Chapter Text
Intro Music: Spider-Man 2002 - Main Titles
"Okay, let's do this one last time. I'm Peter Parker. You guys should know the story by now. A radioactive spider decided to bite me when I was a teenager, and ever since that day, I've been your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man. Still… balancing my life hasn't gotten any easier, and I wish my Parker Luck would give me a break for once. Is that wishful thinking? It probably is. But somehow, someway, I try to push through, even when it hurts. Why? Because my Uncle Ben once told me that with great power… there must also come great responsibility. There, I said the thing. You guys happy now?"
New York City
Within the narrow confines of a one-bedroom apartment in New York City, Peter Parker stood in front of a mirror, adjusting the tie of his best—and only—decent suit. It was a navy-blue number that had seen a few too many occasions and maybe one funeral, but it still held up. Barely.
Beneath the formal wear, the iconic red and blue of his Spider-Man suit clung to his skin, just in case. Life in New York never afforded Peter the luxury of being just Peter Parker for long. But today, he hoped, maybe just maybe, the infamous Parker Luck would give him a break. Today wasn't about swinging from rooftops or fighting criminals. Today was about standing in front of a principal and convincing him that he could shape young minds at Midtown High—his old high school.
He gave himself a once-over in the mirror, smoothing back his hair and forcing a smile that was somewhere between "friendly teacher" and "please hire me."
"For once," Peter murmured to his reflection, tugging at his collar, "let the Parker Luck take a day off."
That's when his phone buzzed, breaking his concentration.
BUZZ!
Fishing it from his pocket, he smiled softly at the screen.
Aunt May: Good luck today, sweetheart! You're going to be amazing. Love you always.
Peter's thumbs tapped a reply quickly.
Peter: Thanks, Aunt May. Love you too. I'll let you know how it goes.
He tucked the phone away and took one last glance in the mirror. Satisfied, or as satisfied as a perpetually nervous Peter Parker could be, he grabbed his helmet and stepped out into the hallway.
"Mr. Parker!"
The sharp voice came from Peter's landlord across the hall. The door creaked open, revealing the unmistakable form of Mr. Ditkovich, wearing a robe and holding a cup of what Peter could only assume was something stronger than coffee. Behind him, his daughter—Ursula—peeked out with a warm smile.
"Today is the big day, yes?" Mr. Ditkovich said, pointing the mug at him. "Maybe now you'll finally pay your rent... on time."
Peter chuckled, shaking his head. "I'll do my best, Mr. Ditkovich. No promises."
Ursula waved sweetly. "Good luck, Peter."
"Thanks, Ursula," Peter replied, giving them a playful salute before heading downstairs.
Outside, the city was already alive and chaotic—cabs honking, street vendors yelling, a typical New York morning. Peter straddled his old moped, secured his helmet, and kicked the starter.
"Alright," he muttered. "No bad guys. No distractions. Just me, the traffic, and a future in teaching."
He pulled into the street, merging with the current of vehicles. Surprisingly, he made it five whole blocks with no incident.
"See?" he told himself. "The Parker Luck is finally on my side for once-"
BGM ENDS
SPIDER-SENSE TINGLING!
That awful, bone-deep chill of danger coursed down his spine. He didn't even have time to fully process it before sirens screamed from behind. A convertible barreled down the road, tires screeching, chased by three squad cars. The speeding vehicle was aiming right at him.
Peter's eyes went wide. "Aw, come on!"
With a practiced grace, he launched himself off the moped in a backwards flip, soaring through the air. The convertible zoomed under him. Police cars thundered by. His poor moped? Flattened like a pancake.
Landing in a crouch, Peter groaned. "That thing was older than me…"
A few kids nearby who'd witnessed the whole thing stood slack-jawed.
"That was awesome!" one of them shouted.
Peter grinned and gave them a two-finger salute. "Thanks! I'm inspired by Spider-Man. I also make sure to eat plenty of green vegetables."
He bolted into an alley. Moments later, the professional attire was gone, replaced by the red-and-blue of the city's friendly neighborhood Spider-Man.
"Hey, look! It's Spider-Man!" exclaimed a civilian, pointing at the web-slinger.
"Hello, pedestrians!" Spider-Man replied, never breaking his stride.
Swinging into action, Spidey followed the chaos below, spotting the culprits: Flint Marko and Aleksei Sytsevich. Not supervillains. Not yet. Just two crooks with more guts than brains.
Inside the car, Flint was gripping the dashboard. "You gonna lose 'em or what?!"
"I'm trying!" Aleksei barked, glancing in the rearview. Then he froze. "Oh no…"
"What?" Flint asked.
"Take a wild guess," Aleksei said, nodding toward the windshield.
Spider-Man landed with a heavy thud on the hood, crouching low. He gave a long, exasperated sigh.
"You two again?" he said. "Ever consider a nine-to-five?"
"Get off the car!" Flint yelled.
Spider-Man shook his head and waved his index finger. "Sorry, Marko. Can't do that. You're doing your best Fast & Furious impression through downtown Manhattan."
Aleksei snarled. "If you're not getting off, then we'll make you get off!"
He jerked the wheel violently. The car swerved, tires squealing.
"DUDE!" Flint shouted. "You're gonna kill us!"
"No sacrifice, no victory!" Aleksei bellowed, eyes wild.
Spider-Man held on easily, but enough was enough. He reached forward, grabbed both men by the collar, and yanked them out of the car in one smooth motion.
They screamed all the way until they hit his webbing—which stuck them to the side of a nearby building like oversized flies.
"Stay put! Life choices! Re-evaluate!" Spider-Men yelled at them, before hopping into the now-empty convertible. "Okay, I was never able to get my license," he said, gripping the wheel. "But I think I can make this work… Hopefully."
He slammed the brakes. Swerved. Screeched through two near-misses. People dove out of the way.
"Sorry! Sorry! I'm so sorry!" Spider-Man apologetically shouted.
With a final squeal of tires, the car slid perfectly between two parked SUVs.
"…And that," he said, stepping out with flair, "is how you parallel park."
New Yorkers stared in silence. One person clapped. Then another. And a few more. Soon a small cheer erupted.
Before he could leave, a voice called out, "Spider-Man! Hold up!"
He turned to see Eddie Brock jogging over, camera in hand.
"Mind if I grab a few shots for the Bugle?"
Spidey sighed, but he ended up posing obligingly. "Just make sure Jameson doesn't call me a menace this time."
"No promises," Eddie laughed, snapping photos. "But I'll try."
"Good luck with that," Spider-Man said, shooting a web to a nearby building. "You'll need it."
With a powerful yank, he launched himself into the air, soaring high above the streets once more. Below, the cheers faded behind him as he swung toward whatever the day had left in store—job interview or otherwise.
Because if there was one constant in Peter Parker's life, it was this: he'd always find time to do the right thing, even when it cost him.
Especially when it cost him.
Midtown High School
BGM: Spider-Man: Homecoming - Academic Decommitment
Peter darted across the street, tie flapping behind him like a loose tail, the memory of his ruined moped fresh in his mind. Back in his suit, Spider-Man tucked away, and his heart pounding like a jackhammer, he sprinted toward Midtown High—the same halls he used to walk as a wide-eyed student, now hoping to return as a teacher.
"I'm late, I'm late, I'm late!" he muttered breathlessly to himself, weaving through students and staff like a man on a mission. Of course he was late. Of course.
He shoved open the front doors, practically skidding across the freshly waxed floor.
"Excuse me, coming through, sorry!" he blurted to a confused janitor as he dashed through familiar corridors. It was strange being back. The lockers, the smell of cafeteria food, the artistic posters—all painfully familiar, all a reminder that this place used to feel like a second home, for better or worse.
He finally reached the principal's office and burst through the door, panting, cheeks flushed.
"I'm… here… for the interview." Peter said, pausing as he caught his breath. "Peter Parker. Sorry I'm late."
The man sitting behind the desk didn't even blink. Early-40s, neat haircut, and having the aura of someone who ran a tight ship and had no time for nonsense. His nameplate simply read: Mr. Watts.
"You're late," he said plainly, as though Peter hadn't just declared it himself multiple times on the way in.
Peter straightened his back, smoothing his hair as best he could. "Yes, I-I know, and I'm really sorry. There was… There was a disturbance on the way here, but-"
Mr. Watts raised a hand, silencing him. He leaned back in his chair, folding his hands across his stomach.
"There won't be an interview, Mr. Parker."
Peter froze. His chest tightened. He knew it. He knew it. But it still hit like a punch to the gut.
"I… I understand," Peter said quietly, trying to keep the desperation from leaking into his voice. "But… may I ask why, officially?"
Mr. Watts' eyes narrowed slightly, more tired than cruel.
"If you can't even be on time for the interview," he said, "why should I expect you to be on time as a teacher?"
Peter's mouth opened, but no words came at first. His brain was firing in a dozen directions—none helpful.
"I had to- There was a... situation. But it won't happen again, I promise," he said, his tone pleading but still measured, trying not to sound like a teenager begging for a homework extension.
From just outside the office, a passing voice chimed in with a snide edge. "Don't make promises you can't keep, Mr. Parker."
Peter turned just in time to see a tall, wiry man in a tan vest stroll past the door without slowing down. Mr. Webb—the assistant principal. Same sharp tongue. Same sharper suits.
Peter clenched his jaw. His hands twitched slightly at his sides, itching to say something, anything. But what was there to say?
Mr. Watts cleared his throat, returning Peter's attention to him.
"You seem like a nice young man," the principal said with a sigh, "but we can't make decisions based on intentions. We make them based on reliability. And today, you've shown us that you're not reliable."
The words landed heavy. Too heavy. Like they were meant for more than just the interview.
Peter stood still for a moment, processing. As much as he wanted to argue, as much as he wanted to scream, he couldn't deny that Mr. Watts' reasoning was valid.
So, he nodded slowly, swallowing hard. A polite, hollow smile formed on his lips—the kind he'd worn a hundred times before when everything fell apart and he didn't want the world to see the cracks.
"I understand," he said. "Thank you for your time. And for considering me."
Mr. Watts gave a small nod. "Best of luck, Mr. Parker."
Peter turned, walking out of the office with lead in his shoes. The hallways that once echoed with teen laughter now felt strangely distant, as though he didn't belong here anymore.
He pushed open the doors of Midtown High and stepped outside, the city greeting him with its usual chaos—honks, chatter, footsteps, wind. He closed his eyes for a moment, pinched the bridge of his nose, and let out a slow, exhausted breath.
"So much for the Parker Luck taking a day off."
And with that, he turned and walked into the city—another chance gone, and another weight added to the shoulders of New York's web-slinger.
The Daily Bugle
BGM: Spider-Man 3 Game Soundtrack - Daily Bugle #1
The fluorescent lights of the Daily Bugle flickered slightly overhead as Peter sat in the same chair he'd sat in a hundred times before, across from the desk of the loudest man in Manhattan—J. Jonah Jameson. But unlike those other times, Peter's gaze wasn't focused on the usual stack of barely-legible notes, clippings, and half-drunk coffee cups. His eyes were unfocused. Distant. Still stuck in the echo of Mr. Watts' voice telling him he wasn't reliable enough.
"You're fired."
The words brought Peter snapping back to reality like a rubber band. His eyes blinked quickly as he looked up, startled.
"Parker, hello? You're fired!" Jameson barked, waving his hand like he was swatting a fly.
Peter blinked a few more times. "Wait, what? Why?"
"I'll tell ya why!" Jameson snapped, already on a ranting roll. "Spider-Man—that menace—was in the middle of a car chase this morning, practically turning Fifth Avenue into a demolition derby, and do I have pictures of it? NO! You had one job, Parker!"
Peter sighed, rubbing his forehead. "I was... preoccupied."
Jameson ignored him, swiveling toward the bullpen and shouting loud enough for everyone within a five-block radius to hear. "Where's my coffee?! I requested a coffee exactly sixty seconds ago!"
In the corner of the room, Robbie Robertson looked up from the edge of the desk where he was flipping through layout proofs. Calm and dry as ever, he offered, "The last thing you need is more coffee, Jonah."
"I always need my coffee!" Jameson fired back, slamming his desk for emphasis.
That's when Betty Brant stepped in with perfect timing, her tone laced with playful sarcasm. "Your wife told you to cut back on caffeine, remember?"
Jameson's mouth opened like a cannon ready to fire. "YOU TELL MY WIFE-!"
Then he stopped. Froze. Realized the line he was about to cross. A rare, visible flicker of self-preservation crossed his eyes. He let out a long, through-the-nose breath that looked physically painful.
"…Thank you, Betty," he said, forcing the words out like they were unfamiliar visitors.
Betty smirked. Robbie tried not to laugh. And Peter? He almost forgot about the interview as a chuckle slipped out.
But the moment was short-lived.
"Hey, Jonah," came a voice from the doorway.
Eddie stepped in, confident as always, holding out a small stack of glossy photos. "Got some shots of Spider-Man from earlier."
Jameson snatched the photos like they were the last donuts in the break room, flipping through them rapidly. "Meh… they're okay. Not terrible. They'll have to do. Parker didn't get me squat."
Eddie shrugged, glancing at Peter. "Come on, everybody's got an off day."
Peter gave a small, grateful smile. One of the few he'd managed all day.
Jameson groaned. "If Parker keeps having off days, I'll have to fire him for real, and this time I mean it!"
Then, snapping back into business mode, Jameson shouted, "HOFFMAN!"
A nervous voice instantly replied from the hallway, "Yeah?"
"Bring me a cup of decaf!"
"Coming right up, Mr. Jameson!" Hoffman yelped, already halfway to the breakroom.
With that moment of chaos out of the way, Jameson ripped a check from his pad, wrote something down, and handed it to Eddie. "Now get outta my office. Both of you."
Eddie gave a two-finger salute. "Yes, sir."
Peter stood as well, quietly following Eddie out into the hallway. Once they were clear, Eddie glanced at Peter with a grin.
"So… how'd the Midtown High interview go?"
Peter paused. He reached up, rubbing the back of his neck, eyes drifting to the floor.
"…Didn't get the job."
Eddie frowned. "Aw, man. I'm sorry."
He gave Peter a quick, supportive pat on the back. "Hey, it'll turn around for you. You'll see. Sometimes life throws a curveball, but you've got a solid swing."
Peter smirked slightly at the baseball analogy. "Thanks, bro."
Eddie looked down at the check in his hand, then back at Peter. "You wanna split this? I don't mind helping you out a bit."
Peter quickly shook his head. "Nah, don't worry about me. I'll manage."
Eddie tilted his head, studying him for a moment. He could push, but he didn't. Instead, he simply nodded and held out a fist.
Peter smiled. His own fist met Eddie's with a light bump.
Even with everything else falling apart, it was good to know some things stayed the same. Peter and Eddie have been friends ever since they were kids.
"I'll see you later, bro." Eddie told him.
"Yeah," Peter said softly, watching his friend walk toward the elevator. "See you later."
As the elevator doors slid shut behind Eddie, Peter remained standing alone in the Bugle hallway, surrounded by ringing phones, barking editors, and the ever-present hum of a city that never gave anyone a moment's rest.
He looked out the window toward the skyline, the weight of the day pressing down on him like the gravity of a thousand missed chances.
Moments Later…
The crisp afternoon air wrapped around Peter as he stepped out of The Daily Bugle building and onto the bustling sidewalk. Horns blared. Vendors shouted. A cyclist yelled at a taxi driver. The usual soundtrack of New York City chaos filled his ears, but his mind was elsewhere.
Another job opportunity gone. Another door closed.
Peter pulled his suit a little tighter over his chest, mumbling to himself, "Balancing two lives never gets easier."
Just as the thought left his lips, a familiar voice rang out from the street behind him. "Peter!"
BGM: Spider-Man 2002 - Backyard Connection
He turned around, instinctively smiling at the sound of her voice.
"MJ," he said warmly.
There she was—Mary Jane Watson—radiant in a red coat that swayed slightly in the breeze, a tote bag slung over her shoulder, and an unmistakable glow in her expression. The second their eyes met, everything else seemed to pause.
They walked toward each other without a second thought and shared a hug that lasted longer than a casual greeting. Not too long to be strange, but long enough to acknowledge everything they'd been through—together and apart.
When they finally pulled away, Peter kept smiling.
"You look happy," he said, genuinely. "What's the occasion?"
MJ smiled. "The occasion is…"
She hesitated just a moment, like she was savoring the build-up.
"I'm going to be in my first Broadway play! Tonight!"
Peter's eyes widened, his eyebrows shooting up. "Wait, seriously? That's amazing!"
"I know, right? It's kind of surreal," she said, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "I'm filling in for an actress who got sick. So I've got, like… hours to learn a part that usually takes weeks. But it's Broadway, Peter. I couldn't say no."
Peter let out a laugh—proud and impressed.
"I'm so proud of you, MJ. Really. I always knew this would happen. You owned every school play at Midtown. Especially that one where you played the queen and made Flash forget half his lines just by staring at him."
MJ chuckled, her eyes softening. "He was terrified."
They shared another laugh, the kind that came easily between old friends—comforting and familiar.
Then MJ's tone shifted, growing a bit more tentative.
"Look… I know it's last minute, and I'm totally springing this on you, but I'd really like it if you came tonight. I would've told you sooner if I could, but I literally just found out this morning."
Peter's smile faltered just slightly. The promise of an evening free to simply be Peter Parker sounded like a dream. But MJ didn't know about the other part of his life—the part in red and blue. What if Spider-Man was needed? What if something happened and he missed her big moment?
But the look in her eyes—hopeful, vulnerable—anchored him. He couldn't let her down. Not this time.
He pushed the doubt aside.
"I'll be there," he said, the words firm and genuine.
MJ tilted her head, a playful smirk tugging at her lips. "Do you actually mean it?"
Peter laughed, scratching the back of his neck sheepishly. "Okay, that's fair. I do have a track record."
MJ chuckled, folding her arms. "You definitely have quite the track record, Pete. I've lost count of how many dinners, meetups, or events you've bailed on."
Peter acknowledged the truth in MJ's words, but his determination didn't falter. "Yeah, well… I mean it this time. I promise, MJ. I won't let you down."
She studied him for a beat—long enough to tell he was serious. Whatever he was hiding, whatever excuse she'd heard a dozen times before… this didn't feel like that.
"All right," she said with a nod, her smile returning. "I'm looking forward to seeing you."
She turned to leave, then stopped and looked over her shoulder. "I'm going to try to get Harry, Gwen, and Eddie to come too. But right now, I've got about a hundred lines to memorize, and only one brain to cram them into."
Peter gave a mock salute. "Good luck. You'll be great."
She took a few steps away, then paused again.
Their eyes met one more time—another moment neither of them wanted to end. But the world kept moving, and so did she.
With a smirk, she said, "I'll catch you later, Tiger."
And with that, she turned and walked down the street, her red coat swaying as she disappeared into the crowd.
Peter stood there, watching her walk away, and he smiled softly to himself.
"I promised I'd be there," he said under his breath. "And I intend to keep that promise."
The city buzzed on around him. Another night in New York awaited. But tonight, it wouldn't just be about chasing criminals or saving the day.
Tonight was about showing up.
And for Peter Parker… that was sometimes the hardest thing of all.
Sometime Later…
Wind whipped past his ears. The rhythm of his body in sync with the city, Peter—clad in the red and blue suit of Spider-Man—swung gracefully between towering buildings, arcs and dives punctuating his every thought. But even with the usual adrenaline of patrol, his mind wasn't on the streets below or the sky above.
It was on Mary Jane.
It was on her smile when she told him the news.
And it was on the quiet ache that followed.
He was proud of her—so, so proud. But pride had a way of twisting into something heavier when mirrored against his own endless struggle. MJ was stepping into the spotlight. Harry was climbing the corporate ladder at Oscorp. Gwen was thriving in the Oscorp lab as well, doing groundbreaking work. And him?
Still chasing jobs. Still scraping by. Still fighting crime in the shadows.
Still stuck between two worlds, never fully belonging to either.
His thoughts drifted again to Midtown High. To Mr. Watts's apologetic tone. To the rejection that wasn't personal, but felt personal anyway.
Then, his phone buzzed.
BUZZ!
The vibration against his thigh was sharp and sudden, dragging him back to the present. He landed gracefully on the rooftop of a nearby apartment complex and pulled the phone from a hidden pocket in his suit. The screen lit up with a name that immediately brought a smile to his face.
Gwen.
BGM: Coldplay - Til Kingdom Come
He accepted the call. "Hey, Gwen."
"Hey, stranger," her voice came through, light and familiar. "You hear about MJ's big Broadway debut tonight?"
Peter nodded, even though she couldn't see him. "Yeah, I actually ran into her earlier. She told me all about it."
"Of course she did. She's been buzzing all day." Gwen chuckled. "Harry and I are heading over later. No way we're missing it."
"Same," Peter replied. But there was something in his voice—something softer, less certain.
Gwen picked up on it immediately. Her tone shifted, concern slipping in. "You okay, Peter?"
He tried to play it off with a chuckle. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just... tired. Been a long day."
"Peter."
Her voice was gentle but firm. The kind of voice that didn't take excuses. The kind of voice that knew you too well to be lied to.
He hesitated.
Then, with a sigh, he gave in.
"I had a job interview at Midtown High," he said, eyes focused on the skyline. "Teaching science. Thought it'd be a good fit. But... I didn't get it."
Gwen didn't say anything at first. He could picture her frowning, processing it.
"And I'm happy for you," he continued quietly. "For you, Harry, MJ. You're all doing great. But me? I'm just... stuck. I keep trying to get my life together, and every time I do, something yanks it all apart again. Feels like everyone's moving forward, and I'm still standing in place."
There was another pause on the line. Then Gwen spoke, her voice softer now.
"I get it," she said. "Life's... tricky. It doesn't always play fair."
Peter gave a small nod, even if it was just for himself. "Yeah."
But while he sat in silence, Gwen wasn't done. Her voice sharpened—not with anger, but with resolve.
"I'm getting you a job at Oscorp."
Peter blinked. "Wait, what?"
"You heard me," Gwen said. "You're one of the smartest people I know, Peter. You've got a brain that could change the world. You shouldn't be fighting for table scraps just because life keeps throwing curveballs."
"Gwen, I appreciate it, really, but-"
"No," she interrupted. "You don't get to argue this one. I care about you, okay? I'm not going to sit back and watch you keep falling just because you don't want to inconvenience anyone."
Peter was quiet, moved by her words.
"You're amazing, Peter," she added, her voice warmer now. "But it's time for you to stop facing your problems by yourself. Let someone help. Let me help."
A small smile crept across Peter's face beneath the mask. "You're amazing, Gwen."
"Yeah, well," she said, teasing now, "I guess I learned from the best." She had no knowledge of Peter being Spider-Man, but the comment obviously still fits.
Peter laughed. "How'd I get so lucky to have a friend like you?"
"I don't know," she replied playfully, "but don't question it too much or I might change my mind."
They shared a brief silence, but it wasn't awkward. It was easy. Comfortable.
"I'll talk to Harry," Gwen continued. "He'll talk to his dad. You know Norman practically sees you as another son."
Peter let out a breathy chuckle. "Yeah... I've noticed."
Another small pause followed.
Then Peter said, "Thanks, Gwen. Really."
"Always," she replied.
"See you at the theatre?"
"Wouldn't miss it."
And with that, they ended the call.
Peter stared at the screen for a few seconds, then tucked the phone away. The city buzzed beneath him. The wind tugged at his suit. The world hadn't changed.
But maybe, just maybe, his corner of it was about to.
Brooklyn Visions Academy
BGM: Metro Boomin, Don Toliver, Lil Uzi Vert - Home (Instrumental)
Brooklyn Visions Academy was quiet.
The kind of quiet that sinks into your bones. The kind that made the fluorescent lights seem colder than they really were. The kind of quiet that amplified footsteps, made the air feel too still, and turned every hallway into a tunnel.
Miles Morales walked through one of those tunnels with his head low and his shoulders hunched.
He moved slowly—not because he was tired, though he was—but because part of him didn't want to get back to the dorm. Part of him didn't want to sit in that room again, with its too-white walls and its too-quiet roommate and its stifling sense of isolation.
His sneakers made soft, rhythmic thuds against the tile floor as he approached the door. He slid his ID card through the scanner, and the door gave a gentle click.
He stepped inside.
The room was empty. Ganke was probably at the computer lab or in the common area. Not that it mattered. They weren't close—not really. Ganke was cool, sure, but they were still stuck in that weird phase between strangers and actual friends.
Miles let his backpack slump to the floor and dropped onto the bed with a quiet whumph.
Then he sat there, elbows on his knees, hands over his face.
And he stayed like that for a long time.
He was exhausted. But it wasn't just physical. It was that deep, aching kind of exhaustion that sleep couldn't fix. The kind that sat on your chest and whispered doubts into your ear every time you tried to push forward.
Transferring to Brooklyn Visions was supposed to be an opportunity. A blessing. That's what his parents said. That's what the teachers said. That's what the news articles said when they talked about "promising scholarship students" and "gifted youth."
But no one ever asked Miles what he thought.
He missed his old friends. He missed his neighborhood. He missed being somewhere that felt familiar. Now, he just felt... adrift. Unseen. Unheard.
The pressure never let up. He was smart—too smart, some said. He was supposed to be the future. But nobody ever asked how it felt to carry that weight. Nobody ever asked what it cost.
His parents loved him. That wasn't the problem.
They just didn't see what he was going through.
And Uncle Aaron—he'd always been the one Miles could talk to when things got real. But Aaron had been distant lately. Not answering calls. Not returning messages. Gone, just like everyone else.
Miles swallowed hard.
Then, slowly, he leaned down and unzipped his backpack. He reached in and pulled out a pencil and a single sheet of notebook paper.
He sat there for a moment, staring at the blank page.
And then, with a trembling hand, he began to write.
This goes out to my parents and Uncle Aaron.
By the time you guys read this, I'll... probably already be gone.
But I want y'all to know that I tried my best to make you proud. I really did.
It's hard holding everything in and feeling like I have no one to talk to, while also trying to live up to everybody's expectations. I can't do it anymore. I can't take it. I'm struggling, man.
I never felt like I had a choice when it came to transferring to Brooklyn Visions. I never felt like I had a choice when it came to my life.
I don't... I don't feel like I'm heard.
It doesn't change my love for you guys. I'll always love y'all, but... I think it's time for me to move on.
He read the words once. Then again.
Each sentence felt like it weighed a ton. But somehow, writing them down made everything a little quieter—like he had finally put into words what had been gnawing at him for months.
He folded the note once and placed it gently on the desk beside his bed.
The night outside was calm. The moon hung high, pale and distant, as if it were watching but doing nothing. The stars glittered indifferently. There was no wind. No traffic. Just silence.
Miles stood slowly, his legs feeling like they were moving through water.
He took one last look at the room. The half-empty bookshelf. The posters he hadn't bothered to hang up. The desk cluttered with untouched homework. The bed he never slept well in.
Then he walked to the door.
His fingers lingered on the handle.
He turned it. Opened the door. Stepped into the hallway.
And the door closed behind him with a soft, and potentially final click.
Broadway Theatre
BGM: Empire State Of Mind Instrumental
Broadway was alive tonight.
The neon signs blazed against the dusk sky, colors reflecting off the sleek cars and endless tide of people. Outside the grand Broadway Theatre, excitement buzzed in the air. This was the night MJ had been working toward, and the crowd was thick with energy.
Among them stood Gwen, Harry, and Eddie, huddled just outside the entrance, watching the clock and scanning the sidewalk.
Harry checked his watch with a half-smirk. "So, any bets? Think Pete actually shows up?"
Gwen nudged him lightly with her elbow. "Come on, Harry. He might not always be on time, but I think he's gonna be here tonight. It's MJ's big moment."
Eddie crossed his arms, glancing toward the street. "He better be. Curtain's in what—ten minutes?"
But then, like clockwork, a familiar voice rang out.
"Wouldn't dream of missing it."
They all turned as Peter approached with a wide grin on his face. A little out of breath, sure, but right on time.
Harry smirked as he patted Peter on the back. "Cutting it close, man. But I guess it's better than not showing up at all."
Peter chuckled, still catching his breath, but he would reply to Harry by saying, "I promised MJ I'd be here. Nothing was gonna stop me."
Gwen smiled warmly. "Good to hear you say that, Peter."
"Yeah," Eddie added. "Now let's get inside before we miss the opening act."
The four friends nodded and made their way through the theatre's grand entrance, their chatter filled with playful jabs and genuine admiration for MJ's rise. They found their front-row seats, the velvet cushions soft beneath them, the red curtain hanging heavy with anticipation.
"Think she's gonna be a star after this?" Harry asked, nudging Gwen.
"She already is," Gwen replied with a smirk.
Peter leaned forward in his seat, his eyes scanning the curtain. He allowed himself a breath, just one breath, to enjoy this moment. A rare, normal moment. No fights, no chases, no split-second decisions. Just friends. Just support. Just MJ.
The lights dimmed.
The crowd quieted.
The curtain rose.
And there she was.
MJ stepped into the spotlight like it belonged to her. Her poise, her voice, her stage presence—it all shimmered. She was radiant. Every movement felt effortless, every word drew the audience in.
Her eyes scanned the crowd. Gwen, Harry, Eddie… and then… Peter.
She paused for a heartbeat when she saw him. Her expression barely shifted, but Peter caught the flicker of surprise in her eyes. He smiled and mouthed, "Hi."
For a split second, MJ's professional composure softened into something warmer. A smile. Then she returned to her role, her fellow actors joining her as the scene began.
Peter leaned back, content.
But then, his phone buzzed.
BUZZ!
Not the one on his right. The one on his left. The Spider-Man phone.
His heart sank. He didn't even need to look. No one called that phone unless it was serious.
Still, he checked.
It was Yuri Watanabe.
His expression darkened.
He ducked his head and answered quietly. "Yuri?"
Her voice came through immediately, tight and serious. "Spider-Man, I need you at the Trust Us Bank building. Now."
Peter's brows furrowed. "What's going on?"
"There was a call," Yuri said. "Came from a student at Brooklyn Visions Academy. Said their roommate left behind a suicide note."
Peter sat up straighter, all the warmth of the theatre evaporating.
Yuri continued. "We traced the name. Kid's called Miles Morales. He's the son of Jefferson Davis."
Peter didn't say anything right away.
A kid. Just a kid.
A kid about to make the worst decision of his life.
Yuri's voice cut through the silence. "We need you, Spider-Man. If anyone can reach him in time, it's you. But we have to move now."
Peter looked back at the stage.
At MJ.
His chest tightened. For once, he wanted to be here for someone. He was here. But the universe had other plans.
He closed his eyes, took a breath, and opened them again.
"I'm on my way," he said softly.
"Go fast," Yuri replied, before hanging up.
Peter stood.
Harry noticed first. "Hey, where you going?"
Peter paused. His face was a mixture of regret and sorrow. "I have to take care of something. I'm sorry. I can't stay."
Gwen blinked. "But Peter-"
He didn't say more. He couldn't.
On stage, MJ caught movement out of the corner of her eye. She kept acting—she had to—but her focus shifted just slightly. Her eyes caught Peter's retreating form.
He looked back once, and their eyes met.
And in that fleeting moment, he mouthed, "I'm so sorry."
Then he was gone.
The door to the theatre swung shut behind him.
MJ kept acting. Gwen kept watching. Harry and Eddie exchanged confused glances.
None of them said anything. Not yet.
But the night had changed.
And Peter Parker had once again chosen the city over his own heart.
Trust Us Bank
The Trust Us Bank building had become the epicenter of Manhattan's attention.
Red and blue lights pulsed in every direction. Helicopters circled overhead, their searchlights sweeping the rooftop like they were afraid to miss even a single breath. NYPD officers were lined up across the barricades, holding back crowds of onlookers with cameras, smartphones, and nervous, anxious eyes.
But none of them were more anxious than Jefferson Davis.
He stood on the edge of the crowd, wearing his badge and uniform, but in that moment, he wasn't a cop. He was a father. A scared, broken father. His hands were trembling, and he couldn't stop looking at the rooftop ledge where his son—his boy—was standing.
"I should've seen this coming," Jeff muttered, his voice thick with guilt. "This is all my fault."
Rio Morales—Jeff's wife—stood beside him, tears in her eyes. She clutched the suicide note Miles had left behind—creased and crumpled from how tightly she'd held it. "We didn't listen," she whispered. "We thought he'd adjust. That it was just a phase. We didn't hear him, Jeff. We didn't see him."
Jeff lowered his head, biting his lip to hold back the storm rising in his chest.
Yuri, standing near them in a tactical vest and headset, placed a hand on Jeff's shoulder. "We're not going to let this end badly," she said softly. "He's not alone up there."
Captain George Stacy, leaning on the hood of a patrol car, watched the scene unfold in grim silence. He glanced at Yuri. "You sure about that?"
Yuri didn't answer. She couldn't.
Up on the rooftop, the world was silent for Miles.
He stood on the ledge, the wind tugging gently at his hoodie. Below him, the chaos seemed distant, like a scene from a movie. The lights, the sirens, the shouting—they all blurred together. He felt like a ghost hovering over a world that had long since left him behind.
His hands were in his pockets. His eyes were heavy. His heart was tired.
And then—thwip.
A soft sound.
Another.
And then a thud as someone landed on the rooftop behind him.
Miles turned around slowly.
Spider-Man stood there, silhouetted by the city lights, mask on, body still, voice calm.
"Hey there, buddy," Spider-Man said gently, taking a step forward. "Miles, right?"
Miles didn't answer, but the pain in his eyes screamed louder than any words could.
Spider-Man nodded as if to say, I see you. He moved slowly, carefully, until he was only a few steps away. Then he crouched down a bit, just enough to be eye-level with the boy.
"You know," Spider-Man said softly, "I've been there. Right where you are. Standing somewhere high, thinking maybe the world would be better off without me. Like the weight was too much to carry."
Miles blinked. A tear slid down his cheek.
"But here's the thing, Miles… life hits us. Hard. We all fall. Sometimes over and over again. But that doesn't mean it's over. It means we get to fight to stand back up."
Another tear joined the first.
Then, Spider-Man placed a careful, steady hand on Miles' shoulder.
"You're strong, Miles. So much stronger than you think. And I promise you this… you're going to be okay. I promise."
Those words cracked something inside Miles.
His lip trembled. His arms dropped to his sides. And without a word, he stepped down from the ledge and fell into Spider-Man's arms.
He clutched him tightly, sobbing into his chest. All the pain, all the silence, all the loneliness—it spilled out in waves.
Spider-Man held him close, warm and steady, like a shield against the storm.
"I'm here, Miles," he whispered. "I'm here. You're seen. You're heard. You're loved. And you're not alone."
Miles cried harder, and Spider-Man didn't let go.
Down below, the screens of news vans and police command centers showed the feed from a rooftop drone.
Jeff fell to his knees, overcome with emotion.
Rio dropped the note, her hands rising to cover her mouth as her tears turned from sorrow to relief.
Captain Stacy exhaled, and Yuri placed a hand on her chest, her eyes softening.
They had done it. Spider-Man had done it.
Miles was alive.
Behind them, the crowd murmured. But then, a calm, friendly voice spoke, cutting through the noise like gospel.
"You know," the man said, walking up beside them, "I guess one person can make a difference."
The group turned to see him—a man in his nineties, wearing dark glasses, a newsboy cap, and a warm smile that felt like home.
Stan Lee.
He looked up at the rooftop with a knowing gleam in his eye. Then he turned to them, smiled again, and added simply:
"'Nuff said."
And with that, he tipped his cap and walked away into the night.
Up above, Spider-Man still held Miles in his arms.
A hero.
A friend.
A lifeline.
Sometime Later…
By the time Spider-Man had made his way to a quiet rooftop on the Lower East Side, the city had finally begun to exhale. The sirens had died down. The crowd dispersed. The cops packed up their barricades, and the sky above had cleared into a velvet canvas, lit by a moon that glowed like a guardian.
Spider-Man sat on the edge of the building, hunched over, elbows resting on his knees. His mask hid the lines of weariness etched into his face, but his posture gave him away. His body sagged with exhaustion—not just from the long day, but from the weight of it all. The guilt. The emotion. The cost.
He had saved a life tonight.
But he had also missed MJ's play.
The wind was gentle, cool against his suit, but even the breeze couldn't ease the ache in his chest. He stared at the skyline, bathed in silver light, and whispered to the night, "What am I even doing?"
Then, a familiar thump behind him.
He didn't turn. He didn't need to.
He felt the presence immediately. The grace in the landing. The softness in the air shifting around him.
Arms slipped gently around his neck from behind, and a warm, teasing voice followed.
"Hey, Spider."
BGM: Metro Boomin - Calling (Instrumental)
He sighed, but not in annoyance. There was a comfort in that voice, one he never really admitted to. "Hey, Cat."
Felicia Hardy—Black Cat—stepped around him and sat down at his side. Her usual flirty confidence was there, but subdued. She could hear it in his tone—he wasn't just tired from web-slinging. He was tired.
Emotionally, mentally, maybe even spiritually.
So, for once, she didn't crack a joke. Instead, she sat beside him in silence, letting it stretch comfortably between them.
Then, quietly, she said, "I saw what you did tonight. That kid. You saved him." She looked at him, her eyes softer now. "You're a real hero, Spider."
He smiled beneath the mask, but it was a sad, tired smile. "Just doing what I'm supposed to do."
But even he didn't sound convinced by that anymore.
Black Cat tilted her head, studying him. She reached out and gently patted her lap. "Lie down," she said, her voice both playful and sincere.
He turned toward her, confused. "What?"
She smirked. "Therapy session. I'm your therapist tonight."
His brows furrowed behind the mask. "You?"
"I charge a hefty fee," she teased, then added in a quieter voice, "but I think you could use a friend right now."
He looked at her. Really looked. For all the teasing, there was truth in her voice. A rare moment of openness.
And so, wordlessly, he shifted and laid back, resting his head on her lap.
He felt her fingers gently push his mask up just slightly—enough to see his mouth and jaw, not enough to reveal everything. She wanted to give him air. A moment of honesty. No pressure. Just presence.
As he stared up at the stars, some of the tension in his body began to leave him.
"Talk to me," she said softly.
He took a breath.
"I'm struggling," he confessed. "Trying to balance it all. Being Spider-Man. Being... me. Even when I win, I lose. I saved Miles tonight, but I let one of my friends down again. She needed me, and I wasn't there for her."
Black Cat grabbed Spider-Man's hand, intertwining her fingers with his, and her touch was surprisingly gentle. "You're talking about your life without the mask, huh?"
He nodded. "Yeah."
She hesitated, then asked, "Can I ask you something?"
"You're the therapist. Go ahead."
She smirked briefly, but the look faded. She looked down at him seriously. "If combining both lives hurts you this much... why do you keep trying to juggle them? Wouldn't it be easier to just be Spider-Man?"
He stared at the sky for a long time.
"Because both lives matter," he said. "Because I am both. Spider-Man isn't just a mask I put on. He's part of me, but so is the guy underneath. If I let one side die... I wouldn't be whole anymore. Even if it hurt less."
She took that in silently. It wasn't the answer she expected, but it made sense. In its own messy, impossible way.
After a long pause, Spider-Man spoke again. "Can I ask you something?"
Black Cat looked down at him. "Of course."
He hesitated—choosing his words with unusual care.
"If... if I ever told you who I really was... if I took off the mask... would you still care? Would you care about the man underneath, or just the Spider?"
The question landed like a stone in her chest.
She blinked, lips parting, caught off guard. Then, in a tone softer than he'd ever heard from her, she said:
"I'd care about both. I do care about both. Even if I think being Spider-Man is who you were meant to be... I'd be honored if you ever shared that part of yourself with me."
A sincere smile formed on Spider-Man's face. "Thank you. That means a lot."
She smiled back, giving Spider-Man's hand a gentle squeeze. "And if that day comes... I hope you'd be comfortable enough for me to do the same."
He chuckled softly. "Would you?"
She tapped her chin playfully with her free hand. "I'd consider it," she said with a wink, but there was something real behind her eyes. A truth wrapped in flirtation.
They sat there like that for a long time, the two of them—hero and thief, ally and rival, complicated friends.
Beneath them, the city pulsed with light and life.
Above them, the stars kept silent vigil.
For once, Spider-Man wasn't alone, and neither was Black Cat.
END OF CHAPTER 1: PARKER LUCK & PROMISES
BGM: Spider-Man TAS 1994 End Credits Theme
Norman: Peter Parker! I heard you need a job.
Peter: Well, uh… Yeah, that's correct, Mr. Osborn.
Norman: Don't worry. I'll take care of you, son.
Harry: Do I not exist anymore?