The showroom smelled like money and new plastic, the kind of sterile luxury that makes you feel underdressed even when you're wearing clothes that cost more than most people's rent. Polished concrete floors reflected the overhead spots into blinding shards; every surface gleamed like it had been licked clean. And in the center, under a halo of blue-white light, sat the reason I was here: the BYD Yangwang U9, painted in a custom pearl that shifted between ice and violet depending on how the light hit it. Four electric motors, two thousand horsepower, zero-to-sixty in under two seconds. It looked like someone had taken a fighter jet, taught it manners, and convinced it to wear a tuxedo.
I stood there in ripped black jeans, a charcoal hoodie, and sneakers that probably cost more than the salesman's monthly quota, letting the silence stretch just long enough for everyone to notice me. My own hair was back to its natural dark brown today, no white Vector wig, no mask, just me, Peter Parker, seventeen on paper, looking twenty-two on a good day and thirty on a bad one thanks to the serum carving me into something that belonged on billboards instead of high-school yearbooks.
The salesman finally drifted over, trying and failing to hide the calculation behind his smile.
Salesman: Good afternoon, sir. Are you here for the U9 unveiling?
I let the corner of my mouth tilt, just enough.
Peter: I'm here to take it home.
He blinked.
Salesman: The, uh, the display model is pre-sold, but we can certainly discuss allocation for—
I pulled the matte-black crypto card from my wallet and set it on the carbon-fiber pedestal beside the car. The embossed platinum logo caught the light like a threat.
Peter: I'll take this one. Today. Cash, or the twenty-first-century version of it.
His gaze flicked from the card to my face and back again, doing mental math that clearly wasn't adding up.
Salesman: Sir, the U9 starts at two hundred fifty-two thousand six hundred thirty dollars before taxes and fees. Perhaps you'd like to see the U8 first? It's still an exceptional—
Peter: Two fifty-two six-thirty is fine. I already ran the numbers. New York sales tax, registration, delivery fee, the ridiculous destination charge you guys hide in the fine print. Comes out to two seventy-one even. I rounded up to two eighty because I don't like loose change.
He opened his mouth, closed it, then tried again.
Salesman: May I see some identification, please?
I slid my driver's license across the pedestal. Real one. I'd taken the test three weeks ago in a borrowed Honda Civic just to watch the DMV clerk's face when a seventeen-year-old parallel-parked a two-ton hypercar prototype in a compact spot without breathing hard. She'd stamped it without a word.
The salesman stared at the birthdate, then at me, then at the birthdate again.
Salesman: You're… seventeen?
Peter: On the outside. Inside I'm mostly student loans and unresolved trauma.
A ripple of laughter went through the small crowd that had started gathering at a respectful distance. Phones were already out, discreetly filming. Good. Let them. The more people who saw Peter Parker buying a quarter-million-dollar electric supercar with pocket change, the less anyone would connect him to the white-haired ghost breaking Maggia kneecaps at 3 a.m.
The salesman recovered enough to gesture toward the private lounge.
Salesman: If you'll follow me, Mr. Parker, we can complete the paperwork.
I didn't move yet. I walked a slow circle around the U9 instead, trailing my fingers along the bodywork. The paint was warm from the display lights, almost alive. Every line screamed speed even standing still. The dihedral doors yawned upward like wings when I tapped the key fob I'd already paired from my phone. The interior glowed soft violet, Alcantara and carbon fiber everywhere the eye landed, seats sculpted like they'd been molded around my exact spine.
I slid behind the wheel just to feel it. The seat motors whirring to adjust before I even told them my measurements. Perfect. Of course it was. Gaia had already hacked the showroom's configurator and pre-loaded my biometrics last night.
Salesman: Mr. Parker?
The salesman tried again, voice cracking slightly.
I looked up at him through the open butterfly door.
Peter: Tell your manager the wire's already in escrow. Gaia Capital Holdings. He'll find it if he checks his phone.
The man fumbled for his tablet, tapped, and went pale. Whatever number he saw made his knees actually buckle a fraction.
Salesman: Everything appears to be… in order.
He whispered.
Peter: Thought it might.
I climbed out, closed the door with two fingers; it settled with a whisper that cost more than most cars entirely.
Peter: I'll need it delivered to the private garage on West 38th. Top level. You'll get the exact coordinates once the NDA is signed.
He nodded so fast I worried about whiplash.
I was almost to the exit when a voice behind me called out, young, female, trying to sound casual and failing.
Teen Girl: Excuse me… are you, like, an influencer or something?
I turned. A girl maybe fifteen, phone already recording, eyes wide. Behind her, three friends whispered and giggled.
I smiled the smile I'd practiced in the mirror exactly twice, the one that made people trust me without knowing why.
Peter: Just a guy who really likes fast cars.
She blushed crimson.
Teen Girl: Can I get a picture with it? Please?
I glanced at the U9, then back at her.
Peter: Tell you what. When it's parked outside tonight, tag me. I'll repost the best one.
Her squeal could have powered the building for a week.
Outside, the October air tasted like exhaust and roasted nuts from a cart on the corner. I pulled the hood up anyway, more habit than need. The Danger Sense stayed quiet, just a low background hum, but the back of my skull kept itching like someone had a scope on me and hadn't decided whether to pull the trigger yet.
Hammerhead had gone quiet. Too quiet. No new bodies in the river, no retaliatory hits on cops, no screaming press conferences. Just silence and the slow bleed of his empire every time Vector paid a visit. Silence before a storm always feels heavier than the thunder.
I walked three blocks before I let myself grin, full and sharp and private.
Two hundred fifty-two thousand six hundred thirty dollars. Pocket change compared to what Candy Blast was printing daily now. Pocket change compared to the offshore accounts swelling like tumors. Pocket change for the war chest I was building, one warehouse explosion at a time.
The U9 wasn't just a car. It was a statement. A distraction. A way to move through the city without swinging from rooftops and still arrive faster than any taxi. Armor-plated chassis under that pretty skin, run-flat tires, ballistic glass, and a few modifications Gaia and I had already planned that would make it damn near indestructible when the real shooting started.
Because something was coming. I could taste it the way animals taste ozone before lightning. Hammerhead wasn't the type to roll over. He was the type to burn the whole city down just to watch the ashes spell his name.
My phone vibrated once. Encrypted text from Gaia.
Gaia: Delivery scheduled 22:17 tonight. Garage secured. Black Widow assets confirmed inbound. Forty-one hours until projected contact.
I stared at the screen until the words blurred.
Forty-one hours.
I slipped the phone away, shoved my hands in my pockets, and started walking toward the subway that would take me home to Aunt May's lasagna and Uncle Ben asking why I looked like I hadn't slept in a week.
The U9 would be waiting in the dark when I needed it.
And when the storm finally broke, I'd be ready to drive straight into the eye.
I hailed a cab instead of swinging, just another rich kid with too much money and not enough supervision, and let the city swallow me whole before the night decided.
The brownstone's front door was still open when I nosed the Yangwang U9 over the curb, its pearl-white paint drinking the last of the sunset and throwing it back in slow waves of violet and ice. I let the four electric motors wind down to silence, the kind of silence that costs more than most people make in a decade, and just sat there for a second, fingers still curled around the Alcantara wheel. The car smelled like new money and ozone. My heart was doing that stupid fluttery thing it only ever did when I was about to lie to the two people who knew me better than anyone alive.
Then Aunt May's voice cracked across the quiet like a starter pistol.
Aunt May: Peter Benjamin Parker, what in the name of all that is holy is THAT?
She stood on the top step in her faded blue cardigan and flour-dusted apron, hands on hips, eyes so wide I could see the streetlamp reflections dancing in them. Uncle Ben appeared right behind her, dish towel slung over one shoulder, mouth actually open. For a man who once stared down an armed mugger with nothing but a rolled-up newspaper and righteous indignation, he looked ready to sit down on the stoop and reconsider his life choices.
I climbed out slowly, hands raised in surrender, grin already fighting its way onto my face.
Peter: Hi, guys. Good to see you too.
Uncle Ben found his voice first.
Uncle Ben: You said you were picking up a car, Pete. I distinctly remember agreeing to help you shop for a nice, sensible used Civic. Maybe a Corolla if you got ambitious.
I leaned back against the fender, letting the butterfly door stay dramatically open like a peacock tail.
Peter: This is a BYD Yangwang U9. Four electric motors, two thousand forty-one horsepower, zero-to-sixty in one-point-nine seconds, top speed electronically limited to two hundred fifty because the engineers were scared of lawsuits. Base price two hundred fifty-two thousand six hundred thirty dollars before taxes, fees, and the blood of the salesman who tried to upsell me floor mats.
Aunt May made a small, wounded sound and clutched the porch railing like it was the only solid thing left in the universe.
Uncle Ben took one hesitant step down, then another, until he was standing beside the car staring at it the way people stare at UFOs.
Uncle Ben: Kiddo… where did you get that kind of money? Because if the next words out of your mouth involve anything illegal, I swear I will ground you until you're thirty.
I laughed, soft, a little shaky, the laugh that only ever happens when the two people who raised you are looking at you like you've grown a second head and you're about to explain it's actually a good thing.
Peter: No felonies were committed in the purchase of this vehicle. Scout's honor.
Aunt May descended the steps like she was approaching a live bomb.
Aunt May: Peter.
Peter: Okay, okay.
I pulled my phone, opened the developer console for Candy Smash, and turned the screen toward them. The revenue graph looked like someone had graphed a SpaceX launch. Daily active users: 2.38 million. Thirty-day estimated futuregross: $43.1 million and climbing like it had a personal grudge against gravity. Aunt May's gamertag, "MayDayQueen," sat proudly in the global top 0.008% because she played every single night while watching her British baking shows.
Uncle Ben let out a low, reverent whistle.
Uncle Ben: Holy hell, son.
Aunt May's mouth opened, closed, opened again.
Aunt May: You… you made Candy Smash?
Peter: Guilty.
I shrugged, trying for casual and mostly failing because my ears were on fire.
Peter: I started it as a side project last year when I couldn't sleep. Needed something to do with the code I was learning. Turns out half the planet also can't sleep and really likes exploding cartoon candy.
Uncle Ben circled the car slowly, trailing one careful finger along the fender like he expected it to bite.
Uncle Ben: This is… this is real money. Not drug money, not stolen money, just… teenagers swiping colorful squares and accidentally making you richer than most Fortune 500 CEOs.
Peter: Pretty much.
I rubbed the back of my neck.
Peter: I kept it quiet because the second people find out a seventeen-year-old has this much cash, things get weird. So I set up the LLC under a trust, routed everything through Gaia, my AI assistant, and let the money stack until I could do something useful with it.
Aunt May finally reached the car. She hesitated, then rested her palm on the warm hood the same way she used to check my forehead for fever when I was small.
Aunt May: It's beautiful.
She whispered, almost to herself. Then her voice snapped back to full May Parker authority.
Aunt May: It is also completely insane. You are seventeen years old.
Peter: Seventeen and eleven months.
I offered weakly.
Uncle Ben completed his lap and stopped beside her, looking from the car to me and back again.
Uncle Ben: Pete, this thing looks like it eats Ferraris for breakfast and spits out Lamborghinis. You sure you're ready for that much… power?
The word landed heavy between us, the same word that had been echoing in my skull every night I pulled on the Vector mask. Power. Responsibility. The line between them thinner than monomolecular wire.
I met his eyes, let him see whatever truth was hiding behind mine.
Peter: I've been practicing with power for a while now. This car is just the part I'm allowed to show you.
Something passed across his face, worry, pride, fear, all at once, the way it did the night I came home with a black eye and refused to say why. Aunt May's hand found his arm like it always did when the world got too big.
Uncle Ben cleared his throat.
Uncle Ben: You're being careful with the money?
Peter: Every dollar above living expenses is going into trusts. College funds for kids whose parents wear badges. Medical debt erasure for first responders. Full coverage for you two, forever, no matter what. Quietly. No credit needed.
Aunt May's eyes filled so fast the tears spilled before she could stop them. She stepped forward and cupped my face in both flour-dusted hands, thumbs brushing my cheeks like I was still the kid who needed Band-Aids and kisses.
Aunt May: My brilliant, impossible boy. You built something that makes millions of people smile every day. And you still carry the groceries in without being asked.
I leaned into her touch, throat tight.
Peter: I had the best teachers.
Uncle Ben moved in and wrapped us both in one of his classic bear hugs, the kind that used to lift me off my feet when I was little. He still could.
Uncle Ben: We're proud of you, Pete. Terrified out of our minds, but proud.
Aunt May pulled back just far enough to fix me with the look.
Aunt May: You're still have chores. Dishes don't do themselves, money or no money.
Peter: Yes, ma'am.
Aunt May: And you're taking us for a ride tomorrow. Slowly. Both hands on the wheel. And I'm picking the music.
I grinned so wide my face hurt.
Peter: Hymns on full blast. Got it.
Uncle Ben clapped me on the shoulder, then reached over and gently closed the butterfly door. The car sealed with a soft, expensive sigh.
Aunt May: Dinner's almost ready. Lasagna. Extra cheese, corner pieces saved for the boy who apparently bought a spaceship.
I slung an arm around each of them as we climbed the steps.
The lasagna was May's masterpiece, the kind she only broke out when someone was coming home from the hospital or when the world felt too heavy. Corner pieces gooey with extra cheese, sauce that had simmered all afternoon, garlic bread still crackling from the oven. We sat around the same scarred oak table we'd had since I was ten, the one with the permanent crayon stain under the placemat no amount of sanding had ever erased. The U9 sat outside like a silent silver sentinel, catching the porch light every time someone walked past and did a double-take.
I waited until everyone had second helpings and the edges of worry from the car reveal had softened into something almost like acceptance. May was humming under her breath, Ben was loosening his belt one notch and pretending he wasn't. The moment felt fragile, like a soap bubble I was about to pop.
I set my fork down.
Peter: So, I have an announcement.
Two pairs of eyes snapped to me. May's fork froze halfway to her mouth. Ben raised an eyebrow the way he did when he already knew this was going to cost him something.
I took a breath that tasted like garlic and home and everything I was terrified of losing.
Peter: We're moving.
Silence. The kind that rings in your ears.
May lowered her fork very carefully.
May: Peter.
Peter: I bought a place. Closed yesterday. It's not huge by billionaire standards, but it's got six bedrooms, a real yard, a garage that fits more than one car without playing Tetris, and a kitchen you could land a helicopter in.
I was talking too fast, I knew it, but the words kept coming.
Peter: It's still Queens, twenty minutes away, same parish if you want, but the schools are better and the street doesn't smell like the deli's dumpster in July and there's actual closet space.
Ben found his voice first.
Ben: Son, we've lived in this house for thirty-five years. Your aunt has a garden. I have a workbench in the basement that's older than you are.
Peter: I know. I'm not selling this place. We'll keep it. Rent it to a nice family or turn it into whatever you want. But you two have spent your whole lives squeezing into a house that leaks when it rains sideways and has pipes that knock like they're auditioning for a poltergeist movie. You deserve better.
May's eyes were already shining. She reached for Ben's hand without looking, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
I pushed on before they could argue.
Peter: Remember that twenty-five grand from the drone blueprint I sold? You told me to keep it, do something for myself. I did. Bought clothes, some games, fixed my laptop when I dropped it doing… science. But that was pocket change compared to what's coming in now. Millions, guys. Every month. And it's not going to stop.
Ben's face went through about six emotions at once.
Ben: Peter, money like that—
Peter: Is lonely if you don't share it with the people who taught you what it's worth.
I cut in, softer.
Peter: You two raised me on macaroni nights and secondhand everything, and you never once made me feel like I was missing anything. You skipped vacations so I could go to science camp. May took extra shifts when the hospital bills came after my appendix decided to explode. Ben worked overtime when the roof decided to leave without notice. You've been paying for me my whole life. Let me pay something back.
May made a small, wounded sound and pressed her fingers to her lips.
I leaned forward, elbows on the table like I was ten again begging for one more story.
Peter: This isn't charity. This is balance. I want to wake up and not hear the upstairs neighbor practicing tap dance at three a.m. I want May to have a kitchen where the oven doesn't try to gas us when she bakes. I want Ben to have a garage where he can build birdhouses without hitting his head on the water heater. And I want you both to stop worrying about money every time the furnace makes that death rattle.
Ben's eyes were glassy. He cleared his throat twice before he could speak.
Ben: You've thought about this.
Peter: Every night for weeks. I walked the house at two in the morning with the realtor's flashlight app so you wouldn't hear me. I measured the kitchen island to make sure May's stand mixer would fit. I checked how many steps from the master bedroom to the coffee maker because I know May refuses to function without caffeine within thirty seconds of waking up.
May laughed through the tears that were already falling.
May: You measured the coffee distance?
Peter: Twenty-three steps. Down from forty-one here. You're welcome.
Ben rubbed a hand over his face, the way he did when he was trying not to cry in front of me.
Ben: Pete… this house is where we brought you home when your parents… It's where you learned to ride a bike in the hallway because it was raining. It's where May taught you to make sauce and I taught you how to change a tire with nothing but swear words and hope.
Peter: I know. That's why we're keeping it. But memories live in people, not walls. And I want the next chapter to have better walls.
May stood up so fast her chair scraped loud across the old linoleum. She rounded the table and pulled me out of my seat and into a hug that smelled like oregano and dish soap and every safe place I'd ever known. Ben joined a second later, arms around both of us, and for a minute none of us could talk because we were all crying too hard.
When May finally pulled back, her cheeks were wet but her smile was fierce.
May: You said six bedrooms?
Peter: Seven if you count the guesthouse over the garage.
I said, voice thick.
She nodded once, decisive.
May: Then I want a craft room. With windows. Big ones. And a sink.
Peter: Done.
Ben sniffed, wiped his eyes with the heel of his hand.
Ben: I want a workshop that doesn't share a wall with the water heater. And a grill on the patio that isn't held together with hope and duct tape.
Peter: Already ordered the grill. It's got more BTUs than a rocket engine.
May laughed, watery and perfect.
Peter: And after we move, you two are going on a trip. Anywhere you want. Italy, Greece, that cruise you always talked about when I was little and you thought I wasn't listening. First class. All of it. Six weeks, eight weeks, however long you need. The house will be waiting when you get back, and I'll be here holding down the fort.
Ben started shaking his head before I finished.
Ben: We're not leaving you alone for two months, Pete. You're still—
Peter: Seventeen, I know. But I'm also the kid who just bought a house with a gated driveway and a security system that makes Fort Knox look friendly. I'll be fine. And you deserve to see the world without worrying about whether the roof is going to cave in while you're gone.
May looked at Ben. Ben looked at May. Something passed between them, decades of conversations happening in a single glance.
Ben finally exhaled, long and slow.
Ben: Italy. We always said if we ever won the lottery, we'd go to Italy.
May's smile broke wide open.
May: Then Italy it is.
I felt my own grin threaten to split my face in half.
Peter: I'll book it tomorrow. You pick the towns, I'll handle the rest.
May reached across the table and squeezed my hand so hard her knuckles went white.
May: You're sure about this, sweetheart? All of it?
Peter: I've never been more sure of anything.
I said, and meant it with every cell in my stupidly enhanced body.
Ben lifted his water glass, eyes still red.
Ben: To new walls.
He said simply.
May: And the people who make them home.
May added.
We clinked glasses, water, because that's what we had, and for a minute the kitchen felt bigger than any mansion.
Outside, the U9 caught the moonlight like it approved.
And somewhere in the back of my head, the part that never really slept, I made a promise to the night: I'd keep them safe in the new house. I'd keep them safe on the other side of the world. Whatever came next, Hammerhead, Black Widows, the whole damn city burning, none of it would touch this.
I'd make sure of it.
May started clearing plates, already talking about what flowers she'd plant in the new yard. Ben asked if the grill had a rotisserie attachment. I answered yes to everything, heart so full it hurt.
Later, when the dishes were done and the house was quiet, I stood on the front steps and looked at the U9 one more time.
Tomorrow we'd start packing memories into boxes.
Tonight, we were still here, still us, still home.
And that was enough.
See Peters car in comments