So Gwen was now bitten by the spider. The realization sat in my chest like a weight that refused to shift. I kept replaying her expression earlier this morning when Harry called her spider barbie: the way her eyes widened, that tiny panic she tried to bury under a laugh, the way her hand hovered at her side like she wasn't sure what her body might accidentally do. I recognized that look instantly. I had lived that look the moment I woke up in this world, the moment I realized I wasn't just Peter Parker but someone who'd fallen straight into a life that demanded tragedy as payment for power.
I'm an idiot. A special kind of idiot. By tearing myself from the web of fate, I hadn't severed the consequences—I had just handed them to her like a cosmic hot potato. She didn't deserve that. Gwen Stacy. Smart, stubborn, quietly fierce, constantly carrying way more weight than she pretended to. And now I'd dumped the multiversal equivalent of a cursed relic in her lap because I thought I could cheat destiny.
What if she loses her dad because of this? What if she spirals into the same nightmare I was supposed to face? What if I die anyway because some cosmic spider god decides the universe still wants its payment? The prerequisites of becoming someone like Spider-Man always seemed to come with price tags written in permanent ink. Family. Friends. Love. Something always gets taken. It was like the universe had a checklist and refused to let things slide.
But wait… if the web of life dictated probabilities, tied threads together, predicted outcomes… what if standing by her side changed the equation? What if being present—fighting with her, protecting her, guiding her—balanced the scales instead of worsening them? Was that even how it worked? Why in the world was I thinking about it as if destiny was some bureaucratic manager approving or denying requests based on cosmic mood swings?
And more importantly… did this mean I had no choice but to step onto the hero path? Not out of responsibility to the city or whatever speeches comic writers gave, but because she might need someone who understood the insanity crashing into her life. Because her becoming something more automatically pulled me into the gravitational field of trouble.
The overthinking spiraled until suddenly—BAM. My shoulder collided with a wall that could talk and punch people in the face: Flash Thompson.
Flash: So what, just because you look like a Greek statue doesn't change the fact that you're trash.
He shoved me, but I didn't budge. My feet didn't even slide half an inch. His hand actually recoiled a little like he'd bumped into a steel beam wrapped in a hoodie.
Peter: We don't have to do this.
Flash: Die, nerd, and also screw you, loser.
I stared at him. I gave him that specific look. The look that telegraphed the thought, You are not Bakugo, my guy. You are not even in the same multiverse. Calm down.
Peter: Number one, I'm not gay. Number two, if it's your mom though?
He froze for exactly half a second. Then his anger cranked up to levels that should've triggered a smoke alarm.
He swung at me. I blocked. He swung again. I dodged. His punches looked fast but everything felt like slow motion to me now. Strength, speed, coordination—my body just responded before my brain had time to finish processing the movements. The system hadn't lied. My physique wasn't just improved; it was revolutionary.
Before he could regain his stance, he threw himself at me with the full power of his football training and ego. I stepped aside and stuck a leg out, letting him trip over it and faceplant into the hall floor. His growl echoed through the hallway as he scrambled back to his feet.
He threw another punch. Again, blocked.
Peter: Man, I'm about to end this man's whole career.
I kicked him. Not hard. Really, genuinely not hard. But I kicked him in the one place that every man universally feared.
CRUNCH.
I paused. Teachers paused. Students paused. Even the universe paused.
I wasn't sure if that cracking noise was real or just the collective hallucination of the guys in the hallway, but Flash's scream made it clear something happened. Something tragic. The sound was high pitched enough to be weaponized by hydration bottles.
Teacher: What happened?!
My brain short-circuited for half a second before survival instincts kicked in like a seasoned criminal. Then I pointed at my bag.
Peter: I tripped and fell down on my bag—right in the nuts. I looked at the crowd. Right everyone?
Harry stepped in without missing a beat.
Harry: Yeah, Peter's right, I saw it happen.
Gwen nodded so fast it was almost suspicious. A few others chimed in, all loyal to the truth, justice, and the Peter-doesn't-get-detention-today way of life.
Mary Jane tried to help Flash stand, but he hissed and slapped her hands away like she was the reason his children's college fund had just been canceled.
Are they dating? I wondered. Then immediately decided now was not the time to unpack that mess.
Harry walked over, trying not to laugh.
Harry: Dude, you just killed his future kids.
Peter: He told me to screw him. And just in case, I don't swing that way.
A wave of laughter rippled through the gathered students. Even a few teachers tried to hide amused smiles behind clipboards.
Flash was carried off by two guys from the football team who looked at me like I had quantum-punched their captain into a cautionary tale. One of them whispered something that sounded like "bro I am never fighting him," which honestly sounded fair. I wouldn't fight me either.
As the hallway slowly returned to its chaotic morning rhythm, Harry clapped my shoulder.
Harry: Seriously man, what is going on with you? You look like you walked off a billboard. You bench-pressing cars behind the cafeteria or something?
I forced a laugh.
Peter: I told you. I was sick. I worked too hard. Took some pills. Slept it off. Woke up like this. I didn't want to… freak you out or whatever.
Lying to my best friend sucked. But telling him the truth would suck way more. He'd either panic, faint, or worse, tweet about it.
Harry squinted.
Harry: You better tell me the name of those pills someday because I swear every guy in this hallway looks jealous enough to cry.
As if to confirm his point, two freshmen walked by whispering.
Freshman 1: Bro, Parker looks like he models for luxury skincare brands.
Freshman 2: Nah, he looks like those fitness influencers who talk about protein and self-discipline in inspirational lighting.
Another guy leaned into his friend.
Student 1: If I wake up tomorrow and look like that, I'm not even coming to school. I'm going straight to Hollywood.
Someone else muttered.
Student 2: Did puberty hit him with a truck full of steroids?
The comments kept coming from every direction, and Harry only looked more smug each time someone stared at me with awe, envy, or mild fear.
I adjusted my backpack and tried to ignore the attention. My head still buzzed with thoughts of Gwen, the spider, fate, and the hero path I might have no choice but to take. The hallway noise faded in and out as my mind kept circling the same question:
What happens next?
I didn't get to follow that thought to its end, because Gwen appeared at the other end of the corridor with her books held tight against her chest. Her eyes flicked to me, then at the spot where Flash had been screaming seconds earlier, then back to me again. Something unreadable crossed her face.
We stared at each other for a heartbeat.
Whatever destiny had planned… we were already in its web.
Timeskip brought to you by Goku doing senpaku after watching Boku no pico
(Don't know why people don't like it, it's peak)
The music feel good played
Feel good
Sha, sha-ba-da, sha-ba-da-ca (feel good)
Sha, sha-ba-da, sha-ba-da-ca (feel good)
Sha, sha-ba-da, sha-ba-da-ca, feel good
Sha, sha-ba-da, sha-ba-da-ca (feel good)
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Sha, sha-ba-da, sha-ba-da-ca (feel good, change, change, change, change)
Sha, sha-ba-da, sha-ba-da-ca (feel good, change, change, change, change)
Sha, sha-ba-da, sha-ba-da-ca (feel good)
Peter's first person view
I had done a lot of things with that twenty-five thousand dollars. The first thing was change my wardrobe because it was becoming painfully obvious that everyone was staring at me like I was a museum exhibit labeled rare attractive Parker variant. Aunt May nearly cried when I came downstairs wearing clothes that actually fit me and didn't make me look like a walking thrift store clearance rack. Then I upgraded my phone, got a new gaming setup, and bought a computer that didn't sound like it was preparing for liftoff every time I opened a browser tab. And after all that, I still had money left over, which felt illegal for someone with Parker DNA. My bank account wasn't supposed to be in the green. It was supposed to look like it was surviving on life support. But here I was, financially stable, comfortable, and able to eat name-brand cereal without guilt. It felt like I had cheated the universe.
Then the system logged me in again and gave me another batch of rewards. Smoke bombs, a professional parkour skill, a white hair skin that I was never going to use in public because I didn't want to look like an anime protagonist, a jar of a thousand senzu beans which honestly felt like overkill, and advanced knowledge on AI intelligence and coding. The system really wanted me to become some kind of tech-ninja parkour cyborg prodigy. I wasn't complaining, but it felt like a lot to process for someone who less than a week ago couldn't even do a push-up correctly.
So what was my current plan?
I stood inside the workshop, which activated when the clock hit nine and would close again at five in the morning. It was like a pocket dimension hidden behind reality, an enclosed room that looked like the secret love child of Stark Industries and a sci-fi weapons lab. Tools lined the walls. Workbenches extended across the room. Storage drawers automatically labeled themselves. Holographic projection pads hovered over tables. Everything smelled faintly like clean metal, circuitry, and unrealized possibility. It existed only for me, tied to the system, accessible through a door that shouldn't exist yet opened whenever I wanted it. The system text echoed in my mind describing it like some fancy brochure: a workspace with tools scaling to my tech level, allowing crafting, experimentation, and designing. But there were limitations. I could feed energy into the workshop to create tools not already present, and when combined with perfect recall and structural analysis, I could basically invent anything theoretically. But the limitation was energy. I couldn't create anything above current scientific standard because it required way more energy than I currently possessed. And that meant, even though I could mentally design a particle reactor or an anti-gravity system, the workshop wouldn't let me build it yet. My max energy sat at four hundred and fifty out of four hundred and fifty, and creating something advanced enough to break modern scientific boundaries would take thousands.
Still, this place was like an advanced lab for technology and creation. Enough to make a name for myself in ways that didn't involve wearing spandex and punching criminals.
I had three projects laid out in front of me. The first was drones. Silent, small, surveillance-based drones. I had studied engineering in my past life, so designing aerodynamic frames, rotors, battery efficiency systems, and stabilizers felt as familiar as breathing. Even more importantly, I needed them because if I was going to eventually become a vigilante, I needed eyes everywhere. I needed to track crime, threats, patterns, and potential problems before they escalated. Drones would make that easy. A network. A digital web. My own overwatch system. They would feed me information, map out alleyways, monitor rooftops, scan crowds, and keep me from walking blindly into danger. And the blueprint was nearly complete. I could see it hovering in front of me as a projection—sleek, light, matte black, and silent even in motion.
The second project was my own personal AI. Like Jarvis, but built by me and not by a billionaire with daddy issues. The system had dumped advanced coding and AI development knowledge into my brain like a download bar filling instantly, and now I understood machine learning, linguistic patterning, adaptive processing, neural simulation, and architecture design like it was second nature. I could build something that learned from me, responded intuitively, and operated unseen. Something that could manage drones, scrub digital traces, surveil news networks, track police scanners, and act as a guiding voice in my ear when I eventually stepped into the field. I didn't have a name for it yet, but it would be the core of everything I planned to do moving forward. A partner. A navigator. A silent guardian in the circuitry.
The third project was… Candy Crush. Or rather, my version of it. Candy Smash. A simple mobile game. Colorful, addicting, easy to play, psychologically engineered to trigger dopamine reward cycles and keep people hooked for hours. In my past life, Candy Crush made millions weekly. Weekly. One game. One app. One idea. If I coded it right, timed the release perfectly, marketed it subtly, and monetized it in the exact predatory yet socially accepted way mobile games operated, I could be making absurd amounts of money. Enough money to launch into tech entrepreneurship. Enough to erase the Parker curse. Enough to make sure Aunt May never worried about bills again. Enough to give me the freedom to operate as someone who saved people without starving.
I sat down at the workstation, letting the holographic screen expand in front of me as structural analysis and perfect recall layered themselves into my working thought. I began by sketching drone frame variations. The workshop responded to my thought input, generating three-dimensional models that rotated slowly in the air. I adjusted wing curvature, reduced weight distribution, added vibration dampeners, and reinforced casing density. Every time I tweaked something, structural analysis ran simulations automatically, projecting wind drag, battery consumption, and maneuverability. It corrected me when a design flaw appeared, adjusted calculations, and suggested new approaches. The process felt fluid, intuitive, almost relaxing. I didn't have to calculate velocity decay or material stress manually. My brain did it on its own as if I had studied aerospace engineering for a decade.
Once satisfied, I set the prototype to the side and opened the coding interface for the AI. Strings of code flowed beneath my hands faster than typing should logically allow. I structured the linguistic matrix, built a modular response system, and constructed adaptive learning loops. Every line felt like muscle memory. I created voice modulation options, tone adjustment settings, and emotional calibration. Then I paused, staring at the empty naming field. A name meant identity. Identity meant permanence. That part could wait. I wanted it perfect, and perfection needed thought.
Then I opened the Candy Smash interface. This one made me grin because unlike drones and AI that would eventually put me in rooftop situations, this was pure financial strategy. I mapped level physics, scoring algorithms, and progression pacing. I estimated revenue. If even ten thousand people played and one percent bought boosters or extra lives, I'd be making tens of thousands weekly. If it hit a million downloads, if it hit mainstream, if it became viral, if celebrities mentioned it, if streamers showcased it… I could be making six figures a week. Millions a month. Enough to rewrite my fate entirely. Enough to become untouchable financially. Enough to protect myself from any version of Parker bad luck. And if things scaled further—ads, licensing, expansion packs—then the income wouldn't even be measurable in normal terms.
My fingers flew as I coded tile-matching mechanics, animation smoothing, sound effects, and leveling systems. The game looked polished already, and I wasn't even halfway through. I layered in a reward schedule, ranking badges, achievement ladders, and event modifiers. The workshop lights hummed while the projection screens glowed around me. The entire space pulsed with quiet focus and ambition.
Hours passed without me noticing. The drones were nearly ready for test assembly. The AI architecture was seventy percent built. Candy Smash was already playable in demo form. And through it all, the energy meter ticked downward slowly as the workshop compensated for rendering models and generating tools. But I felt calm. Focused. Driven. Everything I was building pointed toward a future where I had power, control, security, and freedom.
A future where I didn't lose people.
A future where Gwen didn't become a tragedy.
A future where I didn't become one either.
When the clock shifted toward closing time, I stepped back from the workbench and looked at everything I had accomplished. The workshop began dimming, signaling its transition. I gathered my notes, saved my files, and let the holographic screens fade. My mind buzzed with possibility, but my body stayed strangely relaxed.
This wasn't just preparation.
This was my foundation.
And based on everything I knew about fate, destiny, and cosmic spider nonsense—foundations mattered.