The small bedroom was dim, lit only by the flickering glow of a desk lamp and the pale wash of moonlight creeping through half-open blinds. Papers were scattered everywhere—half-finished equations.
From the corner of the room, an old radio crackled to life.
"…and once again, Superman saves the day in Metropolis, stopping what officials are calling a 'near-catastrophic reactor meltdown.' Witnesses say the Man of Steel arrived just in time—"
Peter lay back on his bed, staring up at the ceiling, one arm tucked behind his head. The radio's voice filled the silence like it always did—hero after hero, story after story. Always someone bigger. Stronger. Better.
"—no reported casualties, thanks to Superman's quick response—"
Peter exhaled slowly, his eyes drifting toward the faint reflection of himself in the window. Skinny. Ordinary. Invisible.
"Must be nice…" he muttered under his breath.
Outside, a siren wailed somewhere in the distance—far away from Metropolis, far away from gods who could lift buildings and stop disasters without breaking a sweat. Here in Queens, things were smaller. Messier. No headlines. No glory.
Just life.
Peter rolled onto his side, reaching over to adjust the dial, but hesitated. The radio continued, praising impossible strength, impossible speed… an impossible standard.
His fingers curled slightly, resting against the edge of his desk.
"…the world's greatest hero—"
Peter clicked the radio off.
Peter stood by his window, the faint glow of early morning stretching across Queens, casting long shadows between the tightly packed houses. His room was quiet—too quiet—until he reached over and flicked on the small radio sitting on his desk.
"…and in other news, Superman was once again seen over Metropolis last night, stopping an armed robbery before it could escalate—"
Peter barely listened.
His attention was already across the narrow alley that separated his house from the Watsons'. Their bedroom windows faced each other, close enough that, if he leaned out just a little, he could probably toss something across.
He didn't lean.
He never leaned.
Instead, he just watched.
Mary Jane Watson moved around her room, getting ready for school, completely unaware of the boy standing just a few feet away on the other side of the alley. Peter had known her almost his entire life—ever since her family moved in when he was five. Back then, it had been easy. Talking. Laughing.
Somewhere along the way, that got harder.
Now, all he could do was watch from a distance, memorizing little things—how she tied her hair, the way she moved, the quiet confidence she carried even when no one was looking.
"…the world's greatest hero—"
Peter reached over and turned the radio off without taking his eyes off her.
A second later, she grabbed her bag and disappeared from view.
Peter lingered there for a moment longer, staring at the empty window.
Then reality came rushing back.
"Right. School."
The smell of breakfast greeted him before he even made it halfway down the stairs.
"Peter, you're gonna be late!" Aunt May called from the kitchen.
"I know, I know!"
He slipped into his seat at the table, grabbing a piece of toast as Uncle Ben looked up from his coffee.
"Big day today," Ben said with a small smile. "Oscorp, right?"
Peter nodded. "Yeah. Field trip."
"Distinguished place," Ben added. "Not quite Wayne Enterprises or LexCorp, but they're getting there."
Peter gave a small shrug. "Still pretty big."
There was a brief pause before Peter glanced at him again. "Did you… find anything yet?"
Ben's expression didn't change much, but there was something behind his eyes.
"Well, Peter," he said gently, "turns out not many folks are lookin' for a senior chief electrician these days." He let out a soft chuckle. "But don't you worry. I'll find something soon."
Peter frowned slightly. "I could get a job. I mean, I'm starting high school soon—"
Ben shook his head immediately. "No. No, you don't need to do that." His tone was firm, but not harsh. "Your job is to be a kid. Focus on school. Do… kid things while you still can."
Peter looked down at his plate, nodding slowly.
Before he could say anything else—
HOOONK.
The sound of the bus echoed down the street.
Peter's eyes widened.
"Oh no—!"
He shot up from his chair, toast still hanging from his mouth as he bolted for the door.
"Peter—!" May called after him.
The door slammed behind him.
The bus was already turning the corner.
"Come on, come on—!"
Peter sprinted, backpack bouncing against his shoulders. The bus wasn't going fast—not yet—but it was fast enough.
He pushed harder.
His lungs burned, his legs screamed, but he didn't stop. He couldn't stop.
He caught up just enough to start banging on the side.
"Wait! Wait!"
Inside, faces pressed against the windows.
Then came the laughter.
Peter ignored it, pounding harder against the metal.
"Come on!"
A few seconds passed.
Then more.
Finally—
The bus slowed.
At the front, Mary Jane stood near the driver, saying something Peter couldn't hear—but he knew. He just knew.
The doors hissed open.
Peter climbed aboard, slightly out of breath, trying to act like that hadn't just happened.
"Thanks," he muttered as he stepped inside, not quite meeting MJ's eyes.
She gave him a small smile anyway.
Peter turned, scanning for an empty seat—
—and suddenly the world tilted.
Flash Thompson's leg shot out, catching Peter mid-step.
Peter hit the floor hard.
The bus erupted.
Laughter filled the air, loud and merciless.
Peter pushed himself up quickly, face burning, pretending it didn't matter—like it never mattered.
Like he was used to it.
Flash leaned back in his seat, grinning. "Nice one, Parker."
More laughter.
Peter didn't respond.
He just grabbed the nearest empty seat and sat down, staring straight ahead.
Outside, the city moved like nothing had happened.
Roll call finished with the usual mix of bored responses and half-mumbled "here's," and before anyone could settle, their teacher clapped his hands and waved them toward the front doors.
"Alright, let's move, people! Bus is waiting!"
The class spilled out of the school and piled onto the bus parked out front. The energy shifted immediately—field trip energy—louder, looser, harder to control.
Once everyone was seated and the bus pulled away from the curb, their teacher turned around in his seat, one knee planted as he leaned over the backrest, trying to command attention.
"Okay, listen up! There will be no wandering. You will proceed direct—" he paused, pointing at a group in the back, "—hey! Knock it off."
A few snickers died down.
"Like I said, you will proceed directly with the group at all times. This is a privilege. We are guests of Oscorp, so you will behave accordingly. Let's not have a repeat of the planetarium trip."
That got a few groans.
"Come on, people. Stay together."
Oscorp Tower rose into the sky like a monument to ambition—sleek glass, sharp edges, and just enough intimidation to remind you that this place mattered.
As they were guided inside, the atmosphere changed. Everything felt cleaner. Sharper. Important.
A voice echoed through the building's PA system:
"Welcome to Oscorp. Born from the mind of our founder, Norman Osborn, Oscorp Tower houses 108 floors of innovation. Our scientific minds are pushing the bounds of defense, biomedical, and chemical technology. The future lies within."
Peter's eyes lit up.
He was already reaching for his camera.
Click.
Click.
Click.
He took pictures of everything.
"Hi!"
The class turned as a blonde girl stepped forward, confident and composed.
"My name is Gwen Stacy. I'm a first-year at Midtown High School's science program, and I'm also head intern to Dr. Connors."
A few impressed murmurs rippled through the group.
"I'll be with you for the duration of the tour. Where I go, you go. That's the basic rule. If you remember that, you'll be just fine."
She smiled, then gestured for them to follow.
The lab they entered felt alive—machines humming, screens glowing, scientists moving with purpose.
A man stepped forward.
"Welcome. My name is Dr. Curtis Connors."
He lifted his arm slightly with a small grin.
"Yes, in case you were wondering—I'm a southpaw."
The class laughed lightly.
"I'm not a cripple," he continued calmly. "I'm a scientist. I am the world's foremost authority on herpetology… that's reptiles, for those of you who don't know."
More laughter, a little more relaxed this time.
Peter snapped a few quick photos.
Click.
After Connors moved on, Gwen gathered them around a sleek table. She tapped the surface, and a hologram flickered to life.
A glowing tree appeared, its branches stretching wide.
"Welcome to Oscorp's Tree of Life," the hologram voice said. "Our planet's tree of life is immense. At Oscorp's cross-species division, we endeavor to explore exciting new methods to improve human life."
As the hologram shifted—DNA strands, animals, cellular structures—Peter leaned in, completely absorbed.
That's when it happened.
From somewhere above—unseen, unnoticed—a small spider descended on a nearly invisible thread.
It landed softly on Peter's shoulder.
He didn't notice.
No one did.
The spider began to crawl.
The tour continued into the bioreactor room, drawing excited reactions from several students.
"Yo, this is sick—"
"Dude, imagine if something explodes—"
Peter barely heard them.
He was too focused.
Click.
Click.
He even turned toward Mary Jane at one point.
"Uh—hey, MJ… can you—stand there? By that panel?"
She raised an eyebrow, but humored him, stepping into place.
Click.
For a second, things felt… normal.
By the time they were ushered back toward the exit, the class had settled into tired chatter.
The spider had made its way down Peter's back… across his side… and finally along his arm.
Still unnoticed.
Still silent.
Back at school, the halls buzzed as students returned to their routines. Peter walked to his locker, shifting his bag on his shoulder as he spun the dial.
Click.
The locker door swung open.
The spider reached his wrist.
Peter reached in.
The moment his fingers brushed his bag—
—it struck.
"Ah—!"
Peter jerked his hand back, slamming it instinctively against the inside of the locker.
A sharp sting pulsed through his hand.
He winced, breathing out sharply.
"…what was that?"
He looked down.
A small, crushed spider lay at the bottom of his locker.
Peter frowned, shaking his hand slightly before grabbing his bag.
"Great… just what I needed."
He closed the locker and glanced at the bite—two tiny marks, already reddening.
It didn't look like much.
It didn't feel like much.
So he turned away and walked down the hall.
The front door creaked open as Peter stepped inside, the familiar warmth of the house wrapping around him—but it didn't feel comforting.
"Peter? That you?" Aunt May called from the kitchen.
"In here!" Uncle Ben added.
Peter barely made it past the doorway before they were on him.
"How was the trip?" May asked, wiping her hands on a towel as she stepped closer, eyes full of that quiet concern she always carried.
"It was… fine," Peter muttered.
Ben tilted his head. "Just fine? Kid, you went to Oscorp."
Peter forced a small shrug, already moving toward the stairs. "Yeah, well… I don't feel so great. I think I'm just gonna lie down."
May's expression shifted immediately. "Oh—Peter, are you coming down with something?"
"I don't know," he said quickly. "Probably just tired."
He didn't give them time to ask anything else. He was already halfway up the stairs.
Each step felt heavier than the last.
By the time Peter reached the top, something was wrong.
Really wrong.
A sharp ringing filled his ears—high-pitched, constant. He winced, grabbing the railing as his vision blurred, the hallway stretching and warping like it couldn't decide what it wanted to be.
"Okay… okay, not good…"
His breathing quickened.
Everything felt… louder. Brighter. Sharper.
Like the world had been turned up too high.
Peter stumbled into his room, barely making it to his bed before his legs gave out. He collapsed forward, his head hitting the edge of the mattress before his body slid awkwardly to the floor.
His hand caught the blanket, fingers clenching instinctively.
Then—
Darkness.
BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.
Peter's eyes snapped open.
The sound of his alarm cut through the silence like a knife.
Without thinking, he reached out—
—and slammed his hand straight into the leg of his nightstand.
CRACK.
The wood splintered instantly.
The entire stand collapsed, everything on top of it crashing down onto him.
Peter froze.
"…what?"
He slowly pushed the mess off himself and sat up, staring at the broken remains like they didn't make sense.
"Okay… that's new."
He grabbed his glasses off the floor and stood, slipping them on out of habit—
—and immediately frowned.
Everything was still blurry.
"…what?"
He pulled them off.
The room snapped into perfect focus.
Clearer than it had ever been.
Peter turned toward the mirror.
And blinked.
"…what."
He stepped closer.
His body—
Was different.
Not just a little.
His shoulders were broader. His arms defined. His entire frame… stronger. Like someone had taken him and rebuilt him overnight.
Peter turned slightly, staring at his reflection like it might change back if he looked long enough.
"What is going on…?"
His mind raced, trying to catch up, trying to make sense of something that didn't make sense.
Knock knock.
"Peter?" May's voice came through the door. "You okay in there?"
Peter hesitated for half a second.
Then something shifted.
A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth—small at first, then growing.
"Yeah," he called back.
He looked at himself one more time.
"…yeah, there's been a pretty big change."
A few minutes later, dressed and moving a little faster than usual, Peter headed downstairs.
Everything felt… lighter.
Easier.
Like gravity had loosened its grip on him.
May looked up as he passed through the kitchen. "Do you have your lunch money?"
"Yeah," Peter said, grabbing his jacket.
Ben pointed at him as he reached the door. "And don't forget—we're painting the kitchen after school."
Peter nodded, pulling the door open.
"Yeah, yeah. Don't start without me."
Ben smirked. "Wouldn't dream of it."
Peter stepped outside.
As Peter stepped onto the sidewalk, the world still felt sharper than it should—every sound crisp, every movement easy to track. He barely had time to process it before a voice cut through the air.
"Worthless! You hear me? Just like your mother!"
Peter's head snapped toward the source.
Across the narrow alley between their homes, Mary Jane stood near her front door, shoulders tense, her father looming behind her. The words hit harder than they should have—Peter could almost feel them.
MJ didn't argue. She didn't fight back.
She just turned and walked away quickly, almost too quickly.
"I have to get to school," she said flatly, brushing past Peter as she reached the sidewalk.
Peter watched her go, something twisting in his chest. He wanted to say something—anything—but the words never came.
So he just followed.
The school day passed in a blur.
Peter couldn't focus. Not on class. Not on teachers. Not on anything except the strange, buzzing awareness running through his body. Every little sound distracted him. Every movement pulled his attention.
It wasn't normal.
None of it was.
Lunch was worse.
Peter sat alone at the end of a table, staring down at his tray, trying to ignore the noise around him. His fingers tapped lightly against the surface, restless.
Then—
Movement.
MJ.
She walked past his table, tray in hand.
And then she slipped.
Time slowed.
Peter didn't think.
He moved.
In a blink, he was there—one hand catching her before she hit the ground, the other snatching the tray midair. Plates, utensils, food—everything that should have crashed to the floor—balanced perfectly.
For a moment, everything was still.
MJ blinked, then smiled.
"Wow… great reflexes."
Peter swallowed. "Thanks."
She tilted her head slightly, studying him.
"Have you always had blue eyes? I didn't notice without your glasses." She paused. "Did you get contacts?"
Peter froze.
His brain shut down completely.
He just stared at her.
MJ smiled awkwardly after a second. "Okay… see you, Peter."
And just like that, she was gone.
Peter sat back down slowly.
"…what just happened?"
He looked at his hand.
That's when he noticed the spoon.
It was stuck to him.
"…okay…"
He shook his hand.
It didn't fall.
He grabbed it with his other hand and pulled—
—and froze.
A thin strand stretched between his fingers and the spoon.
Peter's eyes widened.
"…no way."
He flexed his hand instinctively—
THWIP.
A thin web shot from his wrist, latching onto a tray across the room.
Peter stared.
"…no, no, no—"
He yanked his arm, trying to get rid of it—
—but the tray came flying toward him.
Peter ducked on pure instinct.
The tray sailed past his head—
—and slammed directly into Flash Thompson.
Food exploded everywhere.
The table erupted in laughter.
Flash shot to his feet. "What the—?!"
Peter was already moving.
He stood quickly, trying to leave before anyone connected it to him—but the web was still attached.
So the tray dragged behind him.
Across the floor.
Loud.
Obvious.
Peter winced.
"Come on, come on—"
Just before anyone could fully notice, the web snapped free.
Peter didn't stop walking.
At his locker, his hands fumbled with the combination.
"Think, Peter… think…"
Then—
Everything sharpened again.
His senses spiked.
He could feel something behind him—a paper airplane cutting through the air.
Another direction—a spitball flying.
Every tiny movement mapped itself in his mind.
Peter's breathing slowed.
Then—
A presence.
Right behind him.
Flash.
Peter didn't even turn.
He just knew.
Flash swung.
Peter moved at the last possible second.
Flash's fist slammed into the locker instead.
BANG.
Flash hissed in pain, shaking his hand before glaring at Peter.
"You think you're funny?"
Before Peter could respond, MJ rushed in.
"Flash, it was an accident!"
Flash scoffed. "So is my fist breaking your teeth."
Peter raised his hands slightly. "I don't want to fight you."
Flash smirked. "Yeah? I wouldn't want to fight me either."
Students gathered quickly, forming a circle.
"Fight! Fight! Fight!"
Flash stepped forward, raising his fists.
He threw a jab.
Peter dodged.
Another punch.
Dodged again.
They circled.
Flash kept swinging.
Peter kept slipping past every hit like it was nothing.
"What, you scared?!" Flash snapped.
Then—
Footsteps behind Peter.
Fast.
One of Flash's friends charged in.
Peter reacted instantly.
He flipped—clean, effortless—over both of them.
The kid crashed straight into Flash.
"Ow—watch it!"
"You're on your own, man," the friend muttered, backing off into the crowd.
Flash growled and rushed forward, throwing a flurry of punches.
Peter moved through them like water.
Effortless.
Untouchable.
Then—
Peter caught his arm.
Twisted.
Flash grunted in pain.
Before anyone could react—
Peter shoved him.
Hard.
Flash went flying backward, crashing into the lockers.
Silence.
The crowd froze.
Peter stared at his own hand.
"…I didn't mean—"
He didn't finish.
He turned—
And ran.
Down the hallway. Out of the school.
Gone.
Back inside, no one spoke for a moment.
MJ stood there, watching the empty hallway.
Confusion.
Worry
peter ran Five blocks. Maybe more.
He ducked into an alley, bracing his hands against his knees as he tried to catch his breath. The city noise felt distant here—muted compared to the storm inside his head.
"…okay… okay…"
He straightened slowly, staring at his hands.
Something wasn't right.
His wrist caught his attention first.
There, just beneath the skin, was a strange marking—thin lines branching outward in a pattern that looked almost… intentional.
Like a web.
Peter turned his hand over.
The spider bite was still there. Two small puncture marks, darkened now, surrounded by faint redness.
"…no way…"
He looked up.
Across the alley, a rusted metal bar stretched between two walls, barbed wire loosely hanging from it. A spider crawled along the wire, slow and deliberate.
Peter stared at it.
Then back at his hand.
Then back at the spider.
"…do I have the powers of a spider?"
The words sounded ridiculous out loud.
And yet—
He looked up at the building beside him.
Four stories. Brick. Straight up.
Peter hesitated for half a second.
Then he reached out and placed his hand against the wall.
His fingers stuck.
His eyes widened.
"…oh."
Slowly, carefully, he placed his other hand.
Then a foot.
Then another.
And just like that—
He was climbing.
No ropes. No effort.
Just his fingertips gripping the surface like it was nothing.
A grin spread across his face.
"Okay… okay, that's—wow."
Moments later, he pulled himself onto the rooftop.
Wind rushed past him.
The city stretched out in every direction.
Peter laughed—short, breathless, disbelieving.
Then he ran.
Fast.
Faster than he'd ever moved before.
He sprinted across the rooftop, each step light, controlled—like his body finally knew what it was doing.
He jumped.
Cleared the gap between buildings effortlessly.
Landed.
Kept going.
Another jump.
Another rooftop.
Another laugh.
"This is insane!"
He reached the edge of the block and skidded to a stop, peering over the side.
Far below, cars moved through the streets like tiny machines.
Peter swallowed.
"…okay. Don't think about falling."
Across the street, a construction crane loomed, lifting heavy steel into place.
Peter stared at it.
Then at his wrist.
"…web."
He raised his hand, flicking it outward.
"Go, web."
Nothing.
He frowned.
"Uh… web? Shoot? Fly?"
Nothing.
Peter tried again. And again.
Each attempt more awkward than the last.
"Come on, do the thing—!"
He paused.
Looked at his hand.
Flexed his fingers slowly.
Ring finger.
Middle finger.
As they curled inward—
THWIP.
A strand of web shot out.
Peter froze.
"…oh."
He blinked.
Then grinned.
"Oh, that's how it works."
This time, he held the motion longer.
Focused.
Aimed.
THWIP.
The web shot out and latched onto the crane.
Peter grabbed the line with both hands, pulling it tight.
"Okay… okay… don't mess this up…"
He took a breath.
Then jumped.
The world dropped out from under him—
—and suddenly he was swinging.
Wind rushed past his face.
The street blurred below him.
Peter laughed, louder this time.
"I'm doing it—I'm actually—!"
Then reality hit.
"…wait—how do I stop?!"
The crane passed.
The building rushed toward him.
Fast.
Too fast.
"OH NO—"
WHAM.
Peter slammed flat against a billboard, sticking there like a human pancake.
There was a long pause.
Then—
"…I should've thought that through."
He peeled his face off the surface slowly, wincing.
"Okay… note to self—learn how to land."
But despite the pain—
He was smiling.
by the time peter made it home the sun had already set and when he walked in he saw that ben had painted the kitchen and on the fridge there was a note there neat loaf and veggies in the oven
seeing this note made peter feel bad about forgetting and as he read the note he heard MJ father yelling at her "is she back with a beer yet?" "what?" "bring me some beer" "gfet up off your ass" "i paid for beer" "stop yelling" "stop it" "your as stupid as your mother where are going"
see mj leave out the back of the house peter took the trash out so hed have an exuse for going outside
when she made it outside she saw peter putting his garbage into a trash can anbd asked if he was listen to that and peter said " no, well i heard but i was just taking out the trash
MJ voice trembled a bit and said well i guess you can always hear us but peter told her that everyone shouts and MJ pointed out that she has never heard his aunt and uncle but peter told her that they could scream pretty good sometimes listen M.J about today at school with flash. M.J butted in and said you really freaked me out peter then asked if he was okay and M.J reassured him that peter that flash was fine and he was glasd that you didnt give him a black eye before the summer break
mj then asked "i know where just about to start high school but do you know what your gonna do after high school?"
peter told her that he didnt know yet but he wanted to move in to the city but ill probably get a job as a photographer. peter then asked her what her plans where and M.J said that she want to be a model or an actress and peter told her that she would be great as an actress before telling her that when she play cinderal in that play she made him cry and M.J scoffed and said pete that was first grade peter said well, even so sometimes you know people, you can just see whats's coming
mj asked what he saw for her peter heard the longing in her vocie and told her that she was gonna light up Broadway peter saw M.J eye light up
suddenly flash appeared at the end pf the shared ally and call mj over and as she was about to walk over to him peter told her that if she ever need a place to get away from her father may and ben would mind letting you stay before she could reply peter went back inside
By the time Peter made it home, the sun had already dipped below the rooftops, leaving the neighborhood washed in dim orange and shadow.
He stepped inside quietly.
The house smelled different.
Fresh paint.
He looked toward the kitchen and froze for a second.
Uncle Ben had already finished. The walls were coated in a clean, soft color, the kind May would pick—warm, welcoming. Everything looked… done.
Peter's stomach twisted.
On the fridge, held up by a magnet, was a note in May's neat handwriting:
Meatloaf and veggies in the oven. Love you. —May
Peter stared at it longer than he meant to.
"…I said I'd help."
Guilt settled in his chest, heavier than anything he'd felt all day.
Then—
Voices.
Sharp. Loud.
From next door.
"Is she back with a beer yet?!"
Peter stiffened.
"What?" MJ's voice came, smaller.
"I said bring me some beer!"
"Get up off your ass—"
"I paid for it!"
"Stop yelling!"
"Stop it—!"
Then—
"You're as stupid as your mother! Where are you going?!"
Peter's jaw tightened.
He moved toward the back without thinking.
Through the window, he saw MJ slipping out the back door of her house, moving fast—like she just needed air.
Peter grabbed the trash bag near the door.
"…yeah, okay."
He stepped outside, tossing it over his shoulder, giving himself a reason.
The alley was quiet.
Too quiet compared to what he'd just heard.
Peter walked to the trash can, lifting the lid and dropping the bag in.
"Hey."
He turned.
MJ stood a few feet away, arms folded lightly around herself.
"Were you listening to that?" she asked.
Peter rubbed the back of his neck. "No—well… I heard it. But I was just taking out the trash."
Her voice wavered slightly. "I guess you can always hear us, huh?"
Peter shook his head. "Everyone shouts."
MJ gave a small, sad smile. "I've never heard your aunt and uncle shout."
Peter shrugged. "Oh, they can scream pretty good sometimes."
That got a faint breath of a laugh out of her.
Peter hesitated.
"Listen, MJ… about today. With Flash—"
"You really freaked me out, Peter," she cut in.
He blinked. "Is he… okay?"
"Yeah," she said quickly. "Flash is fine. he's just… glad you didn't give him a black eye right before summer break."
Peter let out a quiet breath. "Yeah… me too."
There was a pause.
Then MJ looked at him, really looked this time.
"I know we're about to start high school and everything… but do you know what you're gonna do after?"
Peter thought about it for a second.
"I don't know," he admitted. "I mean… I kinda want to move into the city. Maybe get a job as a photographer to help pay for collage."
MJ tilted her head. "Yeah?"
Peter nodded. "Yeah."
He looked at her. "What about you?"
For a moment, she hesitated.
Then—
"I want to be a model," she said. "Or an actress."
Peter smiled immediately. "You'd be amazing."
She scoffed lightly. "Please."
"No, I'm serious," he said. "When you played Cinderella… you made me cry."
MJ raised an eyebrow. "Pete, that was first grade."
Peter shrugged, a small smile on his face. "Yeah, well… even so. Sometimes you just know people, you know? You can see what's coming."
She studied him for a moment.
"…what do you see for me?"
There was something in her voice.
Something hopeful.
Something fragile.
Peter didn't hesitate.
"You're gonna light up Broadway."
For a second, she just stared at him.
Then—
Her eyes lit up.
Not fake.
Not forced.
Real.
"MJ!"
The moment shattered.
Both of them turned.
Flash stood at the end of the alley, leaning like he owned the place.
"Come on!"
MJ glanced between them.
Then back at Peter.
She started to step away—
Peter spoke quickly.
"Hey—if you ever need somewhere to go…"
She paused.
"…my aunt and uncle wouldn't mind. You could stay with us."
She looked at him, surprised.
Before she could respond—
Peter stepped back.
"Uh… I should go."
Peter stood at the window, just barely out of sight, watching as MJ walked down the alley and climbed into Flash's car. The engine roared to life, headlights cutting through the dim evening as the car pulled away.
Peter didn't move.
"…yeah," he muttered under his breath.
After a moment, he stepped back from the window and dropped onto his bed, pulling his phone out of his pocket. His thumb hovered for a second before he unlocked it and started scrolling.
Cheap cars near me.
Listings popped up instantly.
Most were junk. Way out of his price range—or barely holding together.
Then he found one.
A used car dealership in New York. The prices dropped as he scrolled, each listing cheaper than the last. Finally, one caught his eye.
Affordable.
Not pretty—but not terrible either.
Peter leaned back slightly, staring at the screen.
"…I could actually get that."
The thought stuck.
But then reality followed.
With what money?
Peter sighed and kept scrolling.
Ways to make quick cash.
Results flooded in—most of them useless.
Until one stood out.
An underground meta fighting ring.
Peter frowned slightly as he read.
$5,000 to anyone who can last five minutes with the champion.
"…five minutes?"
He sat up.
His mind immediately jumped back—to the speed, the strength, the reflexes.
Flash hadn't even touched him.
"…that's easy."
The decision came faster than it should have.
That night, Peter didn't sleep.
His desk was covered in sketches—rough ideas for a costume. Nothing too complicated. He didn't have time for that.
Simple.
Functional.
Something that wouldn't get in the way.
Between sketches, he practiced.
THWIP.
A web shot across the room, sticking to his wall.
Peter adjusted his fingers.
THWIP.
This time, cleaner.
More controlled.
He grabbed random objects—books, pens, anything—and practiced pulling them in, aiming, adjusting angles.
Again.
Again.
Again.
By the time he stopped, his room looked like a webbed mess.
But his aim?
Better.
The next day, Peter rushed through the living room, halfway out the door before Uncle Ben's voice stopped him.
"Peter!"
He paused.
"I'm going to the library," Peter said quickly. "Homework."
"I'll drive you," Ben replied, already grabbing his keys.
Peter shook his head. "I was just gonna take the subway—"
"I said I'll drive you."
There wasn't much room to argue.
"…okay."
The car ride was quiet.
Too quiet.
Peter stared out the window, watching the city pass by, his mind somewhere else entirely.
Ben pulled over near the library.
Peter reached for the door. "Thanks for the ride—"
"Wait."
Peter paused.
Ben looked at him, serious now.
"We need to talk."
Peter exhaled, already impatient. "We can talk later."
"Well, we can talk now. If you'll let me."
Peter leaned back slightly. "About what?"
Ben didn't hesitate.
"Because we haven't talked in a couple of days. You're shirking your chores, you've got all those weird experiments in your room, and now you're starting fights at school—"
"I told you I didn't start that fight," Peter cut in.
Ben nodded slightly. "But you sure as hell finished it."
Peter frowned. "What was I supposed to do? Run away?"
"No," Ben said calmly. "You're not supposed to run away. But, Pete… look at you. You're changing."
Peter looked away.
"I went through the exact same thing at your age," Ben continued.
"No," Peter said, shaking his head. "Not exactly."
"These are the years when a man changes into the man he's gonna become for the rest of his life," Ben said firmly. "Just be careful who you change into."
Peter stayed quiet.
"This guy—Flash Thompson—he probably deserved what happened," Ben went on. "But just because you can beat him up doesn't give you the right to."
Peter's jaw tightened.
"Remember… with great power comes great responsibility."
The words hung in the air.
Heavy.
Peter looked back at him. "What, you think I'm gonna become a criminal or something?"
Ben sighed. "That's not what I'm saying—"
"Then stop worrying about me," Peter snapped. "Yeah, something's different. I'll figure it out."
"Pete—"
"And stop lecturing me."
Ben paused.
"I don't mean to lecture or preach," he said quietly. "And I know I'm not your father—"
"Then stop pretending to be."
Silence.
The words landed harder than Peter expected.
Ben looked away for a moment, then nodded slightly.
"…I'll pick you up at ten."
Peter didn't respond.
He opened the door and stepped out.
The car pulled away.
Peter stood there for a second… then glanced around.
He crossed the street, just like he said he would.
Waited.
Watched.
As soon as Ben's car turned the corner—
Peter stopped.
Turned.
And walked in the opposite direction of the library.
By the time Peter found the place, the sun was long gone and the city had shifted into something rougher—louder, darker, alive in a different way.
The entrance wasn't marked. Just a worn door, a line of people who looked like they knew exactly what this was, and the distant echo of a crowd roaring from somewhere below.
Peter pulled his hood up and stepped inside.
The air down there was thick—sweat, metal, and anticipation.
A guy with a clipboard barely looked at him as he pointed down a hallway. "Changing room's that way."
Peter nodded and kept moving.
Inside, the room was cramped and dim, filled with other fighters—some pacing, some stretching, some already bruised. No one paid him much attention.
Peter moved to a corner and pulled his bag open.
Simple.
That's what he'd decided.
Red hoodie with a spider emblem across the chest. Blue jogging pants. Gloves. And a red ski mask to hide his face.
Nothing flashy.
Nothing that tied back to Peter Parker.
As he pulled the mask down over his face, he took a breath.
"…okay."
For a moment, everything felt still.
But above—
Hidden in the steel rafters, unseen by anyone below—
Something else watched.
Silent.
Waiting.
The roar of the crowd hit like a wave as Peter stepped closer to the arena.
The main fight was just ending.
Two men slammed into each other in the ring, one clearly overpowering the other until—BAM—it was over.
The loser hit the mat hard.
The crowd exploded.
A man in a bright, almost obnoxiously colorful jacket strutted into the ring, grabbing a mic.
"Ladies and gentlemen!" he shouted, voice booming. "Give it up for our champion!"
The crowd roared louder.
"For FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS…" he continued, pacing dramatically, "…is there no meta here man enough to last THREE MINUTES in the ring with this TITAN of testosterone?!"
Cheers.
Laughter.
Taunts.
Peter stepped up to the registration table.
The woman behind it barely glanced at him. "We're full."
"I want in," Peter said.
She sighed, annoyed. "Kid, go home."
"I said I want in."
That got her attention—barely.
She looked him up and down. "What's your meta power?"
Peter hesitated for half a second.
"…super strength."
She rolled her eyes. "Yeah, sure you do." Then she jerked her thumb toward the arena. "Fine. Go down the ramp. Don't die."
One after another, challengers stepped into the ring.
One after another, they fell.
Hard.
Fast.
The champion barely broke a sweat.
Peter watched from the side, arms crossed, studying every movement.
Timing.
Openings.
Patterns.
By the time his turn came—
He was ready.
"Next up!" the announcer looked over to peter and asked what he was called and peter told him that he was man spider but the announcer said next up the amazing Spider-Man.
A few laughs from the crowd.
Peter stepped into the ring.
The cage dropped instantly from above—metal slamming into place around him with a heavy CLANG.
No way out.
The champion cracked his neck, grinning.
"Gonna be quick," he muttered.
Then he charged.
Fast.
Too fast for a normal person.
But not for Peter.
Time slowed.
Peter moved on instinct—
He flipped clean over the man, effortless.
The champion didn't stop.
He slammed face-first into the cage.
The metal rattled.
The crowd reacted—surprised, intrigued.
The man turned, anger flashing across his face.
Peter tilted his head slightly behind the mask.
How can this guy look any more angry?
The champion roared and rushed again, throwing punch after punch.
Peter dodged.
Left.
Right.
Leaned back.
Stepped aside.
To him, it felt like the punches were moving through water.
Slow.
Predictable.
Easy.
A grin spread under the mask.
This is nothing.
Confidence crept in.
Too much confidence.
The next time the man swung—
Peter didn't dodge.
He countered.
His fist shot forward—
BAM.
The impact echoed through the cage.
The champion flew backward, slamming into the corner.
His head snapped against the metal.
Then—
He dropped.
Unconscious.
Silence.
For half a second, the entire arena froze.
Then—
The place erupted.
Peter stood there, staring at his own hand.
"…I didn't even—"
He looked down at the fallen champion.
Three minutes?
The cage lifted with a heavy metallic groan, and the roar of the crowd followed Peter as he stepped out. Hands clapped his shoulders, voices shouted things he barely registered, but none of it mattered.
Five thousand dollars.
That's all he could think about.
He was led down a narrow hallway, away from the noise, until he reached a small office. The door creaked open.
Inside, a man sat behind a desk, calmly counting a thick stack of cash.
He didn't even look up at first.
Peter stepped forward.
The man finally glanced at him, then casually peeled a single bill from the stack—a hundred—and slid it across the desk.
Peter stared at it.
"…the ad said five thousand."
The man leaned back in his chair. "Yeah. Five thousand for three minutes." He smirked slightly. "You didn't last three minutes."
Peter's jaw tightened. "I knocked him out."
"Yeah," the man shrugged. "Too fast. Crowd didn't get their money's worth."
Peter didn't move. "I need that money."
The man's expression didn't change.
"I fail to see how that's my problem."
Silence.
Peter slowly picked up the hundred-dollar bill.
For a moment, it looked like he might say something else.
But he didn't.
He turned and walked out.
As he stepped into the hallway, a man brushed past him.
Hood up. Moving fast.
Peter noticed the bulge in his pocket.
A gun.
Peter instinctively stepped aside, letting him pass.
Not his problem.
He kept walking.
Then—
Shouting behind him.
"HEY! STOP HIM! HE'S GOT MY MONEY!"
Peter turned.
The hooded man was sprinting straight toward him.
For a split second—
Time slowed.
Peter could stop him.
Easily.
But instead—
He stepped aside.
The man ran right past him.
Security rushed by seconds later, chasing after the thief.
The boss stormed out into the hall, furious.
"You could've taken that guy!" he snapped at Peter. "Now he's got my money!"
Peter looked him dead in the eye.
"I fail to see how that's my problem."
He turned to leave.
As he passed the office, something caught his eye—
A figure.
All black.
Standing just beyond a back doorway.
Still.
Watching.
Peter frowned slightly—
BANG.
A gunshot echoed from outside.
Peter froze for half a heartbeat.
Then ran.
By the time he reached the library, there was already a crowd.
People gathered in a circle, voices overlapping, tense, confused.
"What happened?"
"Someone got shot—"
"Paramedics are on their way—"
Peter pushed through them, his heart already racing for reasons he didn't understand yet.
"Move—excuse me—"
Then he saw.
The world stopped.
"…no."
Uncle Ben lay on the ground.
Blood.
Too much blood.
Peter dropped to his knees beside him, hands shaking.
"Uncle Ben—!"
A cop moved to stop him, but Peter choked out, "He's my uncle—he's my uncle!"
They let him through.
Peter grabbed Ben's hand, gripping it tightly like he could hold him there.
"Uncle Ben, I'm here—I'm here—"
Ben's eyes fluttered.
"…Pe…ter…"
"I'm here," Peter said, voice breaking. "I'm right here."
Ben tried to speak.
Tried.
But all that came out… was Peter's name.
Then—
His hand went limp.
Fell from Peter's grasp.
"…no."
Peter's breath hitched.
"No—no, no, no—"
But it was already too late.
Somewhere behind him, a police radio crackled.
"Suspect heading south on Fifth! Three cars in pursuit—"
Peter's head snapped up.
Everything inside him changed.
The grief—
Turned into something else.
He stood slowly.
Walked away from the crowd.
From the scene.
From everything.
In the alley nearby, Peter pulled the mask back on with shaking hands.
His breathing was uneven.
Raw.
Then—
He moved.
Running.
Fast.
He hit the wall at the end of the alley and climbed without slowing, reaching the rooftop in seconds.
Then he jumped.
From above, another figure watched.
Batman stood on the library rooftop, the gunshot having drawn him there.
Silent. Still.
He raised a pair of binoculars, scanning the scene below.
His gaze lingered on Peter—on the way the boy held the victim's hand… the way he stood… the way he walked away.
Then he moved.
Batman followed.
Peter swung through the city, messy at first—awkward, uneven.
But improving.
Fast.
Each swing smoother than the last.
Each movement sharper.
Like instinct was teaching him in real time.
Batman tracked him from above, watching carefully.
Interesting.
Peter caught up quickly.
The suspect had ditched the street and fled into an old, crumbling building.
Peter landed on the roof and slipped inside.
Silence.
Broken only by distant footsteps.
Peter followed.
Upstairs.
One level.
Then another.
Until—
There.
The man was trying to force open a door.
Peter moved.
Fast.
He grabbed the man from behind and slammed his head through the small window in the door before yanking him back.
The man stumbled, panicked, pulling out a knife—
Peter dodged and kicked it upward.
The blade stuck into the ceiling.
Before the man could react—
Peter grabbed a hanging pipe and swung, kicking him hard in the chest.
The man flew backward.
Collapsed.
"Don't hurt me!" the man cried. "Give me a chance! Give me a chance!"
Peter stepped forward, fury boiling over.
"What about my uncle?!" he shouted. "Did you give him a chance?! Did you?!"
He grabbed the man by the collar, lifting him—
Then froze.
Recognition hit him like a punch.
"…you."
It was him.
The thief.
The man he let go.
Peter's grip loosened.
He staggered back a step.
The man took his chance—pulling a gun with his good hand—
Peter reacted instantly, grabbing his wrist and snapping it aside with a sharp crack.
The gun clattered away.
The man stumbled backward—
His foot caught on a broken pipe.
He slipped.
Fell.
Off the edge.
Peter's hand shot out.
THWIP.
A web caught the man mid-fall.
He dangled.
Screaming.
Peter held the line.
Breathing hard.
If he let go—
It would be over.
Easy.
Quiet.
Deserved.
For a moment…
He almost did.
Then—
Uncle Ben's voice echoed in his mind.
With great power… comes great responsibility.
Peter closed his eyes.
Then pulled.
Slowly.
Carefully.
He dragged the man back inside and slammed him to the floor, webbing him down completely.
The man sobbed.
Peter didn't say a word.
He just turned—
And left.
Moments later, the shadows shifted.
Batman stepped into the room, silent as ever.
He glanced at the restrained man.
Still alive.
Then toward the direction Peter had gone.