Reaching home the first thing I did was save MJ's number in my phone as "Redhead."
Quickly, I typed out a test message: "Hi, this is Pete. Checking. Checking."
The reply came almost instantly: "Hi, Tiger. Confirming. The connection is fine :)"
I shot back, "Just wanted to wish you a good evening."
Her return message brought a smile "Same to you, Peter."
Pocketing my phone, I leaned back against the pillow and grinned. This was a start—a good start. I even forgot to change out of my suit; I really needed to change. Throwing on casual clothes at home, I began planning tomorrow.
Since I had a date—well, at least I thought it was a date—I figured I should squeeze in some patrolling early. Was it really a date? Until I'm told otherwise, I'll consider it one. For now, it was time to get some sleep.
A secret training camp in one of New York City's abandoned factories. A luxurious black limousine glided into a rusting, decrepit building. Its presence distracted three men from their training. One, who'd been pummeling a heavy bag, stopped to remove his gloves. Another—sharp-suited, knife in hand—turned to their leader, seated on a bench as he fine-tuned his weapon. An Italian-looking man strode into the heart of the planning room.
"Gentlemen, good evening," Hammerhead greeted the group, known as the Brutes.
"What brings you here, Hammerhead?" Montana asked.
Hammerhead didn't reply at first. With a measured motion, he took a briefcase from his assistant, entered a code, and turned the open case toward the group. The inlaid screen flickered to life, displaying a shadowy silhouette. The voice that came through, electronically distorted, sent a chill through the air. Montana immediately recognized the Big Boss.
"I understand you're back in shape. That's good—it means it's time to finish the job." On the screen, images flashed: a young rising hero of New York, and the target the Brutes had failed to eliminate—Spider-Man.
"Rest assured, we'll finish the contract," came Montana's confident reply.
"Excellent," said the silhouette. "The equipment will be delivered tomorrow. This time, you'll work with your own team. You leave in three days."
"So, the insect is living out his final days," another man muttered.
********************************
[The next morning.]
[Peter's POV]
I slept well—better than I had in a long time. Opening the window to let in some fresh air, I happened to spot MJ across the street, fixing her hair.
Instinctively, I leapt up to the ceiling. The last thing I wanted was for her to think I was stalking her. Carefully, I crawled to the door and dropped down, heading straight for the bathroom. Every good day should start with strong coffee.
"Good morning!" I called out, but no one answered. A note on the refrigerator explained everything: Aunt May and Uncle Ben had gone shopping for garage renovation supplies. That meant I had the house—and time—to myself. After a quick breakfast, I headed upstairs: T-shirt, jeans, reagents.
Time for the lab. I took inventory. Over the past few months, thanks to the steady paycheck from the Bugle, I'd quietly built a small but profitable resource production setup. I'd experimented with webbing: all sorts of compounds and enzymes, optimizing for strength, elasticity, and stickiness while keeping costs low.
From this research, I'd learned to craft seven types of web formula from budget materials. I'd also overhauled my web-shooters—now I could adjust the launch force within seconds, as I'd proven during practice. But the real achievement was the electro-web, perfected by toying with thread thickness and carefully chosen power sources.
Sure, there was always a risk of frying the shooters, but with every failed attempt, I minimized that risk. When inventory was done, I packed my arsenal: cartridges in their slots, tracers and bugs ready. Still, my favorite upgrade was the belt. Weeks of hunting down the best red LEDs in New York had paid off—my spider-signal now shone brighter than Sirius! Satisfied, I locked the lab, suited up, and got ready for the day.
Landing the job at the Bugle had been a great choice. Mask on, I vaulted out the window. Not only had I become a better web-slinger, but I'd also learned a lot about the newspaper business.
A pirouette.
I'd started making connections.
A bounce off a building.
Robbie sometimes gave me extra gigs, like photographing the opening of a new children's hospital.
A running leap.
I'd forged a close friendship with Betty—flirting with her probably helped me refine my compliments.
Accelerating through the city.
But the best part of all—I hung in free fall, suspended for a heart-stopping moment near the twentieth floor—Was the time I got to spend swinging from Queens to Midtown.
Plus, I'd found the perfect landing spot: a janitor's closet on the Bugle's roof, perfect for changing costumes with zero risk of being seen, since the door only opened a handful of times a day.
Once on the roof, I slipped down the fire escape to the closet, changed into street clothes, and stepped into the bustling newsroom. The place thrummed with energy—people dashing between desks, chasing headlines. I loved it here.
"Hi, Betty."
"Pete, I'm so glad you're here! Cashing your check, or is it a new assignment?"
"Both, beautiful."
She grinned. "I'm just amazed the boss hasn't—"
"PARKER!!!"
"And so it began—" Betty just rolled her eyes and slipped away.
"Mr. Jameson! I was just—"
"TO MY OFFICE, NOW!"
I darted into his glass-walled office, negatives in hand."Here are a couple of shots—"
"Never mind that, Parker. Listen up." He didn't waste time."In a couple months, Wilson Fisk—hopefully I don't need to remind you who that is—will open several children's diagnostic medical centers in partnership with Osborn Industries."
"Even gangsters have a soft side, huh?"
"DON'T INTERRUPT!" Jameson nearly exploded, but then composed himself, straightening his tie."One of our crime reporters—our best, mind you—wants to use this event to probe the Big Man's criminal empire. Most likely, you know who I mean?"
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Soon I will upload some extra chapters for you all to read, till then enjoy reading.