Midtown High School, Queens.
The afternoon sun baked the pavement, turning the asphalt of the school driveway into a shimmering mirage of heat.
The final bell rang, releasing a flood of teenagers into the humid embrace of a New York summer.
They spilled out of the double doors, a chaotic sea of backpacks, laughter, and the sticky lethargy that came with the end of the semester.
A sleek, silver-gray limousine idled at the curb, an island of obscene wealth amidst the sea of public school mediocrity.
Students slowed as they passed it, whispering and casting envious glances. Everyone knew whose car it was.
"Peter, you sure you don't want a ride? We can hang out at the penthouse," Harry Osborn asked, leaning against the open door of the limo.
"I can't, Harry. I have to get home and prep," Peter Parker replied, adjusting the strap of his worn backpack. He looked every bit the stereotypical nerd—plaid shirt, glasses sliding down his nose, and an earnest expression that bordered on painful.
"The field trip to the Oscorp Genetics Lab is tomorrow. I want to read up on Dr. Connors' latest papers on cross-species genetics before we go. It's going to be huge."
"Right, the science trip," Harry sighed, shaking his head with a good-natured smirk. "You realize my dad owns the building, right? I could just get you a private tour."
"It's not the same, Harry," Peter insisted.
Harry's attention drifted. He caught a flash of red hair in the crowd. Mary Jane Watson was walking with a group of friends, her laughter ringing out like a bell.
She looked radiant, even in the stifling heat. Harry straightened up, running a hand through his hair, his "cool rich kid" mask sliding instantly into place.
"Hey, Harry! Peter!"
A voice called out from the sidewalk, interrupting Harry's attempt to catch MJ's eye.
Peter squinted through his glasses. "Hey... is that Light?"
Light Inksworth stood near the gate, leaning casually against the brick wall. He looked older, sharper than the high schoolers, wearing a crisp button-down that defied the humidity.
"Light!" Peter's face lit up. He jogged over, Harry trailing behind him with a grin.
"Look at you two," Light said, clapping Peter on the shoulder and nodding to Harry. "You're making me feel old. It's only been a year, but you guys look like actual adults now."
"You're one to talk," Harry laughed, punching Light lightly on the arm. "We heard about... well, everything. And then you vanished for a week. We were worried, man."
Harry's tone softened. He knew what it was like to have a distant or difficult family situation, but losing both parents at once was a nightmare he couldn't imagine.
"I'm fine," Light said, his smile tight but genuine. "Just had to handle the estate. Actually, that's why I'm here. I had to pick up some old transcripts from the admin office. I'm transferring my credits from Queens College to Empire State University in the fall. Closer to the office."
"The office?" Harry raised an eyebrow. "So the rumors are true? You're actually taking over Inksworth Publishing?"
"It's not Inksworth anymore," Light corrected. "It's Marvel Entertainment."
Harry frowned slightly. "Marvel? Sounds... ambitious. But Light, be real with me. The comic industry? It's a sinking ship. Print media is dying. Dad says it's a terrible investment."
"Your dad knows bio-engineering and weapons contracts, Harry. He doesn't know stories," Light said, his voice carrying a quiet confidence that made Harry pause. "Buy a copy tomorrow. You might change your mind."
They chatted for a few more minutes, the easy rhythm of old friendship taking over. Light looked at Peter—the boy who would be Spider-Man. If Peter was going to the genetics lab tomorrow, the spider bite was imminent. The Age of Heroes was about to begin.
"Catch you guys later," Light said, checking his watch. "Don't get into trouble."
"We won't," Peter promised.
Light watched them walk away. 'Not yet, anyway,' he thought.
...
The bell above the door jingled as Light stepped out of the oppressive summer heat and into the cool, dust-mote-filled air of the art supply store.
It was a small, cramped shop tucked away on a side street, the kind that smelled of cedar wood, graphite, and old paper.
Behind the counter sat an old man with slicked-back white hair and tinted sunglasses, despite being indoors. He was leaning back in his chair, flipping through a copy of The Daily Bugle with a look of mild amusement.
"We're closing in ten, kid," the old man said without looking up. His voice was gravelly but carried a strange, energetic cadence. "Make it quick."
"I know what I need," Light said, moving to the aisle stocked with specialty imports.
He bypassed the standard microns and brushes. He needed precision.
He needed tools that could handle the kinetic energy of the scenes he was about to create.
He grabbed several boxes of Tachikawa nib holders, a pack of Zebra G-Nibs—imported from Japan—and three bottles of high-density Deleter Black ink.
He placed the items on the counter. The old man folded his newspaper and peered over his shades at the selection.
"Dip pens?" The old man raised a bushy white eyebrow. "Don't see many young bloods using these anymore. Everyone's moving to tablets. Digital this, pixel that. No soul in pixels."
"Digital has no weight," Light replied, pulling out his wallet. "The ink needs to bleed a little. It makes the violence feel real."
The old man paused, a knowing smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. He rang up the items. "Violence, huh? Writing a tragedy?"
"A comedy," Light corrected. "But with good fight scenes."
"The best kind," the old man chuckled. He handed Light the bag. "You know, I used to write a little myself back in the day. stories about... well, fantastic things. Remember, kid: it's not the ink that matters. It's the character. If you don't care about the guy in the suit, you won't care about the punch."
Light froze for a second. He looked at the old man—really looked at him. There was something uncannily familiar about that mustache, that grin.
'Stan?' Light thought, a jolt of recognition hitting him.
"Thanks for the advice," Light said, taking the bag. "I'll keep it in mind."
"Excelsior," the old man muttered, turning back to his paper as Light walked out.
Chelsea, Manhattan.
By the time Light returned to the city, the sun was dipping below the skyline, casting long, bruised purple shadows across the streets.
He turned the corner toward his favorite burger joint—not to eat, but because he had a sinking suspicion.
Sure enough, there she was.
Gali was squatting on the sidewalk outside the diner, her face pressed against the glass like a sad puppy in a pet store window. Passersby were giving the girl in the frilly purple dress a wide berth.
Light marched over, grabbed the back of her dress, and hoisted her up.
"Hey," Gali complained, her limbs dangling.
"What are you doing?" Light asked, spinning her around to face him. "I fed you at noon. Four thousand calories. It's six o'clock."
Gali's eyes flashed with a dangerous violet light. For a second, the cosmic predator surfaced. She didn't like being manhandled. "Unhand me, Guardian. I require sustenance."
"You require a reality check," Light said, unimpressed by the glowing eyes. "Stop looking at the customers like they're appetizers. Are you a pig? Seriously, where does it all go?"
"I am not a porcine creature!" Gali hissed, her hair bristling. "I am a high-functioning entity! My metabolism is simply... dense."
Grrrrrrrrr.
A sound like a shifting tectonic plate erupted from her stomach, silencing her protest.
Light raised an eyebrow.
"It is hereditary," Gali muttered, crossing her arms and looking away, her cheeks puffing out. "My father consumes much more than this. He has a very large appetite."
"Yeah, I bet," Light scoffed. "Does he eat buffets out of business too?"
'He eats solar systems,' Gali thought, but she decided not to mention that.
Light sighed, the fight draining out of him. He was tired, and she was technically his responsibility until he could figure out which government lab or asylum she had escaped from.
"Fine. Let's go," Light said, putting her down. "But we're buying groceries. I'm not paying restaurant prices for a black hole."
He grabbed her hand, ignoring her indignance as he led her down the street.
...
Hell's Kitchen border.
The summer evening had cooled slightly, but the air was still heavy. Light walked briskly, dragging a sullen Gali behind him. He wanted to get home, lock the door, and draw the next chapter.
BAM! BAM! BAM!
The sharp, staccato cracks of gunfire shattered the evening hum.
Light froze. The sounds came from an alleyway less than fifty feet ahead.
Civilian instinct screamed run. Gamer instinct screamed cover.
Light didn't hesitate. He wasn't a hero yet. He was an artist with a gluttonous sidekick. He grabbed Gali's wrist, his grip tightening.
"Move," he whispered.
He pulled her into the shadows of a scaffolding, putting a solid brick wall between them and the noise.
"Projectiles?" Gali asked, tilting her head toward the alley. She seemed curious rather than afraid.
"Gunfire," Light hissed. "Keep your head down."
The shooting stopped as abruptly as it had begun. The silence that followed was heavy, smelling of ozone and sulfur.
Light waited a full minute, listening to the distant wail of sirens approaching, before he dared to move. He hustled Gali away from the scene, blending into the crowd of fleeing pedestrians.
Back in the alley, the shadows lengthened.
The smell of gunpowder hung thick in the stagnant air. Three bodies lay on the wet pavement, their futures cancelled by precision shots.
A small figure dropped from the fire escape, landing silently in a puddle. She wore a purple wig, a plaid skirt, and a black domino mask. She holstered a custom pistol that looked too big for her hands.
"Clear," she whispered.
A heavy boot stepped out of the darkness behind her. A man in a black trench coat, kicked a discarded gun away from one of the bodies.
The man scowled at the corpse. He began rifling through the dead man's pockets with practiced indifference.
"Did you find the ledger, big guy?" the girl asked, reloading her magazine.
"No," The man growled. He stood up, empty-handed. "This was a dead drop. The intel was bad."
"Frank..." Frank muttered to himself, cursing the name of the informant who had sent them here. "That damn useless fuck. The trail is cold."
The sirens were getting louder. Blue and red lights reflected off the wet brick walls at the end of the alley.
They melted back into the shadows, two ghosts in a city that was about to get a lot more crowded with costumes.