J. Jonah Jameson didn't actually hate Spider-Man.
Standing in the corner of the publisher's office with his camera slung around his neck, Peter blinked. He stared at the man's bristling mustache and the chewed-up cigar clamped between his teeth. It was a staggering realization. For the first time, Peter saw a strange, underlying logic—almost a warped gentleness—beneath the Daily Bugle's endless smear campaigns.
Jonah didn't hate the man. He hated the mask.
To Jameson, a mask wasn't a symbol of justice. It was a total evasion of accountability. A mask was a shield. It meant that if a hero made a mistake, destroyed a building, or crossed a line, they could simply peel off the spandex, blend into the crowd, and disappear. Spider-Man might not abuse that power, but the precedent was dangerous. In Jonah's eyes, a vigilante who refused to show his face was just a supervillain who hadn't had a bad enough day yet.
Unless Spider-Man took off the mask, Jonah's war would never end.
"So, you actually approve of Spider-Man's actions out on the street," Mary Jane said, her pen hovering over her notepad. "You just don't approve of the anonymity."
Jonah leaned across his massive oak desk, pointing a thick finger at her. "Don't put words in my mouth, young lady. I greatly admire anyone who gets superpowers and chooses not to rob a bank. I appreciate it. But whether these 'heroes' have the legal right to enforce the law, make arrests, or play judge, jury, and executioner? That is the problem. Law enforcement requires oversight. A badge has a name on it. A mask doesn't."
Jonah leaned back, his leather chair groaning in protest. "If you want to work at the Daily Bugle, Ms. Watson, you need to understand that expression is everything. Use the wrong word, and you distort the truth. The Bugle operates on three pillars: truthfulness, accuracy, and timeliness."
Peter pressed his lips together, biting the inside of his cheek to physically stop himself from laughing. Right. Because 'SPIDER-MENACE EATS LOCAL PIGEONS' is the absolute pinnacle of objective journalism. Mary Jane didn't miss a beat. She jotted down his quote with practiced ease and fired off a few more questions. The fifteen-minute interview flew by. Now, her only task was to head home, compile her shorthand into a polished transcript, and submit it to the Bugle's HR department. If they liked it, the internship was hers.
"And I heard that if you keep the internship through high school, they basically fast-track you into a full-time reporter gig for college," Mary Jane said as they stepped out of the elevator and into the bustling lobby. She practically bounced on her heels, clutching her notepad to her chest. It wasn't just about the job; Jonah had taken her seriously, and that validation radiated off her.
She turned to Peter, tilting her head. "By the way, Jameson seemed to really like your portfolio. Especially that shot where Spider-Man is actually laughing. It's crazy you turned down his photography internship. I thought you wanted to manage the Bugle's website?"
"At the time, I didn't know I was going to land an internship at the Baxter Building," Peter said, adjusting his camera strap.
Life was weird like that. Still, he hadn't completely burned the bridge with Jameson. He could operate as a freelance photographer, slipping the Bugle exclusive Spider-Man shots for five hundred bucks a pop. For a fifteen-year-old kid in Queens, that was serious money.
His thoughts drifted back to Jameson's speech. The mask is a shield. Jonah wasn't entirely wrong, but he didn't have the whole picture. The attack on Cindy Moon's family was brutal proof. The mask was an absolute necessity. Until Peter could guarantee the safety of Aunt May, Uncle Ben, and everyone else he cared about, the mask stayed glued to his face.
It made him think of Norman Osborn. Norman had offered to fully support Spider-Man's operations, throwing Oscorp's infinite resources behind him. It was a tempting lifeline. But Norman was a wildcard, and Harry's growing hostility toward Spider-Man made the whole situation feel like walking through a minefield.
Should I tell Harry? Peter thought, rubbing the back of his neck. Just float the idea and see how he reacts?
"Earth to Peter?"
Peter blinked, snapping back to the present. "Huh? Yeah, what's up?"
Mary Jane smiled, gesturing down the street. "It's still early. Let me buy you food. You helped me prep all week for this, and Jonah liking your photos definitely gave me a credibility boost."
Peter checked his watch. "Alright, you're on. But nothing fancy. I have to be home in time for dinner, or Aunt May will actually kill me."
"Please. Even if I wanted to buy you a steak, my wallet says we're getting coffee."
They ended up at a small corner café a few blocks away. They grabbed two coffees and a pair of gingerbread men, sliding into a booth right up against the massive floor-to-ceiling front window. Mary Jane slumped into the vinyl seat, tracing the rim of her coffee cup.
"I think you nailed it," Peter said, breaking off a piece of a gingerbread man. "You didn't stutter once, and you went toe-to-toe with Jonah. Nobody does that."
"I don't know..." MJ let out a heavy breath, pushing a stray strand of red hair out of her eyes. "I forgot half my backup questions. I think I missed an opportunity to press him on his editorial bias—"
The hair on Peter's arms stood straight up.
A sharp, electric spike of adrenaline slammed into the base of his skull. Danger. It wasn't just close. It was right on top of them.
He saw MJ's pupils dilate in pure terror. He saw the reflection of the street in her eyes.
A two-ton sedan, completely engulfed in flames, was tumbling end-over-end down the asphalt. It was airborne, hurtling directly toward their window.
Peter moved before conscious thought registered. He grabbed Mary Jane by the forearm, violently yanking her out of the booth and hauling her behind his own body. In the same fraction of a second, he channeled a surge of bio-electricity down his right arm. He snapped his fingers, sending a concentrated spark into the glass.
The floor-to-ceiling window exploded outward, entirely vaporized into harmless dust before the flaming car could shatter it inward and turn it into lethal shrapnel.
The mangled, burning car smashed through the empty window frame and ground to a violent halt inside the café, the crushed front bumper stopping less than three inches from Peter's chest. Under the guise of shielding MJ, Peter kept his palm flat against the grill, physically bracing the crushing weight of the vehicle to stop its momentum.
Thick black smoke billowed into the café. The fire alarms began shrieking.
Mary Jane peeked out from behind Peter's shoulder, her chest heaving as she stared at the flaming wreckage. "Oh my god," she choked out, her voice trembling. "Peter, we are so lucky. Are you okay?"
"Yeah," Peter coughed, waving the smoke away. I'm gonna have to sneak back here tonight and fry their security cameras, he noted grimly.
But a flaming car didn't just throw itself into a coffee shop.
Peter peered through the smoke, looking out into the ruined street. Concrete was torn to shreds. Streetlamps were bent in half. And standing in the center of the intersection, letting out a deafening roar, was an eight-foot-tall wall of gray, armored muscle.
The Rhino.
Peter stared blankly at the villain. Hey, bro. Are you kidding me? I literally watched the cops put you in a maximum-security cell yesterday. Did you just get bored and walk out? Peter sighed, releasing his grip on the car. He turned and pushed MJ gently toward the back of the café. "MJ, you need to go out the back door. Find a basement or a subway station and hide."
"What?" MJ grabbed his sleeve, her eyes wide. "Are you crazy? What about you?"
Peter reached down, picking up his camera from the floor where it had fallen. He checked the lens. Miraculously, not a single scratch. He flashed her a quick, strained smile.
"Me? I'm gonna do my job. Somebody's got to take photos of the superhero punching the giant rhinoceros man."