The key scraped in the lock the way it always did, a little too loud for the quiet hallway, and I pushed the apartment door shut behind me with my shoulders aching from the dinner rush at the diner. The air inside still carried the faint ghost of this morning's coffee and the lavender detergent Dad liked. I dropped my backpack by the couch, kicked off my sneakers, and padded barefoot to the kitchen. My muscles hummed, not from exhaustion anymore, but from the low, constant thrum of power that had settled under my skin like a second heartbeat. Two weeks. Two weeks of sticking to ceilings when I thought no one was looking, of accidentally bending a metal spatula into a horseshoe, of leaping from the fire escape to the roof just because I could finally do it without screaming. It was terrifying. It was exhilarating. Sometimes, when the city was quiet and the wind tasted like freedom, it almost felt like flying.
I opened the fridge, stared at the half-empty shelves, and decided on pasta because it was quick and Dad wouldn't be home until late. Again. He'd been pulling double shifts ever since the task force started sniffing around the docks. Something about a new player moving product through the city, something big enough that even the detectives who usually bought coffee at the diner had stopped smiling. I filled the pot, set it on the stove, and reached for the remote out of habit more than anything else.
The television flickered to life on the local news channel. A reporter stood in front of a cordoned-off street I recognized immediately, red and blue lights strobing across her face.
Reporter: —ongoing investigation into what authorities are calling a coordinated ambush on NYPD officers earlier this evening. Sources confirm that Captain George Stacy, head of the Major Crimes Unit, was among those wounded in the exchange of gunfire—
The pot slipped from my fingers and clanged against the burner. Water hissed into steam.
Reporter: —believed to be the work of the Maggia crime family, specifically the Manfredi branch, which has been aggressively expanding its narcotics operations into Midtown in recent weeks. Captain Stacy was leading the raid personally when—
No.
The word didn't come out loud. It just lived in my chest, sharp and impossible, while the screen cut to helicopter footage of an alley I'd walked past a thousand times, now littered with evidence markers and sheets that were too still.
No no no no no.
I was moving before I realized it, shoes half on, keys scraping the bowl by the door, phone already in my hand though I didn't remember grabbing it. The elevator took forever; I took the stairs instead, four at a time, six, my palms sticking to the railing without meaning to. Outside, the October air slapped me awake. I ran.
People blurred past. Taxis honked. Someone shouted. I didn't stop until the hospital's glass doors slid open and the antiseptic smell hit me like a wall. The receptionist looked up, startled, when I slammed my hands on the counter.
Gwen: Captain Stacy. George Stacy. Where is he?
She typed, eyes widening.
Receptionist: Are you family?
Gwen: I'm his daughter.
Receptionist: Trauma Three, surgical ICU, fifth floor. They're still—
I was already gone.
The elevator was worse this time, every floor lighting up like it was mocking me. When the doors finally opened I nearly collided with Peter. He was standing in the corridor in the same hoodie he'd worn to school that morning, hair messy like he'd been running his hands through it for hours.
Peter: Gwen. I saw the news. I came as soon as—
Gwen: Is he—
I couldn't finish.
Peter: He's out of surgery. They got the bullet out. But he lost a lot of blood. They're… they're giving him transfusions now.
I think I swayed. I'm not sure. The next thing I knew Peter's arms were around me, steadying me, and I was clutching the front of his hoodie like it was the only solid thing left in the world.
Peter: Come on. Let's go see him.
We walked the long white hallway together. Every step felt borrowed. A nurse tried to stop us, but Peter said something low and calm and she let us through. The door to the room was heavy. Inside, machines beeped in slow, deliberate rhythm. Dad lay in the bed looking smaller than I'd ever seen him, tubes running into his arm, oxygen under his nose, his chest rising and falling too shallowly.
I made a sound I didn't know I could make.
Peter pulled a chair closer for me, but I couldn't sit. I just stood there, hands pressed over my mouth, tears running hot down my wrists.
The heart monitor beeped. Beeped. Beeped.
And then, impossibly, Dad's eyes fluttered.
George Stacy: Gwenny?
His voice was barely a rasp, but it was there.
Gwen: Daddy.
I stumbled forward, grasping his hand so carefully, afraid I'd hurt him even now.
Gwen: I'm here. I'm right here.
He tried to smile. It looked painful.
George Stacy: Knew you'd… come running.
Gwen: I'm so sorry. I should've—there should've been something I could've—
George Stacy: Shh.
His fingers tightened the tiniest fraction around mine.
George Stacy: Not your fault, baby girl.
Peter hovered near the foot of the bed, hands in his pockets, eyes glassy. Dad's gaze shifted to him.
George Stacy: You're… Peter, right? The science kid. Gwen talks about you.
Peter swallowed.
Peter: Yes, sir. Peter Parker. I'm— I'm so sorry this happened.
Dad gave a ghost of his usual stern nod.
George Stacy: You got her here safe. That's enough for now.
I couldn't hold it in anymore. The tears came harder, shoulders shaking.
Gwen: I can't lose you. Not you too. Mom's already— I can't—
George Stacy: Hey.
Dad's voice sharpened, even through the drugs and the pain.
George Stacy: Look at me, Gwen Stacy.
I did. His eyes were the same steady blue they'd always been.
George Stacy: You are the strongest person I know. Always have been. You hear me?
Gwen: I'm not. If I was stronger maybe I could've—
George Stacy: Stop.
The single word carried every ounce of Captain Stacy authority he had left.
George Stacy: Listen to me. You have a gift now, don't you?
My breath caught. Peter stiffened beside me.
Dad's eyes flicked to him, then back to me, soft but unyielding.
George Stacy: Saw you catch that mug at the diner last week before it hit the floor. Nobody else noticed. But I did.
I couldn't speak.
George Stacy: Power doesn't make you responsible, Gwen. It just gives you the chance to choose to be. And whatever you choose… you do it right. With great power comes great responsibility. You remember that.
The sob that tore out of me then was ugly and loud and healing all at once. I laid my head carefully on the bed beside his arm, holding his hand like it could anchor him to the world.
Peter's hand settled warm on my back, rubbing slow circles.
We stayed like that until a nurse appeared in the doorway, expression apologetic but firm.
Nurse: I'm sorry, but he needs rest. You can come back in the morning.
I didn't want to let go. Dad squeezed my fingers once more.
George Stacy: Go home, Gwenny. Eat something. Sleep. I'm not going anywhere tonight.
Gwen: Promise?
My voice was small.
George Stacy: Promise.
Peter guided me out. The hallway lights felt too bright, the air too thin. When we reached the lobby I stopped, wiping my face with my sleeve.
Gwen: They said he'll need specialized post-op care. The bullet nicked an artery. Even with insurance… the bills are going to be—
Peter: I'll cover it.
I stared at him.
Gwen: Peter—
Peter: Whatever it costs.
His voice was quiet, but there was iron in it.
Peter: Private room, best doctors, experimental treatments, all of it. I have the money.
Gwen: You don't—
Peter: I do.
He met my eyes, fierce and tired and unwavering.
Peter: You're my friend, Gwen. More than that, maybe, I don't know. But I'm not letting you lose him. Not if money is the only thing standing in the way, then it's already gone.
I didn't have words. I just stepped forward and wrapped my arms around him, burying my face in his shoulder. He held me like he was afraid I'd break, or maybe like he was afraid he would.
After a long time, he spoke against my hair.
Peter: Come on. I'll take you home. You shouldn't be alone tonight.
I nodded, still clinging.
Gwen: Will you… stay? Just for a little while?
Peter: As long as you need.
Gwen: You didn't have to come, you know.
I said again, softer this time, as we paused under the weak glow of the streetlamp outside my building. The night air smelled like wet asphalt and distant pizza, ordinary smells that felt wrong after the hospital's bleach and fear.
Peter's hands were still in his pockets, shoulders hunched against the wind.
Peter: Yeah, I did.
He answered, like it was the simplest fact in the world.
Peter: Harry wanted to be here too, but his dad dragged him into some emergency board thing at Oscorp. He texted me six times telling me to tell you he's sorry and that he'll swing by tomorrow with those terrible blueberry muffins you pretend to like.
A laugh hiccupped out of me before I could stop it, watery and surprised.
Gwen: He's going to bring the ones with the rock-hard tops, isn't he?
Peter: Guaranteed.
Peter's mouth curved, small and sad and fond all at once. Then his expression went serious again, eyes searching mine in the half-light.
Peter: Gwen… if you need anything, anything at all, you call me. Middle of the night, middle of class, middle of a fire alarm, doesn't matter. I'll always be there for you. Promise.
The words settled warm in my chest, right alongside the ache. I stepped forward without thinking and wrapped my arms around him, pressing my face into the soft cotton of his hoodie. He smelled like coffee and the faint metallic trace of the hospital and something that was just Peter. His arms came around me instantly, solid and careful, like he was afraid I'd shatter but refusing to let go anyway.
I rose on tiptoe and kissed his cheek, lingering longer than I meant to, feeling the faint prickle of stubble and the warmth of his skin.
Gwen: Thank you, Peter. Thank you so much.
I whispered against it.
He made a small sound, almost a sigh, and hugged me tighter for a second, then let me go. I hugged him once more at the door, quicker this time, another brush of lips to his cheek because I couldn't not, and then I slipped inside before I started crying again.
The apartment was too quiet. Dad's coat still hung on the hook by the door, his coffee mug still in the dish rack from this morning. I left the lights off and drifted to my room like a ghost, kicking the door shut with my heel. Moonlight striped the floor through the half-open blinds. I dropped my bag, toed off my shoes, and crawled onto the bed fully made bed I hadn't slept in properly for two nights.
For a long time I just lay there staring at the ceiling, listening to the muffled city and the louder static in my head. My palms tingled. My heartbeat felt too big for my ribs. Every time I closed my eyes I saw Dad's pale face and the slow red numbers on the monitor.
I rolled over, reached under the bed, and dragged out the battered sketchbook I hadn't touched since sophomore year. The cover was soft from handling, pages warped from the time I'd spilled iced tea on it during finals week. I flipped past old drawings, costume ideas for Halloween that never happened, half-finished portraits of Mom smiling, a terrible attempt at Harry's cheekbones, and stopped on a blank spread near the back.
I grabbed the pencil tin from my nightstand. The first line came shaky, then steadier. A silhouette at first, feminine, long legs, narrow waist, shoulders that looked like they could carry more than their share of the world. I added the curve of a hip, the suggestion of muscle I now recognized in my own mirror. My hand moved faster.
Spider motif, not the one the city would expect. This one would be mine.
I sketched a web pattern across the chest, thin lines that radiated like frost on glass, delicate but unbreakable. The mask came next: large white lenses shaped like teardrops turned sideways, expressive even though they'd hide my face. I shaded them until they gleamed. The suit itself I kept simple, matte black undersuit for stealth, deep violet panels that shifted to midnight blue depending on the light, because I'd always loved those colors and because they felt like bruises and galaxies all at once. Spider emblem on the chest, stylized, eight legs curling protectively rather than aggressively.
I wanted it to look like it was shielding something, not hunting.
I flipped the page and started on the web-shooters. Wrist-mounted, sleek, no clunky cartridges if I could help it. Maybe pressurized organic compound, maybe something I could synthesize once I figured out the chemistry. Little mechanical spinnerets that could sit under the heel of each palm, triggered by the same double-tap middle-and-ring-finger gesture I'd been practicing in the shower when I thought no one could hear the thwip sounds I made under my breath.
Another page: utility belt ideas, tiny capsules of different web formulas,
I drew until my hand cramped, until the moon slid across the window and the pencil grew dull. Then I sharpened it with a pocketknife and kept going.
Spider-Girl felt too young. Spider-Woman sounded like someone who paid taxes and had a 401(k). Arachne was cool but taken, I thought, and way too on the nose. Ghost-Spider made me shiver for reasons I couldn't name yet. I wrote them all down the margin anyway, crossing out and circling and rewriting.
Blonde Spider made me snort, then laugh, then cry a little, because it was so dumb and perfect and mine.
I drew myself swinging between buildings I recognized, the Brooklyn Bridge, the old clock tower near school, the rooftop where Peter and I ate lunch when the cafeteria was unbearable. I drew myself catching falling construction workers, webbing rifles out of hands, punching men who looked like the blurred faces on the news tonight. I drew Dad standing on the sidewalk below, arms crossed, proud smile even though he couldn't see my face.
The fantasy hurt and healed in the same breath.
I paused, pencil hovering, and added one more sketch in the bottom corner: a smaller figure in red and blue watching from a distant rooftop, half in shadow, arms folded. I didn't draw the face. I didn't need to.
I closed the book and pressed it to my chest like it could muffle the storm inside. My reflection caught in the dark window across the room, eyes too bright, hair a mess, tear tracks shining. I looked like a girl who'd been broken open.
But underneath the raw edges something was knitting together, something fierce and humming and new.
I whispered to the empty room, testing the weight of it, tasting it.
Gwen: Not just Gwen anymore.
The city hummed back, sirens far away, wind rattling the fire escape, a dog barking somewhere down the block.
I opened the sketchbook again, turned to a fresh page, and wrote in careful block letters across the top:
SPIDER-GWEN
RULES
1. Dad comes first. Always.
2. No killing. Ever.
3. Protect the little guys the cops can't or won't.
4. Keep Peter safe from this if I can.
5. Make the suit bulletproof. Somehow.
6. Figure out the rest tomorrow.
I stared at the list until the words blurred, then added one more line underneath, smaller, almost shy.
1. Prove the power was worth the price.
I capped the pen, set the sketchbook on my nightstand, and finally let myself crawl under the covers still fully dressed. My body felt heavy, my mind electric. Sleep didn't come right away. Instead I lay there listening to the thrum under my skin, the soft creak of the building, the distant thump of a bass line from someone's car stereo.
Eventually the exhaustion won. The last thing I remember is reaching out and touching the edge of the sketchbook like a talisman, and whispering into the dark:
Gwen: See you tomorrow, New York.
Then the city took me, and I dreamed of violet webs across a midnight sky.