The night wraps around me like a second skin as my feet pound the pavement, each step bringing another shallow gasp of air into my burning lungs. Four miles down, one to go. A month ago, this would have killed me. Tonight, it's just another run.
"You got this, Steele," I wheeze to myself, pushing through the familiar fire spreading through my thighs.
Campus is eerily beautiful at 11 PM, streetlights casting long shadows across empty walkways, buildings standing like silent sentinels in the darkness. The only sounds are my labored breathing and the rhythmic slap of my sneakers against concrete.
I round the corner by Richards Hall, checking my fitness app through sweat-blurred vision. Four point three miles. My lungs feel like they're coated in napalm, but I'm still moving. Progress.
It's been a month since that night on the rooftop with Ellie, a month of grueling daily runs and training sessions that leave me so exhausted I can barely shower before collapsing into bed. A month of pushing my limits until they break, then pushing some more.
Whatever demonic energy Lileth put in me is finally paying dividends. Five miles is my new normal. I only start truly dying around mile four, when my vision gets spotty and my legs turn to jelly, but I push through. I always push through.
The real improvement is in my teleporting. One hundred feet is nothing now, I barely feel winded. Three hundred feet still hurts like hell, leaves me gasping and dizzy, but my heart keeps beating. Steady. Strong. No more near-death experiences or blood pouring from my eyes.
I haven't tried going further though. The memory of Ellie's face when she thought I was dying, the raw panic in those usually cold blue eyes, it haunts me. I'm not ready to find out where my new limit is. Not yet.
As I round the next corner, something catches my eye just beyond the campus perimeter, a flash of movement under the dim streetlight. I slow my pace, squinting through the darkness.
A young man staggers along the sidewalk, wearing what can only be described as club attire, a mesh crop top that leaves little to the imagination and shorts so tight they might as well be painted on. Despite the unusually warm October night, he looks out of place, vulnerable. But that's not what makes me stop completely.
It's the woman following him. Tall, muscular, moving with predatory purpose as she closes in. I watch as she grabs for his purse, the sequined bag dangling from his arm. He clutches it tighter, crying out.
"Help! Someone please help me!" His voice carries through the night air, high and frightened.
Something electric surges through my veins, a jolt of pure adrenaline that drowns out my burning lungs and aching muscles. This is it. This is what I've been training for.
My hand dives into my pocket, fingers wrapping around my brass knuckles. The cold metal slides over my fingers as I break into a sprint, my exhaustion forgotten.
Forty feet away. Thirty.
I gather that familiar energy beneath my skin, letting it build as I run. Then I release it in controlled bursts, teleporting in short, disorienting hops. Five feet left. Ten feet right. The sensation is barely a tickle now.
The woman doesn't see me coming. She's too focused on her prey, yanking hard at the purse while the man struggles to hold on.
When I'm about forty feet away, I focus every ounce of my concentration on a spot directly behind her. The world bends and snaps.
BAMF
I materialize exactly where I aimed, the momentum from my run carrying forward as I drive my brass-covered fist straight into the side of her head. The impact reverberates up my arm as she crumples to the ground with a surprised grunt.
"What the…" The man stumbles backward, clutching his purse to his chest, eyes wide with shock.
I stand over the fallen mugger, my chest heaving more from excitement than exertion. She's out cold, sprawled on the sidewalk like a puppet with cut strings.
"Are you okay?" I ask, turning to the victim while keeping one eye on the unconscious woman.
"I... yes?" He sounds uncertain, staring at me like I'm some kind of apparition. "Did you just... appear out of nowhere?"
I take a closer look at the guy, his eyes unfocused and glassy. The scent of alcohol hits me like a wall when he speaks. His body sways slightly, making it obvious he's had way too much to drink.
"Look, man, you're drunk," I say, gently but firmly. "You should probably just head home. It's not safe out here this late."
He stares at me for what feels like an eternity, blinking slowly as if trying to process what I just said. His mouth opens and closes a few times before he finally manages to form words.
"Uhh... alright... thanks..." he mumbles, clutching his purse closer as he stumbles backward a few steps.
I watch him wobble away, making sure he's actually leaving and not just wandering into more trouble. Once he's a good distance down the street, I turn my attention back to the unconscious mugger. What am I supposed to do with her? I don't have zip ties or anything to restrain her, and I definitely don't want to be here when she wakes up.
A familiar thwip sound cuts through the night air, answering my unspoken question. Spider-Woman descends gracefully from above, landing in a perfect crouch beside the fallen attacker.
"Nice work," she says, her mask's white eyes somehow conveying approval. "I was in the neighborhood and saw the commotion."
My chest swells with pride. "Thanks. Just happened to be in the right place at the right time."
Spider-Woman tilts her head, studying me with that unnerving intensity I've come to recognize. "Those brass knuckles are illegal, you know."
I glance down at my brass-covered knuckles, feeling a twinge of guilt. "Yeah, but your arms are way stronger than mine even with these brass knuckles," I point out, flexing my still-pathetic bicep for comparison. "I needed something to even the playing field."
Spider-Woman tilts her head slightly. "Fair point," she concedes, her masked eyes somehow conveying amusement.
"So, uh... what do I do with her?" I ask, gesturing to the unconscious woman sprawled across the sidewalk.
Spider-Woman sighs, her shoulders rising and falling with the motion. "I'll just web her up. I usually leave a note saying what they do so the police know why she's stuck to a pole."
"And that just... works?" I ask incredulously. The whole system seems surprisingly casual for vigilante justice.
She shrugs, the movement fluid and graceful even in her skintight costume. "Most of the time."
"Fair enough," I say, watching as she shoots a precise stream of webbing around the mugger's wrists and ankles, effectively hogtying her to the pavement. The white substance hardens almost instantly, looking like some bizarre art installation on the dark concrete.
Spider-Woman produces a small notepad and pen from somewhere in her costume, I'm not even going to ask where she keeps them, and quickly scribbles a note that she attaches to the webbing with a tiny glob of the same sticky substance.
Spider-Woman tucks the pen back into some hidden pocket in her suit and glances in the direction where the drunk guy disappeared.
"It's usually better if the victim sticks around to give a statement," she says with a sigh, "but honestly, that guy would probably just attract negative attention from other people in his current state."
I look down the dark street where he vanished, his unsteady gait still visible in the distance. "Maybe I should go walk him home? He seems pretty wasted."
Spider-Woman considers this for a moment, her mask's expressive eyes narrowing slightly in thought. "No, you've done enough tonight. I'll swing by in a minute to make sure he gets home safely."
Her concern for the guy makes me smile. That's the difference between us, I'm just starting out, punching random muggers, while she's thinking about the whole picture. The safety of victims even after the danger has passed.
"That's really cool of you," I say, unable to keep the admiration from my voice. "Most heroes would just leave after webbing up the bad guy."
She shifts her weight, seeming almost embarrassed by the praise. "It's not about being cool. It's about responsibility."
"True."
"So," she says, her head tilting curiously, "you've been training. I can tell."
I can't help the grin that spreads across my face. "Yeah, cardio mostly. Five miles is my new normal." I flex dramatically, showing off muscles that are only marginally more defined than they were a month ago. "The teleporting's getting better too."
"I noticed," she says, and I swear I can hear a smile in her voice despite the mask. "Much smoother than before. No blood this time."
"Blood-free teleporting is a big improvement," I say, trying to sound casual while my heart soars at her acknowledgment. "I've been working my ass off."
Spider-Woman crosses her arms, studying me with those unreadable white eyes. "So you think you're ready to start patrolling regularly now?"
"Absolutely!" I nod enthusiastically. "I just need a costume. Can't be a proper vigilante in running shorts and a t-shirt, right?"
She sighs deeply, shoulders slumping slightly. "I'm probably going to regret this," she mutters, pulling out her pen again.
My breath catches as she scribbles something on a small piece of paper. Is this happening? Is Spider-Woman actually going to help me become a real hero?
"This person," she says, holding out the note. "She can help you."
I take the paper with trembling fingers and read the neat handwriting: "Leah Zelinsky. Leah's Tailoring. 23rd Street."
"Oh my god," I whisper, staring at the name in disbelief. My inner comic book nerd is having a complete meltdown.
"It's a bit pricey," Spider-Woman warns, "but worth it. She helps me with my suit sometimes."
I clutch the paper like it's made of solid gold, afraid it might dissolve if I loosen my grip. "Thanks so much, Spidey. This is... I don't even know what to say."
She sighs again, her head tilting in that way that somehow conveys exasperation despite the full-face mask. "Don't go getting over-eager and getting yourself killed. This city has enough ghosts."
"Of course!" I promise, unable to contain my excitement. "I'll be careful. Super careful. The most careful hero you've ever seen!"
Spider-Woman just shakes her head, and I can almost feel her rolling her eyes beneath the mask. With a flick of her wrist, a web shoots from her hand, attaching to a nearby building.
"I'll see you around, rookie," she says, her voice tinged with something between amusement and resignation. With a graceful twist of her body, she launches herself skyward, the web line going taut as she swings effortlessly between buildings. "Oh, and don't forget to come up with a cool name!" she calls back, her voice fading as she disappears into the urban canopy.
I stand there gaping like an idiot, the paper clutched in my sweaty hand, watching her red and blue form shrink against the night sky until she's just another shadow among thousands.
A superhero name. Holy shit. I haven't even thought about that part yet.
"Fuck… Maybe Ellie can help me…"