faint, but it lingers like he's caught off guard—in a good way. "I didn't realize you still had that creative spark."

"Just because I went into a coma doesn't mean I lost my creativity," I chuckle, though my ribs make me regret it. "I have a basic idea on how to go about the formula, but—there're some variables I'm having trouble with."

Norman's eyes narrow, interested.

"What are you thinking?"

"Spiders create silk through their spinneret glands. It's liquid at first, but when exposed to the air, it solidifies. I want to create something that can imitate that. A liquid polymer that transforms into a fiber the moment it leaves the nozzle. Strong, elastic, and—if I get it right—dense enough to hold a truck without snapping."

"You've thought about this," Norman says, not as a question but as an observation. He crosses his arms, his posture softening into something between mentor and judge. "What you're describing would require extraordinary tensile strength. Steel-levels, if not higher, with a weight ratio light enough to store on your person. And you want this in a cartridge the size of…?"

"About a lighter. Maybe smaller, eventually."

Norman huffs out what might almost pass as a laugh.

"Ambitious."

We pass under a row of glass panels where engineers in white coats hover over humming machines, the low whine of drills and soldering guns filling the air. The smell of singed metal drifts faintly down the hall.

"And how do you intend to solve adhesion?" Norman asks, glancing at me sidelong. "It isn't enough to generate a strong fiber. You'll need it to anchor instantly on command—to steel, to glass, even to unstable surfaces. Adhesion is a science in itself."

"I was thinking of a bonding agent, something layered into the fluid itself. If I can get it to stick like duct tape but with van der Waals forces on a microscopic scale…" I trail off, realizing how insane I sound. "It's just a theory at this point. I know it probably sounds stupid."

His lips twitch upward—not mocking, but intrigued. "Theory is the foundation of invention. You're describing something akin to shear-thickening polymers. A substance that flows under pressure, then hardens on impact. Combine that with a trigger for rapid curing in open air… it might be possible."

My eyes widened.

"So you're saying I'm not crazy?"

"Oh no, you're certainly crazy," Norman replies smoothly, the faintest trace of amusement in his tone. "But not wrong."

I grin despite myself.

"I'll take that as a compliment."

Norman slows as we near a reinforced set of double doors, one hand pausing on the sensor panel. He looks at me with that same sharp expression he had back in the med bay, the one that cuts through my excuses like a scalpel.

"I doubt you'd be able to create something like that before you eventually cross paths with that thing again, though."

"I know, which is why I have something else in mind. It's doable, but I'm not sure of how to make it work in an applicable situation though."

"We can speak on it later."

From there, the double doors open up… and I'm treated to the sight of a giant room that looks like someone took a showroom floor and gutted it into a proving ground. Fluorescent lights hum overhead, cold and clinical, throwing their glow across walls lined with mannequins in tactical armor and weapon rigs, like faceless soldiers frozen in parade stance. Tables are scattered with strange prototypes—some sleek, like they were designed for astronauts, others brutal, jagged, like something meant to end a fight before it even began. The air smells faintly of scorched metal and antiseptic.

"What is this?" I ask, voice carrying louder than I mean it to. It doesn't help that everything echoes in here. The place gives me the wrong kind of vibes—like I've walked into a kill room masquerading as a science fair.

Norman steps in behind me, calm as ever, hands folded behind his back like he owns the floor. Which, technically, he does.

"It's where we test our latest projects. From state-of-the-art armor to robotics, we test it here."

My shoulders tense. Projects. Of course. That's one of those words that makes scientists sound noble until you realize their 'projects' usually end up pointed at somebody's chest.

"So," I turn to him, "what exactly are we testing myself against?"

"You know the face of Oscorp, I presume? Allistaire Smythe?" Norman asks it casually, like it should roll off my tongue like the capital of France.

But I do. Perks of being a nerd no matter what universe you wake up in: the names stick. A genius in robotics, nanotech prodigy, the guy who eventually builds Spider Slayers. The kind of person you don't want to bump into if you're in the business of wearing tights and swinging around rooftops. His father Spencer may have been the original mad scientist behind that crusade, but Allistaire? He's the one with a publicist and a fanbase.

"Of course," I say slowly, "his work with nanorobotics is… revolutionary."

Norman gives this little nod, satisfied, like a professor who just heard the right answer on an oral exam.

"I've allocated some of Smythe's projects for our tests."

And just like that, I know I'm not going to like this.

"Projects?"

"They're intended to go into highly dangerous locales and retrieve hostages or take out threats while minimizing human casualties."

Before I can ask what kind of 'projects' fit that description, another voice cuts across the room. Smooth, precise, and too damn close.

"Hunter bots."

I spin.

On the opposite side of the chamber, bent over the bulk of a reptilian-like machine as tall as he is, stands Allistaire Smythe. He's in a fitted button-up, sleeves rolled to his elbows, vest snug against his frame, and an expression like he's perpetually three steps ahead of everyone else. His features are sharp, deliberate—angular jaw, pale skin under the fluorescent lights, hair slicked back just enough to look practiced but not vain. When he pushes his round glasses up the bridge of his nose, I get an uncomfortable flash of recognition: Cory Michael Smith's Riddler phase, but if he swapped riddles for schematics.

"It's a crude title given by those who are afraid of them," he continues, brushing flecks of solder from his fingers as he steps back from the bot. "I prefer to call them S-Bots."

"Smythe-Bots?" I can't help it—the name practically begs to be mocked.

He clicks his tongue once, not offended, more like he's grading me. "I pride myself in my work. It's only right I take credit for them, regardless of whether the reaction is positive or negative."

The way he says it… it's not arrogant exactly. It's worse. It's matter-of-fact. Like he's already past the point of needing your approval—he's just documenting it.

And suddenly I realize how much I don't like that I didn't even notice him until he spoke. He was here, in this massive room, watching, maybe listening, while I walked in blind. My stomach knots. How the hell am I supposed to have a secret identity if people keep finding out? It's bad enough Norman's got doctors combing through my vitals like they're hunting for gold. The last thing I need is Oscorp's golden boy in robotics making a mental note of how I move, how I react.

I keep my tone level, casual enough, but there's a sharp edge to it I don't bother sanding down.

"So, Smythe… you already know why I'm here, huh?"

His lips tug into a thin smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. He steps closer, hands folded behind his back like Norman, mirroring him, though there's something tighter about it, more rehearsed.

"I make it my business to know who interacts with my machines," he says. "And who they're intended to… stress test."

Great. Not only does he know, but he's already framed me as a lab rat in his head.

Norman chuckles faintly at my expression.

"Don't look so grim, Peter. Smythe's work could very well keep you alive."

"Or kill me faster," I mutter, before I can stop myself.

Smythe tilts his head at that, studying me like I just became a data point. His glasses catch the light in a way that makes it impossible to tell where his eyes are landing, but I can feel it—like being scanned by one of those airport security machines, only less forgiving.

I fold my arms, jaw tight.

"You build bots to 'minimize human casualties,'" I echo, "but somehow, I don't think I'm walking out of here without a few bruises."

"Bruises," Smythe says, voice mild, "are the body's way of learning its limits. Don't you think?"

The room is too quiet after that. The hum of the fluorescents presses into my ears. The mannequins along the walls look less like test dummies now and more like silent witnesses.

Norman breaks the silence, his tone smooth, almost proud.

"Peter, meet Oscorp's future. Smythe here is the vanguard of robotics, and you… you're the perfect variable."

The perfect variable. Not person. Variable. I bite the inside of my cheek, trying not to snap back. There's a burn of anger under my ribs I don't let surface, not yet. Because if I do, it won't stop at words.

Smythe finally turns back to his machine, running a hand along the plated armor of the reptilian bot. His voice is calm and sickeningly deliberate.

"We'll begin simple. Basic pursuit. Agility. Reflexes. If you're as exceptional as Norman insists, you'll find the S-Bots more… engaging than fatal."

And the way he says it—like he's already thought through both outcomes—makes me hate him just a little bit more.

"Norman, if I get out of here alive…" I glance toward him, narrowing my eyes. "…we have to talk about you running around telling people about me."

"You asked for my help," Norman replies, leaning on his cane like a man who's carved his way through too many arguments already. "I'm giving it to you."

"And I also have an identity to protect."

"You've got a mask." His lips curl into something that almost passes for a smile. "Wear it."

I exhale, slow and sharp through my nose. It's a neat little trick Norman's got—taking my concerns and turning them into sound bites for his benefit. Every conversation with him feels like standing on a rug you just know he's about to yank.

Smythe doesn't laugh, doesn't chime in. He just tilts his head, those precise fingers still roaming the bot's armored chest like he's smoothing out wrinkles on a pressed shirt. His glasses catch the overhead fluorescents as he glances back at me, that pale face angled with the curiosity of a scientist about to see if his experiment combusts. There's something surgical about the way he looks at me. Not like a person, but a subject.

"Protecting an identity…" Smythe muses, almost under his breath. "You think anonymity is strength? In my field, it's irrelevant. Data is what matters. Patterns. Inputs, outputs. I don't need to know your name, Mister Parker. I know what you are."

The chill that runs down my spine has nothing to do with the air in the room. My fists clench, subtle, enough that Norman doesn't notice but I do. Smythe knows too much—or maybe he just knows how to guess in a way that cuts deep. Either way, it pisses me off.

He presses something on the console beside him, and the reptilian S-Bot hums alive, its plated head twitching as the servos lock into place. The sound alone makes me swallow. Not fear exactly—just the raw memory of Vulture's talons tearing through the storm and how close that fight came to ending me. Steel claws, steel wings, steel jaws. How many different ways was I supposed to die before the universe was satisfied?

I take a step back, craning my neck at the thing. It's taller than Smythe, shoulders like slabs of concrete lined with hydraulics. The eyes burn a faint red, and when it exhales through its vented maw, the hiss echoes across the room like some prehistoric predator had been resurrected and fitted with Wi-Fi.

"You're insane if you think this is 'simple,'" I say, my voice cutting through the whirring servos.

"Simple is relative," Smythe answers, calm as ever. He adjusts his glasses with one finger, a quiet smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "For me, this is basic protocol. For you, it's survival. But then… survival is where men like you prove whether or not they deserve all the faith men like Norman place in them."

There it is again. That passive-aggressive reminder that Smythe already knows why I'm here, what I am. The thing that gnaws at me the most is that I hadn't even noticed him standing there when we walked in. One more pair of eyes clocking my every move, dissecting me like a frog in science class. How the hell am I supposed to keep a secret identity if Oscorp's golden boys keep beating me to the punch?

Norman shifts beside me, cane ticking against the floor. He's watching me, not the bot. Always gauging, always calculating. Like Smythe, but older, heavier with intent. Between the two of them, I feel like I've already lost something just by standing in the room.

I tug the mask from my hoodie pocket, twirling it in my fingers like it's a coin toss between life and death.

"Fine," I mutter. "Let's see what your toys can do."

"Good," Smythe says, stepping back to give his machine room. His hands clasp neatly behind his back, posture straight as a board. He looks less like a scientist now and more like a general overseeing his weapon. "Then let the data begin."

The bot's claws screech as they unfold, metal scraping against metal, the sound bouncing off the walls and sinking into my nerves.

I slip the mask over my face, fabric pulling tight across my jaw, and whisper to myself: Engaging, not fatal. Let's test that theory.

I take a long breath, chest rising slow, forcing myself to settle. I can feel it—the little shift that happens when I stop being just me and slip into something sharper. My shoulders roll, joints crack. I stretch my arms out, clench my fists, and narrow my eyes on the thing crawling toward me.

The S-Bot's plated jaw clicks open, glowing eyes fixed right on me. It moves with this quiet weight, like it already knows I'm cornered. Then my skull burns—spider-sense flaring—

I dive. The claws miss my face by inches, air splitting against my cheek. I hit the floor, roll to my feet, and whip around just in time to see the bot slam into the wall. And then, like it's nothing, it climbs. Upside down, tail lashing, claws gripping steel like it's paper.

"Oh, you're shitting me."

From behind the glass, Smythe's voice cuts through, smug and sharp.

"You're not the only one that can crawl on walls in this test, Mr. Parker."

I flick my eyes toward the observation room just long enough to see him and Norman step into their safe little box. Smythe sounds way too entertained.

"Come on. I want to see what makes you so enthralling."

My senses spike again—sharp, electric. The thing springs, yellow eyes blurring, claws out. I duck low, pivot, and it crashes past me, steel shrieking against its own momentum as it skids across the floor. My legs are moving before I even think—springing, bounding, dodging.

For the first minute, it's pure defense. Every strike is faster, meaner, but my body keeps answering. Each time the claws slash down, I'm already gone. Each time the tail whips around, I'm ducking under it. I can feel the rhythm shifting.

I'm not panicking anymore.

I'm… getting quicker.

My spider-sense hums louder with every attack, every leap. My body's syncing with it, adapting, like the gap between thought and movement is closing in. And suddenly, it's not about keeping up with the bot. It's about the bot keeping up with me.

I vault off the wall, twist midair, and land behind it as it whirls around. My palms slap the ground, legs coiled, ready to launch again. Every move feels sharper, cleaner, like my instincts are dragging me along a beat I didn't know I had in me.

And through it all, I can hear Smythe's voice carrying this giddy edge, like a kid at a science fair watching his project finally spark to life. He's enjoying every second of me bouncing around this room, like I'm not the one with a set of steel claws trying to take my head off.

But me? For the first time in a while… I don't feel like prey.

The whirr rattles through my eardrums before I even process Smythe's words. The bot moves—no, blurs—across the room, faster than before, too fast. My spider-sense flares, but I don't make it in time. Cold metal claws wrap around my ankle like a vice and yank. My world flips upside down.

The impact when it slams me into the ground sends shockwaves up my spine. My teeth click together hard enough I'm surprised they don't shatter. Air explodes out of my lungs.

"Shit," I groan, pushing off the floor and stumbling back to my feet, chest heaving.

It's on me instantly. Those claws slash downward, jagged arcs of steel shrieking against the air, and for a half-second, I swear I see my own reflection warped in the gleam before I block with my forearms. Sparks spit as claw meets skin tougher than it should be, but it still rattles me.

And then it hisses.

Not some synthetic whine. Not some robotic click. A hiss. A sound so close to the reptile it's modeled after it sends my nerves screaming. The thing isn't just a machine—it's wearing a predator's skin.

"Alright," I mutter under my breath, "you wanna play rough?"

I don't wait for it to lunge. This time, I move first. My legs coil, spring, and I slam a fist into its chest before it can rear back. The force rocks through my arm, jolts up my shoulder, and when my knuckles connect, I feel the give. The plating dents inward with a sickening crunch of metal. The bot skids back, claws dragging furrows into the floor, yellow eyes flaring like it's pissed.

But the dent isn't enough.

The thing straightens, hisses louder, and launches at me again.

Now it's chaos. The fight's turned close and ugly—its claws swiping inches from my face, the tail whipping hard enough that the air displacement stings. My body's moving faster than thought, each dodge pulled out of me like a reflex I didn't know I had. Vault, duck, spring. I slam a knee into its side, twist away from another swipe, but I'm late—

The tail cracks across my ribs.

Pain lights up my side like fireworks. I hit the floor hard, breath bursting out of me in a ragged gasp. My hand goes to my ribs, and when I look up, the bot's looming over me, claws poised to carve.

My head explodes with warning—spider-sense screaming—and I roll just as the claws slam down into the floor where my chest had been a second ago. Sparks shower. The claws drag back out, screeching.

Something in me snaps.

I push up fast, fury burning hotter than the pain in my ribs. My blood's rushing loud in my ears, louder than Smythe's giddy commentary echoing behind the glass, louder than Norman's calm murmurs. I don't want to just dodge anymore.

I want to end this thing.

The bot lunges again, jaws wide, and I duck under, legs pistoning me forward. My hands grab what I can—the thick base of its tail. My muscles scream, but adrenaline's got me wired past pain. With a guttural roar tearing out of my throat, I pivot on my heel and spin.

The robot lifts clean off the ground, its claws flailing uselessly as momentum builds. My world blurs around me in a dizzy arc, and then I let go.

Metal slams into the steel wall with an explosion of sparks and shrieking metal. The bot crumples into a heap, smoke puffing from its chest.

Smythe's voice carries sharp through the speaker.

"Astounding! That level of—"

I don't let him finish.

The thing twitches, trying to rise. Before it can, I cross the room in a blur. My foot comes down hard, driving clean through the bot's head. The metal caves under my heel with a shriek, sparks spitting out in every direction. The body jerks once and goes still.

The only sound left is my own ragged breathing, chest heaving, sweat dripping into my eyes.

Silence from the other side of the glass. Then Smythe's voice, tight with irritation.

"Do you realize how much money that cost?"

I pull my foot free from the sparking ruin and glance up.

"Guess you should've sprung for the warranty."

Norman's voice cuts through, calm, collected, unshaken.

"It can be replaced, Mr. Smythe." His eyes—steady, assessing—are locked on me through the glass. "Besides. We need to know what he's capable of."

Smythe exhales, annoyed, but folds with a clipped, "Fine."

The hiss of hydraulics cut through the lab like a knife, and before I could even wipe the oil off my palms, three more of Smythe's monsters slithered forward. Their eyes glowed that sickly green again, triangular jaws yawning open with mechanical growls, each step making the metal floor vibrate under my boots.

I blink at them, incredulous.

"What's this?"

"One S-Bot can be dealt with, with relative ease," Smythe says, already smug, his hands resting behind his back like some twisted professor watching a student squirm. "But the enemy you faced could move at a speed of potentially one hundred fifty miles per hour with no wind… You need to be able to handle multiple threats at once."

I throw my arms out.

"How does a bloodthirsty Big Bird equate to three killer robot lizards?!"

"Do you want to stand a chance against that thing or not?" Smythe shoots back. His smile doesn't even flicker. "Or are you going to keep standing there and waste all of our time?"

The growl in my chest surprises even me. My fists curl tight, nails biting my palms. Fine. He wants a show? He'll get one.

The first bot lunges, claws screeching across the floor as it charges. I leap sideways, wall-kick into a backflip, but before my feet even hit the ground the second one's tail whips across my ribs like a sledgehammer. The air rushes out of me in one sharp gasp, pain flaring hot, but I don't have time to double over—because the third is already on me.

Metal jaws snap shut an inch from my face. I duck, roll, and swing a fist into its jaw. The impact rattles my bones but knocks its head sideways with a satisfying crunch of bending steel. Not enough to break it—never enough—but at least it bought me half a second.

And that's all I get.

The first one comes again, claws slashing. I twist under, the blades slicing sparks off the wall where my head was a moment ago. The second barrels in, tail whipping again. This time I grab it—pain screaming up my arm as it whips me around like a ragdoll—and it hurls me into the floor.

My teeth rattle. The room spins.

Smythe's laugh echoes over it all, crisp and delighted. He's eating this up.

I get to my feet, chest heaving, sweat stinging my eyes. I dart between them, jabbing, kicking, using every ounce of speed I've got. But it's like juggling knives while blindfolded—dodging one means taking a hit from another. My shoulder slams into the wall. My leg gets raked open by a claw. My arm's bleeding now, real blood mixing with the oil that smears across my skin.

Norman shifts in the corner of my vision. He leans forward, concern flickering across his face.

"That's enough—"

"No," Smythe cuts him off, voice sharp, hungry. "Let him work."

And then I'm pinned.

Two of them have me by the arms, claws digging in, servos grinding. The third rams me against the wall so hard the metal dents behind my back. My skull bounces off the steel. Blackness crawls in from the edges of my vision. My muscles strain, but they've got me locked, pressing me tighter, claws ready to tear.

For a second—it feels like that night. The storm. The screaming. The loss so sharp it carved me in two. May's face. The sound of wings overhead.

I can't breathe. I can't move. I can't—

No.

The rage starts low, like a fire in my chest, then it surges, blazing, unstoppable. It burns away the fear, the darkness, all of it. I hear myself scream—raw, guttural, nothing human about it—as my arms wrench free. Metal shrieks as claws snap under the force. My knee drives up into the third bot's chest, shattering the plating with a thunderous crack.

Before it can recover, I rip my right arm free and smash my fist straight into its jaw. The head caves in like a soda can, sparks and oil spraying across my face.

The other two come at me fast. Too fast. Doesn't matter.

I grab one by the tail mid-swing, ignoring the pain ripping through my shoulder, and whirl it in a circle, momentum building, the air screaming in my ears. It smashes into the other with a sound like a car crash, and before the wreckage can hit the floor, I slam them both down with everything I've got.

The lab floor trembles under the impact.

One tries to rise—barely, sparks popping in its chest—but I don't give it the chance. I stomp down, my foot driving clean through its skull, metal splitting apart beneath me. Oil sprays up my leg. My chest heaves. My vision swims red.

And then—silence.

Just me. Standing in a heap of sparking, twisted steel, chest rising and falling like I'd just sprinted a marathon. My hands shake, drenched in oil, slick with my own blood. I stare down at them, and for a second I don't even recognize them as mine.

Smythe breaks it first, clapping once, slow and mocking.

"See? There's a fighter in him. We just need to bring it out."

I can still hear the echo of my scream in my own ears.

Norman doesn't look at me. He doesn't look at Smythe. His eyes are fixed on my hands, the oil and blood mingling like one. There's something in his face—worry, maybe even fear—that he doesn't want to admit.

Why is it that the only time I seem to be able to come out on top is when I'm angry? If the key to my victory is rage, what does that make me?

Why does it have to feel like I'm fighting for my life every second?

If it's the only thing that gives me the edge, then I need another way to tip the fight. Something I can control. I'm severely limited without webs. I need to fix that. The more mobility I have, the better off I'm going to be.

I don't want to be a victim to my own anger. If I can use it to my advantage, that's one thing…

I know how I am. I know how angry I can get. I know what will happen if I don't control it. I lost a lot of friends because I buried that anger and never dealt with it. Going back to that isn't an option.

Anger's a weapon, but I can't let it control me.

Or maybe that's the problem. I'm so concerned about holding back that it's the anger that lets me get the job finished.

Smythe claps his hands together, the sound sharp and irritating, bouncing off the metal walls.

"Hey, Parker!" His voice is chipper — smug, like a teacher who knows you just barely passed a test but is determined to treat it as progress anyway.

I look up, chest still rising and falling heavy from the fight. Sweat stings my eyes, oil drips down my arm, and my knuckles ache from punching steel. The bots around me are nothing but scrap now, pieces twitching like broken insects. For a second, I think Smythe's clapping is for them. A eulogy for his little toys.

"You did well," he says as he strolls in, unhurried, adjusting his lab coat like he didn't just sic a pack of metal hounds on me. "All things considered."

"All things considered, I almost died," I mutter, rolling my shoulder, trying to work out the stiffness.

"I think I know what your problem is," he continues, ignoring me like I'm background noise. "Or at least part of it."

"Oh yeah?" I arch an eyebrow, trying not to look as beat-up as I feel. "What's that?"

"Do you have trouble focusing?"

I bark out a short laugh.

"Sometimes. Why?"

He tilts his head, studying me the way a mechanic studies a sputtering engine—curious, detached, like he wants to get his hands inside and poke around just to see what breaks. "I think you're having sensory overload. You're taking in too much at once—sound, sight, motion—it's overwhelming your ability to prioritize. That's why you freeze. Tunnel vision."

The words sting because they feel true. Every clang, every hiss of pneumatics, every spark and flash of steel wings—it all hits me at once, like trying to drink fire from a hydrant. My brain scrambles to sort it all, and sometimes it doesn't. Sometimes it's just white noise, and I move on instinct, hoping instinct doesn't get me killed.

"So what," I say, wiping at my face, smearing grease into sweat. "You're saying my brain's glitching?"

Smythe smiles faintly, sharklike.

"I'm saying you're human. Too human, maybe. And humans are limited."

I scoff.

"Wow, thanks for the pep talk. Maybe next you can tell me water's wet."

He waves a hand, unfazed.

"You need a filter. Something to regulate the data before it hits you. Limit the amount of stimuli coming in at once, give your mind room to focus on what matters. Think of it like… signal scrubbing. Less noise, clearer channel."

I stare at him.

"You're suggesting… goggles?"

"Exactly." He gestures to his own eyes, tapping the rim of his glasses. "A focusing lens. Adaptive filters. Narrow the bandwidth. Engineers have been using similar concepts in targeting systems for decades."

I laugh, but it comes out more bitter than amused.

"So now you're saying I need to strap a pair of binoculars to my head? Real subtle."

Smythe shrugs, unbothered.

"The design is up to you. I'm not your tailor. I'm simply saying: your biggest weakness isn't strength, it's input. Too much information, not enough focus. Solve that, and you might last more than three minutes next time."

His words land heavier than I want to admit. Because he's right. Every fight, I've been one step away from drowning in noise and chaos, surviving on reflex and adrenaline. If I had a way to filter it, to zero in, maybe I wouldn't always feel like I'm a heartbeat away from the morgue.

I look down at my hands again—oil streaked with blood, knuckles raw. Anger sits heavy in my chest, but beneath it there's an itch, an idea. Lenses. Not just goggles. Something sleeker. Something I can build myself.

"I think…" I say slowly, flexing my fingers, "I might have an idea for that."

Smythe tilts his head, curious.

"Do tell."

But before I can answer, another voice cuts in.

"Enough."

Norman's voice fills the room, not loud but commanding, the kind of sound that freezes you mid-step. He emerges from the shadows at the edge of the training floor, suit jacket sharp against the harsh light. His gaze isn't on Smythe, or the wreckage, but on me—always on me.

His eyes drop to my hands, lingering on the mix of oil and blood. There's something in his expression he doesn't want to name. Concern. Worry. Maybe even fear.

"We'll take a break." His tone leaves no room for argument. He gestures with a hand, a subtle but firm motion. "Peter, with me."

I don't argue. My body's too tired… My brain too crowded. I pull off the mask, folding it and stuffing it into my pocket before following him out. My steps echo in the corridor, heavy and uneven.

Norman walks with that same controlled confidence he always has, like every hallway is his boardroom and every step is calculated. He doesn't speak at first, and for once, I don't feel like filling the silence with sarcasm.

Finally, he says, "Let's get you cleaned up."

I glance down at myself—sweat, grime, and blood. I look like I lost a fight with a junkyard.

"Yeah," I mutter. "Good idea."

"And then," he continues, glancing at me from the corner of his eye, "we'll go see someone. Someone who might be able to help with that idea you just had."

I stop for a second, surprised.

"You were listening?"

"I'm always listening," Norman replies, not unkindly. His voice softens, just a fraction. "If you think you can build it, you should. But sometimes it helps to have the right mind in the room."

The thought sticks with me as we walk, a small flicker of excitement cutting through the exhaustion.

Arsenal597 · 2025-12-03T23:23:35+0000

As much as I enjoyed that little training exercise from hell, the shower felt fantastic. Needing another pair of clothing aside, Norman's proven to be far more accommodating than I would have previously given him credit for. Beyond our scuffle in the hospital, there's not been much conflict. He's kept May's name out of his mouth, so I've stayed civil.

Smythe, despite the cover of helping me, has me heated. I don't like people who act like him. Always seem like they're more concerned with their precious data than they are about human lives. His S-Bots, they can be a problem in the future if he decided to use them for more nefarious purposes.

Ugh, enough about that.

Norman said I had somebody he wanted me to meet that might be able to help with my ideas for gadgets. I don't know who that would be, frankly. I don't need anyone else finding out about my abilities. After all, it's bad enough I've got basically seven people who already know about it.

Ben, MJ, Norman, Vulture, Fisk (who has an idea based on our interaction), Smythe, and the two doctors Norman's assigned to me. What exactly they know about my abilities, I'm not sure on that, other than the enhanced healing factor. Even that's still too much for them to know.

I was honest with Norman in that testing room. We need to talk about just going around and telling people my secrets. I don't care if I was given these abilities because of Oscorp, it's none of their business unless I tell them expressly.

The least he could have done was ask me for permission to tell someone. Which is something we'll definitely be talking about in a minute. As I finish up putting the new shirt on, I can see the new bruises that the bots caused fading. It's strange, a month ago a new bruise would have lasted a month depending on the severity, but now… it's gone in a matter of days.

Thank you, genetically altered spider.

Stepping into the hallway, Norman's already waiting for me, resting on his cane like it was for show. He gives me a nod, and we start walking.

The hallways in Oscorp are sterile in that way only rich people can afford to be sterile—white walls with glass inserts, buzzing light strips overhead, the faint hum of ventilation systems. Everything here feels like it belongs in a science fiction movie, and I'm the one idiot who stumbled onto the wrong set.

"You handled yourself better than expected," Norman says at last, his voice even, conversational, but his eyes flicking sideways to study me as we walk.

"I was basically turned into target practice," I mutter. "Smythe didn't care if I walked out of there in one piece. He just wanted to see if the bots could break me."

"Allistaire is… thorough," Norman allows. "His work is methodical, sometimes unfeeling, but that's why he's useful. He isn't blinded by sentiment."

"Yeah, useful," I scoff. "Tell that to the guy who nearly got a rib cracked just so Smythe could write down how long I lasted before I started bleeding." My voice comes out sharper than I intend, but I don't bother softening it. If Norman wants me to play lab rat, he's going to hear the complaints that come with the job.

Norman breathes through his nose, not sighing exactly, but a sound that suggests he's entertaining the thought of patience.

"Pain is an unfortunate teacher, Peter, but one of the most effective. Allistaire's bots forced you to adapt. And from what I saw, you did adapt."

"Because I got angry," I fire back. "That's not adapting. That's losing control."

His gaze flicks to me again, sharper now, before returning forward.

"Anger is not always a weakness. Sometimes it's a catalyst. But Smythe is right about one thing—you are being overwhelmed. Too much input, too many signals. Your instincts are sharp, but when every sound and flicker of movement competes for your attention, it fractures your focus. You need tools to balance it. To filter."

"Tools I should be designing," I say, tightening my jaw. "Not Smythe. Not anyone else. Me."

That earns me the faintest curve of his mouth, though whether it's amusement or approval, I can't tell.

"Then perhaps today will serve as progress in more ways than one."

We stop before a set of reinforced glass doors that hiss open as we approach. The lab beyond glows with the pale, cold light of too many monitors. Workstations stretch across the room like islands, each one holding some half-assembled piece of tech: circuit boards, prototype drones, an entire wall of disassembled mechanical limbs. The air smells faintly of ozone and oil, that tang of overworked machinery.

My stomach knots at the sight. This isn't just a lab; it's a factory for ideas, some brilliant, some probably disastrous. And Norman wants me walking into the middle of it.

"You want me to be honest?" I ask, keeping my voice low.

"Always," Norman replies.

"I don't trust Smythe. I don't trust his bots. And if you keep letting him run things unchecked, sooner or later he's going to stop testing people like me and start testing the city."

Norman pauses, cane clicking against the tile as he pivots slightly to face me. "Do you believe me blind to that possibility? Allistaire's genius is… volatile. That is why I keep him close. Better to guide a mind like his than let it drift into the arms of someone far less scrupulous."

"Sounds like a leash," I mutter.

"Precisely," Norman says, and this time there's no humor in it. "Smythe will do what he does best: build. And you will do what you do best: endure, and rise above it. That is how progress is made."

I bite the inside of my cheek. Part of me wants to snap back, to accuse him of treating me like another cog in his machine. But another part—the exhausted, bruised, calculating part—recognizes the logic. Smythe's not someone you can get rid of easily. Someone like him always finds another lab, another backer. Norman's not wrong: a leash might be the only way to keep the guy from setting the whole city on fire with his toys.

"Fine," I say at last, voice flat. "But if those bots ever come after me again without warning, I'm not pulling punches."

Norman studies me for a moment, expression unreadable, then inclines his head in a slow nod.

"Good. That's the answer I was hoping for."

We step further inside, the hum of machines growing louder. Smythe's cruelty did have a point. He showed me how much I need to be better prepared. If I'm going to make it through this, I need more than fists.

I need an edge.

Which is why I'm going to be busting my ass trying to get those web shooters made. Every spider needs his web, and I won't survive for long without it. Why couldn't I have been the Spidey to have organic webbing? It would be so much simpler.

"You didn't seem pleased that I included Smythe," Norman says, matter-of-fact, cane tapping softly as we walk.

"Really? That's what you got from it?" I scoff, shaking my head. "I told you, I don't want you running off the head about my abilities."

"As I said. You asked me for my help, and I'm trying to do so. Unfortunately, for me to help you to the best of my ability, I had to let some others in on your secret. I apologize for not asking, but I'm not apologizing for trying to help."

"Next time, ask. I don't like the idea of someone like Smythe knowing."

"Duly noted." Norman stops in front of a steel door. The panel beside it glows faint green as his badge clears us through. He places his hand against the plate, waiting for the lock to hiss open. "Now, before we go any further… this is going to be of your own volition. You want to decide who knows about your abilities? You get to decide right now. Do you want someone else to know in order to help you create the gadgets you need?"

"That depends," I groan. "Who is it?"

The door slides open with a whisper of hydraulics, and the smell hits me first—ozone, solder, and that warm tang of hot circuitry. The kind of smell you'd get if lightning ever decided to moonlight as a mechanic.

Inside, the lab looks different than Smythe's corner of Oscorp. It doesn't feel like a deathtrap dressed up as research. This one feels… alive. Papers everywhere. Tools scattered across a workbench. Half-built prosthetic rigs hanging from ceiling braces like skeletal arms waiting for flesh.

And then I see him.

Back turned, hunched slightly, a man with thinning dark hair flecked gray at the temples, glasses slipping down his nose as he adjusts a length of polished metal clamped to a table rig. The mechanical arm curves like a spine, segmented with delicate wiring running along its length. He's muttering to himself, voice low but charged with focus, the way people do when they're in the middle of building something they actually love.

Norman clears his throat.

"Doctor."

The man looks up, surprised, then pulls his goggles up to his forehead. His face breaks into a smile I wasn't expecting—a kind one. Real. His eyes flicker, just for a second, toward me, and something clicks in my memory.

"Peter?"

It takes me a moment, but then I remember. The lab. The spider. The blacking out. My chest locking up like it was trying to fold in on itself. And a voice—panicked but steady—urging me to breathe.

"Doctor Octavius?"

"In the flesh, my friend." he says, stepping closer with a warmth that feels rare in Oscorp's walls. He doesn't look at me like Smythe does, like I'm some fascinating specimen that escaped a jar. He looks at me like a teacher spotting a student who survived finals.

"Good to see you awake. When you collapsed, I…" His voice falters for just a second. "I wasn't sure you'd make it."

Norman lets the silence hang just long enough before cutting in, tone clipped but not unfriendly.

"Otto has been one of Oscorp's most brilliant minds for years. His work on prosthetics is… singular."

Otto waves him off.

"Brilliant minds don't mean anything unless they help people. That's what this is all about." He gestures to the mechanical arm still strapped to the test stand. "A new way to give movement back to those who've lost it. Veterans, accident victims, anyone. The human brain is capable of so much more than we let it. I just want to bridge the gap."

There's pride in his voice, sure. But there's also something else, running under the surface. A current of… obsession, maybe. It's faint, but it's there.

Norman steps in again, folding his hands over the top of his cane.

"Peter has ideas. Ambitious ones. Gadgets, tools, things that could aid him in… certain pursuits. I thought the two of you might benefit from meeting."

Otto tilts his head, studying me again. Not dissecting, not cold. Just curious.

"Ideas, hm? That day we talked at the Tower, you were so excited to potentially talk further. I'm not surprised."

I try to keep my voice level. "I don't need another Smythe breathing down my neck."

Otto's brow furrows. He looks between me and Norman, something unspoken passing in the space.

"I'm nothing like Allistaire," he says finally. "I don't care about data for its own sake. I care about people. That's why I'm here at all."

And I believe him. Or at least—I want to.

Still, my eyes flick to that prosthetic arm again. It's beautiful. Sleek. Terrifying. I can already picture it tearing through steel, clamping around something that doesn't want to be caught. Hope and dread, wrapped up in polished alloy.

"Peter," Norman says smoothly, "the decision is yours. No one will force you. But if you want your gadgets, you may find Otto more willing to help than anyone else in this building."

Otto adjusts his glasses, still smiling faintly.

"Only if you want me to. I don't force collaboration. Trust doesn't work that way."

For the first time in weeks, I feel something twist inside me. Not the numb drifting that's been eating at me since May. Not the blind rage that Smythe nearly pulled to the surface. Something else. Something that feels dangerously close to… purpose.

Maybe I've finally met someone who isn't just another vulture waiting to pick me clean.

Or maybe I just walked into the lion's den smiling.

"I'll let the two of you talk for a bit. Then you can let me know whether you want to continue with a partnership or not." Norman says, and leaves the room.

"The guy doesn't leave much room for you to interject, does he?" I chuckle, as Otto steps beside me.

"Norman is a man of many talents, but empathy is one of the few things he struggles with. I know you're closer to him than most people, but I just want you to understand he does care. Even if he has trouble showing it."

"Honestly, I'm not as close as people think. Not these days."

It's hard to imagine being close with Norman. Like genuinely close enough that I could consider myself family. Imagining myself at a holiday dinner with him just doesn't seem feasible.

"You can picture yourself as a superhero swinging through Manhattan, yet you struggle to believe Norman Osborn is a good guy? Really, man?" a voice echoes in the back of my head, and I try to not physically react. Of all the times to hear his voice again, it had to be now? "I know Norm isn't the friendliest guy around, but he means well."

"Pete, what the hell? How are you talking to me right now? I thought you'd only show up when I'm on death's door or something?" I mentally ask, since I don't want Otto to freak the hell out. I don't want the poor guy thinking I'm schizophrenic.

There's no response.

Why do I have a feeling this is going to start being a regular occurrence?

"I suppose not," he says with that tired sigh of his, hands clasped behind his back as he watches the door Norman disappeared through. "Given how much things have changed in recent days for you."

I force my throat to work.

"Yeah, trust me… that coma? That's the least of my problems nowadays." My laugh comes out rough, jagged at the edges.

Otto glances at me, his brow furrowed in the way that makes him look less like a man of science and more like a weary uncle.

"Well, do you want to talk about it? I may not be the best person for the job, but I'm all ears."

The hum of the lab's filtration system fills the silence as I rub the back of my neck. The place smells faintly of ozone and hot metal, like wires freshly soldered. Holo-screens flicker faintly, reflecting in the glass tubes of prototypes and vats. Over in the corner, a mechanical arm prototype sits on its mount, twitching occasionally, the servos whirring as though it has its own nervous system.

I let the words slip out before I can stop myself.

"I don't really like talking to people about my problems. Never have. It always ends up feeling like I'm dumping everything on them, like I'm this huge burden they didn't ask for."

Otto turns toward me, lips pulling down, glasses catching the dim glow of the lab lights.

"That's understandable, Peter. But it's not healthy to keep it all in. You have to be able to get it off your chest, otherwise it will eat you alive. Trust me, I've seen men unravel from less."

"I know, I know…" I shake my head, a bitter chuckle slipping out. "It's just… when I came out of the coma, I had amnesia. I lost so much time with the people I care about. They had to stand by and watch me not remember their faces, their names, their stories. And now that May's gone—" The words hitch in my throat, sharp and cruel. I force them out anyway. "Now that she's gone, I'm just afraid I'm never going to get those memories back. And if I don't, it's like I lost her twice."

Otto doesn't speak right away. Instead, he moves slowly toward the mechanical arm on its mount. With a press of a control on the side of the desk, the arm unfurls with startling smoothness, servos hissing faintly, claws flexing. The fingers twitch, then curl, then reach. It's like watching the limb of a living thing.

"When we lose someone," Otto finally says, his gaze fixed on the prototype as it extends toward a nearby wrench and gently pinches it from the table, "we try to hold on as tightly as we can to what we have left. Memories, mementos, sometimes even our pain. But holding on doesn't mean refusing to grow."

The arm passes the wrench from one grip to another, almost delicately, before setting it back down. Otto leans against the console, crossing his arms, the faintest smile at the corner of his mouth. "I built this after my accident. Not because I wanted to replace what I'd lost—but because I wanted to prove to myself that I could still create something new, even out of pain. That there was still a future worth investing in."

I blink at the mechanical arm, its joints whirring as it folds back into its neutral stance. There's a warmth in Otto's voice I don't usually hear—something unpolished, something scarred and real.

"Maybe you won't get every memory back," Otto continues, his voice gentler now. "But you'll make new ones. That's just as important. That's what she'd want for you, isn't it?"

My throat tightens again, but this time, I don't shove it down. I let the sting of tears press at the edges of my eyes, even if I don't let them fall.

"Yeah," I murmur. "That sounds like something she'd say."

The lab feels quieter than before, like the whole place paused to listen. My reflection in the glass of the console screen looks tired—oil stains on my hands, bruises fading across my jaw, hair hanging messily over my forehead—but for the first time in days, I don't look completely hollow.

Otto notices. His smile doesn't grow, but his eyes soften.

"You're not a burden, Peter. You're a young man caught between more weight than anyone your age should ever have to bear. Don't let yourself believe otherwise."

The words sit heavy between us, the hum of machinery fading into the background like the lab itself knows this isn't just some passing conversation. Otto doesn't rush. He lets the silence breathe, lets the weight of what he's said settle in, and for the first time in a while, I don't feel like I need to fill the quiet. I just sit there, turning his words over, feeling them press against old scars.

But then the thought comes.

I clear my throat, my voice softer than I expect when it comes out.

"Otto… what exactly happened to you?"

Otto leans back in his chair, his face unreadable for a long moment. His fingers trace over the edge of the console like he's stalling, deciding how much to give me. When he finally speaks, it's with a tone so measured and worn-down it feels rehearsed, but still achingly raw.

"My wife, Rosie, and I were on our way back from her parents' place. It was late. A storm rolled in, one of those sudden summer tempests that seemed to turn the sky inside out. We thought we could beat it home."

He pauses, his eyes drifting somewhere I can't follow. The faint reflection of the prosthetic arm gleams in the glass, catching on his glasses as though the memory itself has been seared into him.

"A tree came down. Split right across the road. I swerved, but the ground was slick. Our car went off the embankment and into a ditch. It rolled." He inhales shakily, though his words don't crack. "My leg shattered in three places. I was pinned there, half-conscious, half-drowning in mud. Rosie…" His voice catches then, the faintest tremor breaking through his calm. "…Rosie didn't make it."

The lab's silence feels louder than thunder.

"I'm so sorry," I murmur, because what else can you say to something like that? It feels like trying to patch a broken dam with your bare hands.

Otto lifts a hand, brushing the apology aside gently but firmly.

"Thank you, Peter. But it was a long time ago." His lips pull into something that's not quite a smile, more a fragile curve of memory. "Time… heals, they say. And in many ways it does. But there's always a part of me that bleeds for her. Always will."

The words hang there, stark and simple.

He exhales slowly, steadies himself, and continues.

"While I was recovering, Norman reached out. We'd gone to college together. We were… friends, or as close to it as Norman Osborn ever allows." His tone dips toward humor, but there's warmth in it. "He offered me a chance. A position here, to rebuild my footing. To find some purpose in a life that felt unmoored."

Otto gestures toward the gleaming prosthetic arm resting on the table beside him. Its fingers twitch faintly, responsive to some unseen command. "This became my saving grace. A project that was equal parts redemption and survival. Every calculation, every sleepless night soldering circuits and refining the neural interface—it grounded me. It gave me a reason to stand up in the morning."

He runs his hand over the smooth plating, the tenderness of the motion almost paternal.

"My pain was transformed into something that might help people. That's what kept me alive."

I don't realize I've been holding my breath until it escapes, slow and uneven. There's a lump in my throat, and for once I don't try to swallow it down.

Otto turns, his eyes meeting mine, sharp and steady.

"And I'd like to believe, Peter, that the pain you're going through now… it can be used the same way. To help people."

Something twists inside me. Hope and dread, tangled together. Because part of me wants to believe him—needs to believe him. That all this wreckage inside me could actually build something worthwhile. But another part whispers that pain doesn't always make you stronger. Sometimes it just eats you alive.

Still, the way Otto looks at me—it isn't pity. It's belief. That's a lot more than I can say about some other people. The only one that gave me this same feeling was Li, and I'm still trying to figure out if I actually saw his eyes change.

I glance at the prosthetic arm again, its silent promise of what a human being can do when they refuse to drown.

"Maybe you're right," I whisper.

Otto's smile this time is softer, real.

"I don't claim to have all the answers. But I've seen what despair can do, Peter. It can consume you, or it can drive you. I would much rather see you driven."

The thing about Otto was that he didn't stare at me like he was waiting for a confession. He didn't squint at the gaps in my words, trying to pry them open. He just… listened, like someone who'd already had silence cut him to ribbons before and wasn't afraid of it anymore. That's what made me decide—not that I trusted him fully, not that I was ready to dump the truth on him—but that I could at least test the waters.

"Actually," I said, rubbing the back of my neck. My fingers were still smudged with oil from earlier. "There's something I've been working on. Just… an idea. But I don't think I can keep it locked in my head anymore."

Otto tilted his head, eyebrows rising. "An idea? In my experience, those are the most dangerous things to bottle up."

I smirked despite myself.

"Dangerous is kind of my middle name lately."

The corner of his mouth tugged upward, but he didn't push. Instead, he leaned slightly back, folding his arms, giving me the space to figure out if I was serious about this or not.

I pulled a scrap pad from the console desk and fished a pen out of my jacket pocket. The paper was thin and creased, like it'd been waiting its whole life for me to ruin it. For a second, I just sat there, tapping the pen against the corner of the page, staring at the prosthetic arm gleaming under the lab lights. That steady hum of electricity in the walls made the silence feel heavier than it was.

I took a breath and began sketching.

I'm no artist. I never was. Most of the time my doodles look like abstract crimes against humanity. But this? This, I could see clearly in my head. The lines were shaky, sure, but they found their place. Cylindrical cartridges. A wrist-mounted trigger. A mechanism thin enough to fit under a sleeve, but strong enough to handle the pressure.

Otto leaned in as the page filled, but he didn't comment. Not once. His patience was unnerving, almost reverent, like he knew saying something too soon would break the spell.

By the time I set the pen down, the paper was cluttered with the skeleton of something real. My chest tightened just looking at it.

"These," I said, voice low, almost a whisper. "I call them… web shooters. At least, that's what I've been thinking of calling them. I've had a bit of a fascination with spiders since my accident. In a way similar to how a spider creates their own fluid, these devices would allow the user to fire a synthetic line—thread, really—that could adhere to surfaces. Strong, flexible, and versatile."

For a moment, Otto just stared at the page. Then his eyes flicked up to me, searching. "That is… remarkably ambitious. What would you hope to achieve with them?"

I wet my lips, trying to come up with an answer that wasn't the actual answer. I wasn't about to stand here and explain the masked guy swinging around rooftops like an idiot. So I went with something that was only half a lie.

"Spider silk is remarkably strong. If there's enough built up, humans can struggle against it, despite their size. I want something that could be used to help. If we can find a way to produce something akin to a bio-cable, the applications we could use would be revolutionary."

His gaze sharpened, but still no judgment. "Fascinating. And what about tensile strength? Adhesion? Have you thought about the composition of this… webbing?"

That was the part where I hesitated, then smiled faintly, because this—this was the fun part.

"Some," I admitted. "I've been tinkering with formulas in my head, but I'm not all the way there. What do you think of including saryllic acid?"

Otto blinked, then slowly, that intrigued smile crept across his face.

"You meant salicylic acid…" He reached for the sketch, but didn't take it—just tapped his finger near the cartridge. "Right?"

Heat rushes to my ears.

"Right, yeah. That's what I meant."

Not skipping a beat, he continues with: "It's an easy mistake. But it's a clever suggestion nevertheless. Salicylic acid could serve as a base for functionalized esters—something we can tweak into a polymer backbone. Readily available, affordable, and remarkably versatile."

I leaned forward, my pulse quickening.

"Exactly. That's what I thought too. Maybe… polyethylene glycol? Or even dimethylformamide?"

"Ah," Otto said, his tone brightening as though someone had just flipped a switch in him. "Yes, yes, though dimethylformamide would require careful handling. Still, your instincts are sound, Peter. Very sound."

For the first time in what felt like forever, my chest didn't feel hollow. It felt alive. Talking about this, actually bouncing ideas around instead of burying them in my head—it was like oxygen after being underwater too long.

Otto didn't look at me like a kid scribbling wild nonsense. He looked at me like a colleague. Like I belonged here.

I sat back, grinning without meaning to.

"So… you don't think it's ridiculous?"

"Ridiculous?" Otto shook his head, chuckling warmly. "Peter, some of the greatest inventions in history began with sketches far less coherent than this. What you've drawn here isn't just fanciful—it's practical. With the right adjustments, the right formulation… this could work."

My throat tightened, but not with grief this time. With something I hadn't felt in a while. Hope.

Otto leaned closer.

"I'd like to believe the pain you're going through can be used to help people as well, Peter. You already carry so much—why not channel it into something like this? Something that gives, instead of only taking?"

The words lodged deep, like he'd cut straight through me without even trying. And the thing was, I wanted to believe him. I wanted to believe I could take all this mess inside me—the grief, the anger, the guilt—and make something out of it. Not just for me. For everyone.

I glanced down at the sketch again, my shaky lines staring back at me. It didn't matter that I wasn't an artist. For once, I wasn't tracing someone else's work or faking it. This was mine.

"Then maybe," I whispered, more to myself than to him, "it's time I stopped drowning."

Otto smiled, warm and steady.

"That's the spirit."

We stood there for a second, as Otto looked at my crudely drawn schematic with this grin that felt like it was somewhere in between astonishment and enthrallment. It's the same way I smiled when I was able to experience something from my greatest dreams. Like when I was able to shoot a gun for the first time, or when I got my first car.

That kind of smile…

"So, Peter…" he says after a moment, his voice laced with a quiet excitement. "Are you ready to get to work?"

I can only smile back.

"Let's do it."

By the time I drag myself back up the apartment steps, the city's night air still clinging to my clothes, the place is quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that makes every creak in the floorboards feel like a gunshot.

The door opens easily under my hand, and I step inside. Ben's there—of course he's there. He always is, these days. Parked in his usual chair, TV humming some muted documentary or talk show neither of us is paying attention to. He glances up when I come in, his eyes shadowed but sharp, like he's been waiting all this time just to catch me walking through that door alive.

"Hey, Pete." His voice is soft, neutral.

I pause just long enough to nod.

"Hey."

That's all I give him. That's all I can give him. My throat feels locked, and the words I might want to say—how Otto looked at me, how it almost felt good to talk to someone without the weight of pity—stick somewhere deep, refusing to surface. Instead, I slide past the chair, past him, and down the hall to my room.

I can feel his eyes on my back until I shut the door.

The room is the same as I left it: shadows stretched long over piles of clothes I haven't folded, the half-built model kit on the desk that's been sitting untouched for months, the smell of dust and old paper clinging to the air. For a second I just stand there, waiting, as if the room's going to rearrange itself into something that makes more sense.

It doesn't.

I sit on the edge of my bed, elbows digging into my knees, palms pressed against my face. The silence is louder in here, like it's pressing against my skull. I should say something to Ben. I should tell him… anything, really. But instead, I let the stillness pull me under.

My eyes drift to the nightstand, and before I even realize what I'm doing, my hand moves. I slide open the drawer, slow, and pull out the bundle I've been keeping hidden: the mask, the beanie, the old pair of glasses. They sit in my lap, heavier than they have any right to be.

I stare at them for a long time. The fabric is worn but familiar, carrying the faint smell of sweat, city grime, and that strange electricity that lingers after every night out. It's like holding a secret too big for my hands.

I shouldn't do this. Not this late. Not tonight.

But the thought of lying down and trying to sleep without it feels impossible. Every time I close my eyes I see her. I hear the flapping wings, the crash of glass, the sound of her voice as the world fell apart. If I stay here, if I stay still, it'll all just play again on a loop until morning.

My hands shake, just a little, as I pull the beanie over my head. The glasses slide into place, the mask tugged up over my nose. Piece by piece, the boy sitting here disappears, until only that other thing remains staring back at me from the reflection in the darkened window.

It doesn't look like me. It doesn't feel like me. But somehow, it feels inevitable.

I sit there for another moment, caught in that thin space between decision and regret. The fabric is tight against my face, hot, suffocating, but I don't pull it off. Instead, I push myself up, slow, like my body's already accepted the choice my mind knows is wrong.

The window slides open with a groan, the cool air spilling in like a warning. My heart beats faster—not excitement, not really, but something close. Something I can't name.

I swing a leg over the sill, glance back once at the dark room, at the closed door that keeps Ben from seeing me like this. A part of me almost hopes he'll walk in, catch me, stop me. But the apartment stays quiet. No footsteps. No voice. Just the empty hum of the television in the other room.

So I climb out.

The city greets me like it always does: restless, pulsing, alive in a way I can't match but can't resist. The mask itches against my skin, my chest tightens with that old weight I can't shake, but I keep moving. Roof to roof, shadow to shadow, swallowed by the night.

And somewhere deep down, past the part of me that's already bracing for the fallout, I know it—this wasn't the right choice. But the silence I left behind in that bedroom was worse.

So I disappear into the dark, because at least out here I don't have to listen to my own thoughts.

THE NEXT DAY

It starts with sketches on crumpled graph paper, the kind Otto keeps in a drawer under the lab bench, already smudged with graphite and old coffee stains. I spread the sheets out between us, my messy handwriting competing with formulas half-scribbled in shorthand.

The first thing we tackle is cost. I'm not Tony Stark with an unlimited budget. Hell, half the time I'd consider myself lucky to have milk in the fridge—especially nowadays.

"I need stuff I can actually buy, Doc," I tell him, tapping the pen against my notes. "Hardware stores, hobbyist shops. Stuff that I might be able to get without breaking the bank."

Otto chuckles, shaking his head.

"You're already thinking like a man who knows his limitations. That's good. That just means you'll find creative solutions to overcome them. I like a challenge." He beams, the lines around his eyes softening in a way that makes him look younger than he is.

We dive into brainstorming like two kids trading wild ideas across a lunch table, only our toys are molecules and mechanical triggers. Otto runs with my thought about shear-thickening polymers, sketching on the whiteboard with fluid strokes.

"Something that behaves like oobleck," he says, eyes bright. "Soft in motion, but solid when struck. Norman was onto something with that."

"Yeah, but it can't stay solid forever," I argue, spinning the pen between my fingers. "If this stuff hits a person, I want it to dissolve after a while. It has to be strong enough to stop a car, but temporary enough that nobody ends up a human paperweight."

Otto nods, tapping his chin.

"Biodegradability with a timed breakdown. How long are you suggesting?"

"Probably about an hour or two at maximum. The application I want to focus on would require in-and-out movements. It wouldn't be a long-term solution, at least until we improve the formula to do so if needed."

"The trick will be balancing structural integrity with decomposition rate. Not impossible. Just… difficult."

"We could alter it to where it could be dissolved with water quicker."

"Ah, but that would make practical usage during a storm dangerous. The formula could break down too quickly otherwise."

Dammit, he's right.

I drag a hand down my face, muttering, "Okay, what about… acetone? Nail polish remover? Cheap, accessible. We could use it as a… uh," fuck how do I word this? "...breaking agent."

Otto tilts his head, considering.

"Hmm. Acetone would certainly lower viscosity. In small amounts, it could even keep the solution from curing prematurely. But—" he lifts a finger, professor mode engaged—"too much, and you'd destabilize the polymer entirely. You wouldn't get strands—you'd get something closer to… chewing gum."

"That doesn't sound great."

"It is not," he agrees, and the corner of his mouth twitches.

I grin despite myself.

"So, moderation."

"As in all things," Otto says with that warm, measured tone, like he's sneaking in a life lesson under the guise of chemistry.

He hands me a set of beakers, the clear liquid inside catching the fluorescent light overhead. "Careful with how quickly you combine the agents. If you pour too fast, the exothermic reaction could—"

FWOOMP.

There's no other word for the sound. A puff of vapor and a wet slap later, and I'm staring at my hands—covered in a viscous, sticky gel that clings to my wrists and strings from my elbows like melted marshmallow. The stuff stretches, gooey and semi-solid, and the more I try to shake it off, the more it pulls like taffy.

Otto coughs into his hand, trying—and failing—not to laugh. "—do precisely that."

"Doc…" I groan, my voice muffled as a glob slides down onto my shirt. "It's hot."

He winces in sympathy, though the corners of his mouth are definitely betraying him.

"Well, that is what happens in a chemical reaction."

I look down at myself, dripping in failed webbing like a toddler left alone with pancake batter, and sigh.

"At least tell me this washes out."

Otto gives me a sheepish smile.

"In theory."

Great. In theory.

We spend the next half hour scrubbing my hands under the lab sink, the gel sloughing off in reluctant clumps. My arms sting from the heat, but I can't stop grinning. I feel ridiculous, sticky, and a little bit roasted—but alive. The kind of alive I haven't felt since that night.

Over the next few days, the pattern repeats itself. I sneak into the lab after Norman's training sessions, or after nights spent swinging between rooftops until my muscles scream, and Otto is always there—tired, but smiling. We test variant after variant, sometimes hitting the mark, sometimes blowing up another beaker, sometimes making a sludge so useless it's only good for sealing cracks in the lab tiles.

And every failure, instead of sinking me, pulls me up. Otto never scolds. Never sighs. He just chuckles, makes a note, and says, "Progress, Peter. Even in the wrong direction, it's still progress."

Piece by piece, we build it together. We swap out salicylic acid for derivatives, test polyethylene glycol at different chain lengths, argue about ratios until one of us caves and scribbles another equation on the board.

And with each passing hour, each mistake, I feel something loosening inside me. That tight, hollow knot that's been dragging me under since May… it's finally loosening.

This is what I needed.

In between it all, Doc and I start working on the prototype web shooter devices. I wanted to try using wristwatches like in the TASM movie so that I could conceal them on my person, but the less I use them in my Peter Parker life, the better. So, I go with my original plan and aim for the original design. Those big clunky ones.

"Peter, have you done this before?"

"What? Metalworking?" I ask, as we bend a few pieces of metal to weld into the shape we need. "I've had a little bit of experience. Uncle Ben used to work as a mechanic. He still has some stuff in the garage."

What I'm not going to tell him is that when I originally went to high school, I took a semester of metalworking, a semester of welding, and two years of auto body. While it's been a bit since I did anything like this, it's practically like riding a bike.

"And you're able to weld on top of that?"

"I might not have been an adventurous kid that wanted to explore the world outside, but I did like seeing how my toys worked." I pause, and for a second it's like the smell of solder and burning metal dissolves into something softer—warm wood floors. Aunt May's voice calling down the hall, and me, younger, sitting cross-legged with my (Peter) first desktop cracked open like a patient on the table. Bits and boards spread across the carpet, wires tangled around my fingers like ivy. Ben stood in the doorway, lips pressed together. Disappointed. Exasperated. And yet… when I rebuilt it, I got it to run again with a graphics card it had no business supporting. I swear there was a little flicker of pride in Ben's eyes when he saw it.

Still not used to the fact I'm getting some of Peter's memories now. Pete, I know you're probably sharing, so thanks man. Feels easier to talk to people when I'm not talking out of my ass.

"You're welcome."

Thankfully, Otto doesn't notice me disassociating. He's busy arranging parts on the bench—springs, coils, plates, and a mess of screws scattered across blueprints he's been scribbling over all afternoon.

The design we're chasing isn't sleek. It isn't subtle. The thing looks like a wrist-mounted hydraulic nightmare. Big, clunky, like it crawled out of a comic book.

Which is exactly the point.

The first attempt is all about size. We go too ambitious—thick metal cuffs that could probably double as blunt weapons. Otto insists on durability. I insist on function. Somewhere in the middle we get a contraption that weighs about as much as a pair of ankle weights. I try lifting my wrist with the frame strapped on and my shoulder protests immediately.

"Nope," I grunt. "I'll tear my rotator cuff before I get to shoot anything."

Not really. But I'm not trying to slow myself down in the heat of the moment. If I try to give one of my loved ones a pair of web shooters so they can have something to hopefully protect themselves, I want it to be practical for them too. About the only people that I'd truly consider this for is Ben and MJ at the moment, but that's only because they know my secret.

"Lightweight alloys, then," Otto mutters, flipping back through his notes. "Titanium if we were running under the promise of a budget, aluminum for reality."

So we rebuild. Strip it down. File the edges until my hands ache, hammer out the bends so they sit flush against my wrist. The lab fills with the steady chorus of tools—drills whining, hammers pinging, the tick-tick of Otto's pen as he keeps changing the schematics. Time blurs.

The trigger mechanism becomes our obsession. Otto insists it should be deliberate, something precise, so there's no risk of accidental discharge. I keep arguing that it has to feel natural in a fight. Muscle memory, not brainpower.

We settled on a design that uses my middle and ring finger pressing in tandem against a small lever built into the palm-side of the frame. It's simple, elegant even, but harder than it sounds. I think I remember seeing something about Spidey's web shooters working off the same concept, but I can't remember at this point. Not like I can go research it, either. Beauty of living in a different universe.

Anyway, the spring tension has to be just right. Too soft and it'll fire when I brush against a wall. Too stiff and—

Snap.

The first prototype shears off when I squeeze. The tiny copper lever crumbles in my glove.

"Damn it."

"You pressed too hard," Otto says without looking up, as if I'd just leaned on a piano and blamed the keys for breaking.

"I know, but it's too thin. Should have made it thicker."

"Then the next time, we build a lever that does not break."

Yep, cue another rebuild.

Stronger alloys. Thicker spring. Smaller contact plate. This time I try again, pressing slow and steadily. The mechanism clicks with a satisfying snap instead of snapping apart.

Thank God…

Progress.

By the second night, the lab looks like a junkyard. Failed housings in one pile, half-melted brackets in another, a box of stripped screws sitting like the graveyard of my patience. Otto thrives in the chaos, chalk smudged across his sleeve, humming under his breath as he adjusts blueprints. I'm running on fumes—my nights split between crime fighting, Norman's training regimen, and now these marathon sessions in the lab—but the exhaustion is worth it.

Every time we refine the shooters, I feel closer. Closer to what Peter Parker is supposed to be.

We test the recoil dampeners, the little pressure plates, the miniature valve system that will eventually release the formula. We measure, adjust, sand down, build up again. Otto cracks jokes about me being the world's first "DIY arachnid." I fire back with digs about his handwriting looking like a caffeinated spider tried to learn cursive.

It's slow. Painfully slow. But each night, each trial and error, shapes the device into something more real. More mine.

And when we finally set aside the latest prototype on the bench, the clunky steel frame gleaming faintly under the lab light, I can almost see it. The whole picture. The formula, the shooters, the mask, the name.

Not there yet. But close.

So close.

By the end of the fourth straight day of testing, we're on our thirteenth official test run with the formula. I've officially had four minor explosive chemical reactions, three pancake batter consistency pastes, and five bricks that completely solidified.

"Okay… let's try this again." I sigh, wiping the sweat from my brow as Otto steps beside me with goggles on.

"Really? Where's mine?"

"You broke the last pair," Otto laughs, before pulling out another pair of goggles from the bench drawer and handing them over. "Let's try not to let history repeat."

"Right… so, salicylic acid. Toulene. Methanol. Carbon tetrachloride. Potassium carbonate… ethyl acetate." I start going over the process as we combine the ingredients slowly, my gloved hands steady even though my heart's racing like I'm about to diffuse a bomb.

"Silica gel for purifying," Otto repeats, matter-of-fact, and I nod. We bring the final ingredients into a beaker, heat it up to the right temperature… wait a few minutes, and then—

We stir the solution, watching the thin line of bubbles creep to the surface, and as I pull it back, the liquid thickens, curling in slow strands like stretched sugar. It clings to the glass like it doesn't want to let go, and for the first time since we started this nightmare marathon, I feel something different in my chest. Hope.

It looks like webbing.

A smile splits my face before I even realize it, and when I turn to Otto, he's got the same grin plastered on his face like a proud uncle who just watched his kid hit a home run.

"That looks like a success to me."

It does. It really does. But even as my pulse hammers with adrenaline, something about the viscosity is bothering me. It's… off. Too soft, maybe too elastic. I can't tell. Honestly, I don't even know what the "right" viscosity of artificial spider silk is supposed to feel like.

"There's only one way to figure it out for sure." I pick up the glass vial with both hands like I'm holding the cure for cancer, my grin widening. "Time to test these bad boys out!"

The prototype web shooters are waiting for me on the worktable behind us, still crude—two clunky bracers that look like something you'd win in a claw machine if the claw machine had a budget of a hundred bucks and zero shame. They aren't sleek or stylish or anything close to what the movies ever made them out to be. No, these are raw, hand-built, solder-burned, grease-smudged little machines… and they're mine.

I uncap the vial and carefully pour the formula into a cartridge. My hands are steady—steadier than I thought they'd be—like my body knows this moment matters. With a quick snap, I load the cartridge into the shooter, slide it onto my wrist, and tug the straps tight. It's heavier than I expected, the metal biting against my skin, but it feels… right. Like it belongs there.

"Careful," Otto murmurs, though he's smiling behind his thick lenses. "We don't want the thirteenth test run to end with you glued to the ceiling."

"That'd be a hell of a way to go," I chuckle, flexing my wrist. "Death by my own genius."

"You're not dead yet, Parker. Let's keep it that way."

He disappears into the cluttered corner of the lab and drags over a heavy cardboard target—some old chemical crate flipped on its side, painted with a sloppy bullseye in red marker. He props it against the wall, gives it a tap with his hand, and then steps back with a theatrical bow. "Your stage."

I take a breath. My pulse spikes. My fingers twitch over the trigger mechanism like I'm about to pull the trigger on destiny. For the briefest second, I think about May—about how she'd probably scold me for risking blowing myself up again—and the guilt twists like a knife. But then I shove it down. Just this once, I need to let myself want something.

I raise my wrist. Aim. Double tap the trigger.

For a heartbeat, I expect nothing. A fizzle, a puff of smoke, maybe another small-scale explosion.

But instead, I hear it.

Thwip!

The sound is glorious. A white line of webbing shoots across the lab like lightning and smacks against the bullseye, sticking with a wet slap. My jaw drops. My eyes go wide. Otto lets out a startled laugh that echoes off the steel walls.

"Oh my God."

I tug the line, half-expecting it to snap, and it doesn't—though it sags more than I'd like. The tension isn't quite there. It droops, like a rope bridge swaying in the wind, and when I pull harder, the strand stretches almost like taffy. Not strong enough. Not yet.

But it doesn't matter.

Because it worked.

I fire again, and again—thwip, thwip!—webs splattering against the target, sticking to the wall, even dangling from the ceiling light. It's messy, inconsistent, but it's real.

"Ha!" I shout, spinning around, unable to stop myself from grinning like a complete maniac. "Did you see that?! Did you hear that?! It works!"

Otto is laughing too, his booming, warm laugh filling the lab in a way I haven't heard in weeks. He claps me on the shoulder so hard I nearly stumble. "Congratulations, Peter. You've just spun your first web."

And for the first time since May died, since the storm and the hospital and the hollow days that followed, I feel… light. I feel like myself again. Not the broken shell, not the kid haunted by grief, not the boy pretending to carry on. Just me. Just Peter.

I fire another web into the corner and laugh until my chest aches. Otto's grinning like he's feeding off my joy, and maybe he is. Maybe we both needed this more than either of us realized.

For once, it doesn't feel like I'm fighting to stay alive. It doesn't feel like I'm clawing my way out of quicksand. It feels like I've genuinely won. There's no downside to this for once. Otto, he has no idea how much he's helped me feel like my old self again.

Maybe it sounds bad on my part, but with Otto it feels like there's no expectations. With Ben, he's expecting me to be able to just heal and grieve. He doesn't want me to take action as a vigilante yet. I get why. I really do, but I can't handle sitting around doing nothing.

Norman is Norman, there's not much I can say there other than the fact every interaction almost feels like there's an ulterior motive below it, even if I can't figure out what it might be. I know he's trying to help, but I'm not used to him being one of the good guys. I'd almost be willing to accept his help more if he had already taken a trip down the Goblin hole—but that's not a path I want to see. The less people that get hurt the better.

MJ and the others, I don't know what they're thinking. What I do know is that I can't stand being looked at with sympathy. I don't like getting sympathy points.

That's why Otto feels like a breath of fresh air. There's sympathy, but it's not all there is to it. He's willing to take action, and it doesn't feel like he's out for his own personal gain. That's more than enough for me.

So, yeah. Even with the web formula not being where I want it to be, I'm considering this a win. It's a step in the right direction, and I don't feel that dark cloud hanging over my head right now.

"Feels good, doesn't it?" Otto asks me, as I set the web shooters back down on the table. The feeling is euphoric. There's no other way for me to describe it.

"Yes it does…"

As I walk into the apartment that night, Ben is still awake when I walk through the living room. He's sitting in the chair watching television in the dark like he's been doing every night. The glow from the screen paints his face in harsh blue, but the truth is I can tell he's not really watching. He's listening—waiting.

I know he's been waiting to see if I'm going to pop up on the screen as a casualty. Every night since… well. Since that night. And when his eyes catch me in the doorway, the way his shoulders immediately loosen, the way his whole body exhales in a way it hasn't in hours—it's proof enough of that. He doesn't say anything at first, but his silence says more than any lecture ever could.

For once though, I don't linger by the door like a ghost afraid to step inside. I don't pretend to be invisible. My feet move on their own, carrying me across the carpet. And before I can talk myself out of it, I'm leaning down and wrapping my arms around him.

It surprises him. I can feel the stiff jolt in his shoulders, the quick catch of his breath. I don't usually do this. I'm the kid who shrugs, the kid who mumbles "'Night" from the hall and disappears into his room before anyone can press too hard. But this time I just hold on.

He doesn't move at first, like he's afraid to scare me off, but then his arms come up—slow, careful, and strong in that familiar way I've known since I was a little kid climbing into his lap after a nightmare. His hand comes up and presses against the back of my head, steadying me, and I let myself sink into it.

"You okay, kiddo?" he asks, his voice low and raspy, as if he's afraid to break the moment by being too loud.

"Yeah," I murmur, and for the first time in a while, I actually mean it. My chest doesn't feel so heavy tonight. It feels… lighter. Not gone, not fixed, but like I can finally breathe without choking.

We stay like that for a while, the muted sound of some late-night news anchor droning in the background. The room smells like coffee that's gone cold on the table beside him, and there's a faint hum from the radiator kicking on. The kind of details that would normally make everything feel unbearably empty now just feel… normal. And normal feels like a gift.

When I finally pull back, Ben studies me like he's trying to figure out if this is real or just some flicker of a dream. His eyes are tired, rimmed red from too many sleepless nights, but they shine in the television light.

"You seem different tonight," he says quietly, almost cautious.

I shrug, a half-smile tugging at my mouth before I can stop it.

"Maybe I am."

It feels strange to smile. Stranger still to not be faking it.

Ben lets out a breath that sounds like it's been caged for weeks. He leans back in his chair, rubbing a hand across his face, and then he chuckles—just a small, tired chuckle. "You know, I was starting to forget what that looked like. You smiling, I mean."

"Guess I forgot too."

He doesn't push, doesn't pry. That's the thing about Ben—he knows when to ask and when to just let me exist. Tonight he chooses the latter. And I'm grateful for it.

I drop onto the couch across from him, stretching my legs out, and for a second it feels like every other night before the world went to hell. Him in his chair, me on the couch, the TV buzzing with half-interesting noise. A routine. The kind of thing you take for granted until it's nearly ripped away.

"Whatcha watching?" I ask, nodding at the screen.

"Some documentary. Sharks this time. They've been playing for a whole week."

"Sharks, huh? Bold choice for bedtime viewing." Not to mention it might be in poor taste, given what Vulture wanted to do to us.

"Hey, better than politics." He smirks, and I can't help but laugh—really laugh, a short burst that feels alien in my own throat.

We fall into a steady conversation after that, tossing comments back and forth as the sharks circle on screen, the silence between us no longer heavy but comfortable. I tell him a little about the lab work—nothing specific, nothing that'd give away too much—but enough to let him know I'm working on something constructive. His eyes light up at that, pride flickering in a way that makes me sit a little straighter without even meaning to.

"You always had a head for that sort of thing," he says. "May used to brag about it all the time. Said you were going to be the next Einstein."

I roll my eyes.

"Einstein had better hair."

"Debatable."

We both grin at that, and for the first time, it doesn't feel like we're dancing around the crater May left behind. It's still there—it always will be—but tonight we're not letting it swallow us whole. Tonight, it's just us.

Eventually, the sharks fade into commercials, and Ben leans back, his eyelids heavy.

"You should get some sleep, Pete. It's late."

"I will. Just… thanks. For, you know." I gesture vaguely at everything—the hug, the waiting, the fact that he's still here holding things together when I can't.

He gives me that look, the one that says you don't have to thank me for loving you, but he doesn't put it into words. Instead, he reaches over and squeezes my hand once before letting go.

"Goodnight, kiddo."

"Night, Ben."

Once in my room, I throw my jacket onto the computer chair, where it slumps like a corpse in the glow of my monitor's standby light, and flop onto the bed. The springs groan under my weight, the same way I do, and for the first time all day I don't feel the need to pretend. Out there, around Otto, or Ben, or even in the lab, there's always something buzzing—an expectation, a pressure. Here, in the dark, with the hum of the radiator and the faint city noise crawling through the window, I can finally sit still long enough to admit what I've been ignoring.

The elephant in the room. Or maybe in my head.

"Pete, you there?" I ask out loud, voice low.

A hum answers me—not in the air, not with sound exactly, but inside. Like a thought that isn't mine brushing past.

"Yeah, I'm here," Peter responds, his voice clear and distinct despite the fact it exists only between my ears. "Was wondering if you were ever going to see if we could talk."

I let out a soft chuckle, half-relieved and half unsettled.

"By the way, you know that you don't have to speak for me to hear you, right?"

"Right."

I rub my face. Great, so I've officially upgraded from talking to myself to holding roommate meetings with the ghost of Peter Parker. That's progress.

"So… how is this possible?" I ask. "I thought you were locked away in the back of my head or something. Quiet, snoozing, watching Netflix reruns."

"Not really sure about that," he admits. "At first, I thought our conversations were just bleed-through. Maybe some trauma response after your near-death experience. But now…" He trails off. "Now, I'm not too sure. I've got a working theory, though."

My curiosity perks despite myself. "What's the theory?"

"I don't know if you'd fully understand it."

I roll onto my back, staring at the ceiling cracks like they'll hand me answers. "Try me. Not like I'm going anywhere."

Peter exhales, this quiet little sound that's equal parts frustration and teacher-patience. "Okay. So, we share a body. That much we know. Two consciousnesses co-existing. I think the reason I couldn't talk to you clearly before was because our minds weren't… aligned. Not on the same wavelength, so to speak. Now, I think they're synchronizing."

I frown.

"Synchronizing? Like… becoming one?"

"Uh, no. Not exactly." His tone sharpens, like he wants to nip that thought before it grows teeth. "Think more like symbiosis. And no, not that symbiote. I can't move on my own. I can't take over. But I can… share. Push. Nudge."

"So, it really is a Firestorm situation," I mutter. "Wonder if we could end up splitting into two bodies someday. Wait—please tell me I wouldn't get my original body if that happened. That would be… beyond undesirable."

"Dude." His groan is loud enough I almost laugh. "You're doing that thing again. Focus, please."

I wince. "Right, sorry."

"You apologize a lot, you know?"

"I know. Hard to break old habits." I rub at the bridge of my nose, forcing myself back on track. "So, symbiosis hypothesis. What does that actually mean for us? Like… are we going to blur into one person?"

"Not sure," Peter admits. "Like I said, working theory. But I do know we're having an effect on each other."

The words hang there, heavy, until my brain connects the dots. "How so? Wait…"

I think back—flashes of memory that weren't mine surfacing at odd times. May's voice, Uncle Ben's laugh, the smell of machine oil in a Queens garage. My vocabulary shifting without me noticing. My sudden leaps in problem-solving, how the shooters came together faster than I thought possible.

"So, it really was you sharing memories?"

"To a degree," he says carefully. "Sometimes it's involuntary. They bleed through when I'm not trying. But I've been holding back as much as I can."

"Why?"

"Because I want you to stay who you are." His voice is firm, resolute. "If you absorb too much of me, if my memories keep blending into yours, then there's a risk. You, me—we might lose the things that make us separate. We'd stop being two people."

That thought chills me in a way nothing else has. "Really? Hadn't considered that possibility. Though, I guess it makes sense in a weird sci-fi way."

"Exactly. And I'm not even sure that's what will happen. But it's possible. That's why I've been careful." He pauses. "The thing is… I can already tell we've influenced each other. I hear it in how you talk. How you think."

"Bleeding both ways, huh?"

"Yeah. I'm talking a little more like you. Picking up your phrasing, your humor. And you—you've been using my instincts, my drive. You were smart before, don't get me wrong. But your head doesn't work the way mine did. It's sharper now. And it's not just science. It's… the way you move. Even the way you carry guilt."

I swallow hard. He's not wrong.

"So… we're synchronizing," I repeat. "Is that good or bad?"

"Depends on how you look at it," Peter says. "For you, I'd say it's good. If you're going to keep swinging around New York in spandex, then yeah, you'll need a bit of my brainpower. But truth is… you were already doing well without me. Web shooters excluded."

That gets a weak laugh out of me.

"Doc was a big help. Without him, I doubt we'd have gotten the prototype figured out."

Peter softens at that, a warmth threading through his voice.

"Yeah. Doc's one of the best there is. It's part of the reason I was talking with him that day at the Tower. I wanted to intern under him eventually. To learn. Guess I'll have to live vicariously through you."

"I already said I'm sorry," I repeat myself for what must be the umpteenth time. "And I know you don't want me to keep apologizing, but I have to say it."

"Tell ya what, stop being such a sourpuss and start opening up more and I'll accept it." Peter laughs a bit, and I can only shrug.

"I might take you up on that offer."

"Did you, did you just shrug?"

"How the hell can you tell that?" I ask, sitting up in bed. "Seriously, you're a voice in my head. How can you tell I just shrugged?"

"The same you can tell when someone rolls their eyes from their voice. Besides, I can still see everything you do."

"This is weird, even for me."

"Tell me about it. I have to block everything out when you go to the bathroom."

"Alright, this conversation is straying too far off topic. Can we fix this?"

Peter's quiet for a minute, but after a few seconds, I get this sense that he wants me to do something.

"What?" I sigh, and I swear I can almost hear his non-existent hands clap together excitedly.

"If you're not going to bed, we should start getting you an actual super suit. Not just a mask with sunglasses. Children are going to be scared of that if you go swinging into a burning building like that."

"Until I configure the formula to be able to support swinging, I'm not going to be doing that."

"That's beside the point. If you want to start developing an image beyond the guy in the red mask, you need a suit. Doesn't have to be a full body spandex suit yet."

I'll give him credit, he's right. I need to figure out a design for a homemade suit that feels like Spider-Man in nature. I could modify some of my street clothes into something, but I don't want it to look as goofy as Tom Holland's homemade suit. It's good for a beginner, but I want to aim a little higher than that.

"I know how you feel about those different live action suits. We could use them for inspiration."

"Seriously, you gotta stop reading my mind."

"Stop thinking so loud." Peter retorts. "I can help you. I am the guy who comes up with the Spidey suit, remember?"

"You're also the kid that wore cardigans every day to school." I stand up and walk over to the desk and sit down, pulling out a notebook. "But if you really want to help, then by all means."

"Alright. Let's get to work, Spidey."

Yep… I'm not going to get used to this.

Arsenal597 · 2025-12-03T23:30:29+0000

Pain was the first thing the being known as the Vulture felt as he clawed his way back to consciousness. Not the sharp, immediate kind, but the slow-burning ache that lived inside the marrow, coiled deep where no scalpel or salve could reach. His wrists throbbed as chains dug into them, the links pulling tight enough to bite through skin, to snag and tug at the scattered feathers that had long since replaced the thinning hair of a man who used to be Adrian Toomes.

His eyes fluttered open reluctantly, lashes crusted with sleep, vision adjusting to the amber glow that hummed from somewhere above. The first sound wasn't his own breathing, but the cold rattle of iron. Every twitch of his arms dragged the restraints across the concrete floor, the links whispering like snakes. The cot beneath him creaked with the movement, metal groaning beneath his weight.

Then the burn returned.

The wound the boy had given him still smoldered across his mangled side. Less fire than before, but no less cruel. It was a scar that would never be clean — jagged, raw, pulsing with memory. He had lost that night. Lost in a way he hadn't expected. Not just beaten. Exposed.

He hated it. Hated being humbled. Hated the reminder of his weakness.

But the man beneath the feathers… Adrian Toomes… he hadn't felt only hate. No. Something else had lingered in him even as the monster thrashed and clawed. Relief.

Because the boy — that boy — had survived.

Adrian's throat tightened, and he let his head fall back against the cot, staring up at the shadow-drenched ceiling. He didn't deserve that reprieve, but he clung to it anyway, if only because it gave him something to anchor to in this hell. He couldn't live with himself for the lives he'd already taken in the year Jackal had kept him chained like a rabid dog. Every kill had left him less of a man, and more of… this.

But the one he couldn't forgive himself for wasn't a stranger in an alley, or some nameless target. It was the woman. The one whose only crime was being in the path of his other half.

May Parker.

Jackal's voice had delivered the news like it was a footnote, some clinical aside spoken while checking off a ledger. "Minimal casualties," he'd said, almost cheerfully. But Adrian had felt his heart wither the moment the name followed.

Minimal casualties, except for her.

The boy's aunt.

The thought alone split him apart. Adrian Toomes had always known he was a murderer, but the feathers had given him something worse: no control. He hadn't chosen to rip apart families, but that didn't make him any less guilty. And May Parker's death… no matter who pulled the strings, no matter what chemicals had twisted his body into this… her blood was on his hands.

If only he had been as lucky.

Lucky enough to join her, to be erased from this plane and take the monster with him. Lucky enough to finally stop hurting people.

Adrian let his eyes slip shut. For a moment, he could almost convince himself he was somewhere else. Back in a quiet room, before feathers, before chains, before all of this. A man again. A man who still had a chance to be something other than a weapon.

But then he heard it.

A noise. Subtle, at first. The faint scrape of metal against stone. His eyes darted open, bloodshot and wide, scanning the dim light for movement. The cot shivered beneath him as he tensed. Another rattle. Closer this time. Something slithering just beyond his sight.

His breath hitched, talons flexing against the restraints.

Then the pain returned. Not the ache. Not the burn. Something sharper, crueler.

Electricity.

It surged through his veins with a white-hot violence that yanked his entire body off the cot. His spine bowed, chains rattling furiously as he convulsed. Sparks lit the edges of his vision, bursting in jagged flowers of color. His jaw locked, teeth grinding until he tasted blood.

He wanted to scream, but no sound escaped. Only the stench of ozone and scorched feathers filled the air.

His vision tunneled, edges curling into darkness. The last thought that flickered before the void took him was not of hate, not of revenge, but of a boy's face.

A boy who didn't deserve to be buried under the wreckage of Adrian Toomes' sins.

And then, nothing.

A few hours later...

"Just let me die!" The Vulture's voice tore through the dark, damp air of the laboratory, a raw screech that rattled against steel and glass. He thrashed in his restraints, talons scraping sparks against the chains that bound him. "I don't want to do this!"

The sound went nowhere. No one to hear it, no one to care. The walls were too thick, the lab buried too deep. His cries would never reach beyond the sterile darkness that swallowed him whole.

"Tsk, tsk."

The measured cadence of approaching footsteps echoed through the chamber before a figure stepped into the amber glow of overhead lamps. The Jackal emerged with unnerving composure, mask gleaming like something carved from bone. His shadow stretched long and sharp against the floor, bisecting Vulture's contorted body.

"I saved your life," Jackal said, voice lilting with mock regret. "And this is how you thank me?"

"Thank you?" Adrian spat, his words laced with venom. His wrists jerked violently against the chains, the rattle reverberating like broken wings. "You turned me into a monster!"

Jackal's head tilted. His eyes, hidden by the mask, seemed to bore straight through Adrian's flailing.

"Monster," he repeated softly, tasting the word. "Such a… relative term, don't you think?"

Adrian bared his jagged teeth, his chest heaving with every labored breath. The pain still burned where one wing had been violently ripped away, torn from him by that boy—by Parker. The memory was a wound that festered alongside the raw, mangled stump at his back.

The Jackal circled him leisurely, hands clasped behind his back as though admiring a sculpture.

"You call it monstrosity. I call it evolution. Nature, sped up, refined, perfected. That wing of yours—" he stopped, glancing at the grotesque, torn flesh, still swollen from crude attempts at healing, "—was weak. Breakable. A boy, still wet behind the ears, tore it from you like parchment. Unacceptable."

Adrian snarled and lunged as far as the chains would allow, teeth snapping, claws grasping at air.

"Release me! Let me finish what I started—"

Jackal chuckled, the sound cold and almost paternal.

"And limp out there half-crippled? No, no, no. You are incomplete. But I am fixing that. I am remaking you. Soon, the boy who shamed you will be nothing more than a rotting corpse, his blood soaking into the pavement, his bones ground beneath your talons. Once I've made a few improvements."

Vulture froze, the words sinking past his rage like a hook lodged deep in his chest. He hated Jackal. Hated the smugness, the clinical cruelty. But the promise—oh, the promise—stirred something savage inside him. As much as he wanted to be free of Jackal… the animal inside wanted nothing more than revenge.

He thrashed again, voice raw.

"You think I need you to kill him?!"

"No," Jackal said simply, kneeling to bring his masked face level with Adrian's. The amber light caught the cruel lines of his mask, making it seem to grin. "I think you need me to survive him. Because you already failed once, didn't you?"

Adrian stilled. His breathing was ragged, his heart pounding against his ribs. He remembered the boy's eyes—those infuriatingly human eyes—before the wing had been ripped from his body. The shame of it burned deeper than any wound.

Jackal leaned closer, voice a velvet whisper. "And you'll fail again. Unless I finish my work."

The words sank into Adrian's marrow. He wanted to deny them, to spit in Jackal's face, but the chains reminded him of his helplessness. He couldn't even scratch the mask.

Jackal straightened, stepping toward a nearby table littered with instruments—scalpels, syringes filled with glowing green fluid, serrated clamps still wet with blood. He lifted one vial, rolling it gently between his fingers. The liquid pulsed faintly, almost alive.

"This," Jackal murmured, "will strengthen what was broken. Bone, sinew, tissue—it will all knit itself back together, stronger, denser, more resilient than before. A predator remade." He glanced over his shoulder. "You will fly again, Adrian. Higher. Faster. Deadlier. And when you sink your claws into that boy's throat, when you taste his screams—remember who gave you the chance."

Adrian's lip curled, half-snarl, half-smile. His pride hated the leash. But his hunger—the part of him that had already begun to fracture—couldn't deny it.

"You'll regret this," he hissed, more to himself than to Jackal.

Jackal only laughed, low and cold, setting the vial back into its rack with deliberate care. "Oh, Adrian. I never regret my children."

He turned back to the bound creature, eyes glinting through the mask. "And you will be my masterpiece."

The chains groaned as Adrian slumped against them, his body trembling. His throat ached from screaming, but it wouldn't matter. No one would hear. No one would come.

In the suffocating dark of the lab, the Vulture realized something far worse than death awaited him.

And somewhere out there, Peter Parker had no idea what was being born in the shadows—what nightmare would one day unfurl its wings to hunt him.

MEANWHILE...

It's hard to believe…

It's officially been over two weeks since May passed away. Still feels like I should hear her voice when I wake up in the is in full swing, and Halloween decorations are starting to be hung up in every storefront you could come across. My time with Doctor Octavius has proven to be the highlight of my evenings, working on improving the web formula and the prototype web shooters so that we could take it for a proper test run. I'd love to say it's getting to the point where we should be at the threshold for the field test, but I'm not sure.

The webbing is proving consistent now, but it lacks the tension I need for it to be useful. For an activity like tetherball, it'd work just fine, but I'm trying to make it where I can hang from it with my full body weight. Once it gets to about fifty pounds, the webbing frays and shreds. It's proven to be more frustrating than I anticipated.

Doc wants to test a few additives that might push it to where we need it, but I feel like I'm running out of time. If the web shooters aren't going to be ready by the time I find Vulture, and I will find him, I need something to help me.

I've got a few ideas in my head that might work out if I can get it laid out on paper, but at the moment I'm coming up empty.

Thankfully, I'm not sitting around doing nothing. Norman's made sure of it. My training sessions are getting more difficult and fast-paced, but I feel like I'm keeping up. I'm not getting bruises and cuts like I used to, though I'm still being thrown around. Norman suggested I learn to fight properly, which given my previous conversations with Uncle Ben, it's on the table. I just need to find the right teacher.

I keep thinking about Fogwell's Gym, and its resident blind vigilante. One of my late night research sessions, hoping and praying for a sighting of Vulture, ended up with me looking up Hell's Kitchen's favorite lawyer. Apparently in this universe, being a lawyer wasn't in the cards for him. Matt's a man of God in this one, through and through. He's a priest for the Clinton Church, right next to the St. Agnes Orphanage. It's fitting given his mother's profession.

Couldn't find much on Matt's alter ego, if he even has one. There's always rumors of devils roaming around in that district, but nothing that stands out as Daredevil related.

Beyond that, I'm now getting ready to head back to school for the first time since May's death. I'm not sure if I'm ready for that. Flash, of all people, reached out and checked in on me, asking when I'd come back. Apparently I was the talk of Midtown, for the second time in as many months. He said if anyone gave me shit, he'd take care of it.

"I just want you to come back to school and get left alone, man," is what he had said over the phone the other night. Like I said before, and probably will again in the future, it's weird hearing Flash Thompson being genuinely caring. I'm used to the bully persona. Maybe that's one good thing that came out of that awful day.

Hell, even Peter's been pretty quiet since our long night of designing costume concepts. Let me say this, we're not fashion designers, but what we decided on is going to look good. It feels like a blend of all the live action Spider-Man suits. I already had the TASM mask, beanie, and sunglasses. All I'm doing is adding in the street clothes aspect of it. The gloves, I need to look into, but they're definitely going to be like Tobey's wrestling gloves if I can do it. I already started working on the vest that I'm going to wear. Decided it was cost-affordable to make it be reminiscent of the classic Scarlet Spider with the vest. If I could have managed to color the entire outfit in the OG color scheme, I definitely would have. Peter was down for it. Honestly, when we were talking about Scarlet Spider, he was really into the conversation.

Uh, anyway… I'm taking a red hoodie with similar fabric to the Tom Holland homemade suit and cutting the sleeves off. Then we worked out a spider symbol. I grew up with Tobey's Spidey, and he will always be my favorite even though Andrew holds a special place in my heart. Tobey was the one who made me a Spidey fan, but it was Andrew that made it a lifelong affair.

The symbol was originally going to be Andrew's TASM 1 symbol, as it was my favorite suit of all time until Marvel's Spider-Man 2 came out with the Advanced Suit 2.0. The black and red color scheme is what hooked me the most. I wanted to go with the Insomniac symbol, but Peter and I talked about it and said that if my love for Spidey started with Tobey, I needed more of that influence there.

So, we compromised. A blend between the two symbols. The body of the Tobey spider, but with the arms of the Insomniac. Big and bold enough to make my presence known. I'm glad I obsessively sketched the Raimi symbol, TASM symbol, and Insomniac symbol on repeat for years. The color scheme is what I needed to work out. Like I said, I wanted to do the Scarlet Spider colors, but it didn't feel right for me.

So, the hooded vest and mask will be red, with the symbol spray painted white on it. It'll give it a crude, almost gritty aesthetic if I pull it off right. Underneath the vest-jacket will be a black long-sleeved compression shirt. I might add a web pattern to give it a little extra pop.

Classic Web shooters, of course. The cartridges will need to be kept in a belt, so I'll need to construct a special utility belt for me to wear during my Spidey activities. Jeans (not very comfortable, but I much prefer to wear those than any other pants.) and combat boots. Admittedly, the colors are most likely gonna clash, but it'll give me something to work with.

The reason I want to go with the jeans in the first place is for ease of getting switched into the outfit. It'd be one less thing I'd have to change out of. Suppose I could start wearing compression shirts, but I don't want people noticing that 'scrawny' Peter Parker is packing muscle. Actually, Flash and Harry already know I went on morning runs with MJ, so what difference would me 'working out' make beyond the fact I'm trying to be healthier? Could argue that the difference in my physique stemmed from my coma and losing May. Say it gave me a way to channel my emotions into something productive.

Yeah, that could work.

The apartment still doesn't feel like it's becoming home, even after two weeks of us being here. I keep telling myself that it's because I plan on going back home to Queens, but I can't say that with certainty.

We're supposed to go back and check the house soon since Norman said the rebuild is going to start in about a week. Ben's been going back when he can to grab what was salvageable, but it's been minimal. I haven't gone back since that night I got out of the hospital.

It feels wrong to go in there now. Trying to explain that to Ben has been hard, but I think he gets it.

I'm just grabbing a bowl of cereal when I hear a door open down the hallway. It's Ben. His steps are slow, but not dragging the way they were a few days ago. When he comes into the light, he looks better. Not rested — I don't think that's in the cards for either of us right now — but he's not completely drained either. I guess that's what happens when he doesn't stay up waiting for me to stumble in after midnight.

Otto told me I'd earned a break, and for once, I listened. Eight hours of actual sleep. I almost forgot what it felt like.

"Morning," Ben says, voice still rough from sleep. He rubs his jaw, then eyes the counter. "Cereal?"

I glance down at the flakes floating in the milk.

"Eh, it's quick and painless. Plus, fewer dishes."

Ben raises a brow, pulling out a chair and lowering himself into it.

"Figured you'd grab one of those fancy croissants Norman shipped in," he muses, but I shake my head lightly.

"If we had sliced ham, I might have. But this is easier."

He lets out a small breath, something that's almost a laugh, and leans back. He watches me for a long moment, like he's measuring every little detail. It's not hard to tell what he's thinking. I've basically recovered, but the fact I'm going back to school so soon is weighing on him. I'm only proven right once he opens his mouth.

"You're still planning on going back to school tomorrow?"

"Can't put it off forever. I've already missed a month between the coma and the Vulture thing. I need something to keep me busy."

Ben presses his lips into a thin line.

"They're going to ask questions, Peter. About how you're… doing this well."

"I've got a story ready." I shrug, spoon clinking against the bowl. "Norman practically wrote it for me. Oscorp's been treating me with experimental medicine and therapy. I'll wear the sling for a few more days, fake some bruises if I need to."

Ben shakes his head.

"I wish we didn't have to lie."

"It's not technically lying," I counter, leaning on the counter like a lawyer making my closing argument. "The injuries happened. I just… healed faster than expected. Besides, I've been careful. Sling whenever I'm outside. Nobody's going to call me out."

His frown deepens.

"I just don't want this coming back on you. Or on us."

"Come back on us? The only thing that might come back on me is what I do in the middle of the night."

"So you're finally admitting that's what you're doing?" Ben asked, his shoulders tightening. I didn't want to admit it to him, but between Captain Stacy's comments at the funeral and the fact I leave the mask out in the open on my desk (I really need to stop doing that), it was only a matter of time until he called me out.

"Would you rather I keep lying to you?" I ask, not wanting to beat around the bush. "I told you in the hospital what I was planning on doing; I just pushed my plans up earlier."

He goes to protest, but I hold a hand up.

"Ben, I'm not changing my mind. As for the school thing, don't worry… Flash promised to keep people off my back."

That earns a blink.

"Flash?" He says it like I just suggested the devil himself.

"Yeah. He called me the other night." I can't help the half-smile that tugs at my mouth. "Said if anyone gives me crap, he'll handle it. Midtown's resident bully turned bodyguard. Strange times, huh?"

Ben shakes his head, almost smiling.

"Strange doesn't begin to cover it."

The silence that follows isn't heavy like it used to be. For once, sitting here doesn't feel suffocating.

But then Ben leans forward, his voice quieter.

"Peter… what if that thing comes looking for you?"

The spoon stills in my hand. I don't flinch, but my grip tightens around it.

"If Vulture shows his face again, I'll be ready."

His brow furrows.

"Ready how? You think you can just—"

"He won't make a public scene," I cut in, calm but firm. "A predator like him? He'd rather lurk in the shadows than risk being caught. That's how guys like him work."

"And if you're wrong?"

I set the spoon down, meeting his eyes.

"Then I'll deal with it. I'm not alone in this, Ben. I've got someone looking into him for me."

That throws him. His eyebrows knit.

"What do you mean, looking into him?"

I hesitate, then lean back against the counter.

"I didn't want to tell you until I knew it'd mean something. But when I went home for our stuff… I found one of his feathers."

Ben stares at me, incredulous.

"A feather. And that's supposed to help?"

"It's not just the feather," I say quickly. "When I fought him… there was this moment. His voice changed. His whole cadence. It was like someone else was in control. And it wasn't some trick to stop me from hitting him harder. It was real. I don't think he's always the one behind the wheel."

Ben leans back slowly, processing—the unease clear in his eyes.

"So you're saying what — that he's possessed?"

That's not the right word for it, but it's not too far off. It'd be so much easier to explain it in comic book terms, but I don't have that luxury.

"No," I shake my head. "Not quite. There's been a theory with certain studies into genetic modifications that it can alter brain chemistry. I don't know how correct it is, but if you were to put animal DNA in a human, there's this belief that the DNA will alter the human's brain chemistry. It would almost — cause a split personality to form — based on the DNA introduced into the subject's body."

"Wait, so you think someone experimented on him?"

"I don't know, but I saw something that I can't explain with him. It's been bugging me. There's a lot about that night I still don't understand. I'd love to know how he got out of there without me being able to see it. There was a flash of light, and he was just gone."

"But, you think there's something going on with him?"

"I do. Which is why I'm having someone look into the feather."

Having Norman look into the feather wasn't my first choice, but I'm not trying to drag anyone else into this.

"Are you testing the DNA?"

"With luck, we can get enough of a match to find out who the man beneath the feathers really is, if there is one."

Ben exhales through his nose, slow, steady, like he's trying not to push too hard. "If there is… you need to keep that in mind. If by some means, there is someone stuck inside that monster."

He pauses, lets the silence hang there just long enough for the message to sink in. I know exactly what he's asking of me, what he wants me to promise. But promises are cheap. And I already know what I'll do if I'm face-to-face with Vulture again.

"I'll do what I have to," I reply, grim and flat.

"Peter, that's not you." His voice dips low, carrying that note of concern he usually tries to hide.

I set my spoon down and lean back in my chair, meeting his eyes.

"You don't get it, Ben. I've nearly died four different times in the past month…"

Ben folds his hands on the table, thumbs brushing together. It's the look he gives when he wants to argue but knows pushing will only make me dig in deeper.

"You think that's what I want?" I add, sharper now. "To lose myself in all of this? No. But when it comes to him—when it comes to that thing—there's no second chances. I've already seen what happens when he slips through my fingers."

"Pete…" he starts, softer.

I shake my head, swallowing down the knot in my throat.

"Don't. I'm not asking you to like it. I'm not asking you to agree with me. But I can't—I won't—watch someone else get ripped apart because I tried to see the good in a monster."

His shoulders slump, and for a second he looks older than I've ever seen him. Tired in a way sleep won't fix.

"I just don't want you losing yourself. You're fourteen… and this is too much for someone your age."

"I'm not going to." My voice comes out quieter, steadier. "I'm still me. I'm still your kid. But Vulture? He's… he's different. There's something wrong with him. And until I know for sure—until Norman comes back with something from that feather, or until I actually see the bastard again—you don't have to worry. Because right now, there's nothing to do but wait."

Ben studies me like he's trying to read something written behind my eyes. Maybe he sees the cracks. Maybe he doesn't. Either way, he nods eventually, the kind of nod that says he's choosing to trust me even if it keeps him up at night.

"I'm gonna head to my room," I say, standing.

Ben doesn't stop me.

MEANWHILE...

Adrian's consciousness returned like a knife being dragged across raw nerves. The pain wasn't localized—it was everywhere, radiating from the torn stump of his wing through every tendon, every vein. His eyes snapped open to darkness above, only to realize he wasn't lying down anymore.

Chains clinked and rattled. He was suspended. His arms stretched wide, wrists bound in iron. The weight on his shoulders nearly pulled them from their sockets. Below, his feet barely brushed the cold concrete, claws scraping helplessly.

Then came the sound—a rasping exhale that wasn't his own.

Adrian craned his head, his neck stiff, only to glimpse it. Another shape looming in the shadows. A figure like him, but not him. The creature shifted with a wet shuffle of wings, feathers the color of blood. The stench of rot clung to it. It leaned forward just enough for the dim amber light to catch its face—an avian mockery of humanity, its eyes burning red.

The other Vulture. The one from the archives.

Adrian thrashed against his chains, panic scraping his throat raw.

"No—no, not again!"

From behind, the Jackal's voice slid into the chamber like oil across water. "This should prove quite painful… but what is transformation without it?"

Adrian jolted as cold steel touched his mangled wing. He craned his neck and saw Jackal standing there, a long syringe glinting in the light, its contents glowing faintly green. The fluid inside seemed to pulse, alive, as if eager to burrow into flesh.

"Don't—" Adrian rasped, chest heaving. "Don't do this. Please."

Jackal tilted his head, almost tender, and pressed the needle into the ragged tissue of the stump.

Agony screamed through Adrian's nerves as the fluid surged into him. His back arched violently, chains groaning as his body convulsed. A scream ripped from his throat, strangled and raw, echoing off the sterile walls.

The other Vulture tilted its head at the sound, almost curious.

Adrian's vision blurred with tears. Heat flooded his veins, blistering, like molten lead poured directly into his marrow. His fingers clawed at nothing, nails splitting against the restraints.

The change began.

He felt it before he saw it. His spine cracked audibly, vertebrae stretching, realigning with grotesque precision. His muscles knotted and bulged beneath the skin, twitching violently as new fibers stitched themselves into being. His heart hammered faster and faster, as though it might tear itself apart trying to fuel the metamorphosis.

Then his face.

It started as a pressure behind his nose, a deep ache that worsened until cartilage snapped. The bridge stretched outward with wet, splitting sounds, skin warping, reshaping. He could feel the bone forcing itself forward, narrowing, sharpening. His nose tore and reformed, elongating into a cruel, hooked ridge—half beak, half maw.

Adrian howled, voice cracking as it pitched into something not quite human. His eyes burned, the whites bleeding into shades of crimson. Vision sharpened unnaturally, every glint of light fracturing into predatory detail.

"No—STOP THIS!" he begged, voice warbling between man and beast. "I don't want to hurt anyone!"

Jackal only chuckled, his mask gleaming.

"You don't have a choice, Adrian. The other part of you already knows that."

Adrian's head jerked toward the other Vulture, still watching, still silent. Its red eyes locked with his, a reflection of what he was becoming.

"Accept it," Jackal murmured, almost kindly. "And this will be so much easier."

Adrian thrashed, chains snapping taut, the sound thunderous in the chamber. His half-formed wing twitched violently, bone spurs jutting outward like broken knives before sheathing themselves in wet, feathered growth. Flesh split and reknit, each feather slick with blood as it sprouted.

He wanted to vomit, to claw the transformation from his own body, but the chains held him. His screams grew more guttural, more animal, each syllable unraveling more with each breath.

The Jackal stepped back, hands clasped like a proud sculptor admiring his work.

"Magnificent. The pain you feel now will be nothing compared to the ecstasy of the hunt. Soon you will not beg me to stop, Adrian. You'll beg me for prey."

Adrian's chest heaved, his face half-beak, half-snarling man, eyes glowing like burning coals. His voice cracked as he forced the words through the distortion: "You'll… regret this…"

The other Vulture shifted closer, wings unfurling with a leathery hiss. Its talons scraped sparks against the floor, as though answering some unspoken command.

Jackal tilted his head between them, satisfied.

"No, my dear Adrian. Regret is for the weak…"

Adrian sagged in the chains, trembling, his throat raw. Tears mixed with blood at the edges of his beak-like mouth. His humanity clung by threads, fraying with every heartbeat.

And above it all, the Jackal's laughter echoed, cold and merciless, as the chamber's shadows closed tighter around the man who had once been Adrian Toomes.

Hey guys! With that, we are caught up with the public releases of Absolute Spider-Man across all sites. As mentioned in the very first chapter, I do have a Patreon you can visit if you're interested in supporting my writing and getting up to 5 chapters early. Regardless of how you support me, whether just reading it, or taking the time to leave a comment... I do appreciate every single bit of it.
I will be leaving the discord and patreon link again in case you are interested. I'm going to try and have the next chapter posted by Monday. I have quite a few chapters to work through with other stories so it's going to be a tight schedule overall.
Thanks for all the support, and I'll catch you soon!
Discord: discord.gg/WnxhWQePjy
Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/c/Arsenal597

Absolute Spider-Man

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