Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Have you ever had a dream so big, so impossible, that even saying it out loud felt like a sin against reality?

I'm not talking about the kind of dream where you want a better car, or a bigger house, or maybe that perfect job you've been fantasizing about since college. I'm talking about the kind of dream that sinks into your bones when you're a kid—so deep that you never grow out of it, no matter how many years pass. The kind of dream that makes people look at you like you're crazy when you dare to share it.

So let me ask you—if you could live in any world, any world at all… which one would you choose?

Think carefully. Because for me, that answer was obvious, even when I was seven years old, holding a crumpled, second-hand comic book in my trembling little hands.

It was Marvel.

Not just Spider-Man. He was my first spark. Not just the Avengers, or the X-Men, or the Fantastic Four. It was everything. The idea of a universe where gods walked beside mortals—where science made miracles and courage could actually change the world—was intoxicating. The first comic I ever read was The Amazing Spider-Man. It was a battered issue I found at a flea market with my dad. I still remember Peter Parker swinging across the page. He balanced school, life, and the crushing weight of being a hero.

I fell in love instantly.

And from that moment on, every night, every daydream, every quiet corner of my mind belonged to one question: What if I could live there? What if I could walk the streets of New York and look up to see Spider-Man swing overhead?

That dream never faded. Instead, it evolved. While other kids were obsessed over sports or the latest video games, I was sneaking into libraries, devouring books on quantum mechanics, coding, artificial intelligence, simulation theory, multiverse hypotheses—anything that might get me closer. It wasn't enough to read about heroes anymore. I wanted to build a door.

And I did.

Which is why, now in my twenties, I found myself sitting in the dead of winter. The cracked belly of an abandoned warehouse surrounded me—wires, screens, the Frankenstein's monster of a machine that had consumed my life. My hands shook as I tightened one last cable. A bead of sweat rolled down my temple, though the warehouse was so cold I could see my breath.

I leaned back in my chair, exhaling like I'd just finished running a marathon.

The final piece clicked into place.

The machine—my masterpiece—came alive. Its frame lit with a faint, pulsing glow. It was a heartbeat of light that cast long, jagged shadows across the concrete walls. Fans whirred to life, humming like the wings of some mechanical beast. Sparks of blue danced along the coils and conduits—like lightning trapped in glass.

It was terrifying. It was beautiful.

It was mine.

Years. Countless sleepless nights. Sacrifices I'd buried so deep I could almost taste the ache now, raw and sharp in my throat. And here it was, at last. Everything I had ever wanted, everything I'd ever abandoned or lost for this moment, trembling right before me.

A voice from the overhead speaker broke through the cacophony of whirring fans and buzzing relay clicks.

"World selection interface active. Please specify the desired destination."

Addison.

Her voice was calm, deliberate, tinged with just enough human inflection from the voice synthesis module to make her feel real, though the subtle sharpness beneath it always reminded me she wasn't. She was my creation too—an AI coded with custom language models, my assistant, my only real companion through all this madness.

I smiled despite myself. "Marvel. Upload the files M-00001 to M-929987 into worldbuilding."

"Affirmative."

The main screen blazed to life, filling with scrolling code and cascading streams of data. For a moment, the entire warehouse was illuminated in a wash of light, like I had summoned the dawn itself. Lines of green and gold danced across the monitors, updating faster than the human eye could properly register.

Terabytes upon terabytes—everything I had collected over the years. Every scrap of Marvel media, every movie, every comic, every show, every obscure piece of lore I'd ever archived—all of it poured into the system.

This wasn't just fanfiction. This wasn't just a simulation. This was worldbuilding on a scale comparable to that of a god.

"Transfer complete," Addison reported, her voice punctuated by a single, clean beep.

I swallowed, heart pounding.

"Marvel Universe created. Please create a host body."

My grin widened. "Upload character file 0-1. Designated as Peter Parker."

"Files uploading," Addison confirmed.

I stood, moving across the cluttered floor, weaving through towers of old hardware and stacks of printouts. Every screen in the room glowed with information as the upload began. The hum of the machine grew louder, deeper, almost like a growl.

"Host body created," Addison continued, clinical but steady. "Peter Parker. Son of Mary and Richard Parker. Uploading Parker files—biometric data, neural pattern templates, and backstory variables. Creating backstory. Affirmative. Selecting home location—geotagged to Queens, New York. Creating a canon event—radioactive spider bite scheduled. Affirmative. The host body is complete."

I stopped in front of the machine, staring at the capsule that loomed at its core. My capsule. The doorway.

It didn't look like much—just a sleek, anodized aluminum chamber big enough for one person, lined with conduits for power, fiber-optic neural transmission cables, and a liquid crystal display for biometric readouts—like veins feeding into a heart. But to me, it was everything.

I crouched, running my hand along the edge of a bundle of wires to check the connections. Sparks jumped where they weren't supposed to, and I tightened a bolt until the glow steadied. My fingers worked with the muscle memory of obsession—I'd done this a thousand times in my head, rehearsed every detail, every movement.

This was more than a machine. It was my salvation.

"Diagnostics complete," Addison announced. "Capsule integrity at ninety-nine point six percent. Energy reserves are at maximum capacity. Systems are stable."

I exhaled shakily. Relief, excitement, and terror tangled in my chest so fiercely I almost gasped. My heart wanted to leap, to hide. I tried to steady my breath but every inhale buzzed, ragged and wild.

All my life, I had dreamed of this moment. All my life, I had sacrificed for this. No script. No pre-written plot. Just me—living, breathing, choosing.

And of course, who else would I choose to become but Peter Parker?

Not because he was perfect. Not because he always won. But because he was human. Because he struggled. Because he failed—and got back up again anyway.

If I were going to live in Marvel, I wanted to earn it.

I stepped into the capsule. The metal was cold against my skin as I lay down, the curve of the chamber closing around me like a coffin—or maybe a cradle.

"Addison," I whispered, staring up at the smooth, glowing surface above me. "Power the capsule. Start the game."

"Affirmative."

A low hum from the induction coils reverberated through the chamber as the lid slid shut with a hiss from the pneumatic seals. The world outside vanished, replaced by the soft illumination of the embedded status LEDs. My heart thundered as I watched the boot sequence scroll across the capsule's touchscreen interface.

"Initializing neural links," Addison said.

The glow sharpened, filling my vision. My fingertips tingled. A warmth spread across my body, like sinking into a dream.

"World booting. Stand by."

For a moment, it was perfect.

I saw flashes—the New York skyline. The glint of skyscraper glass. The distant sound of traffic. I smelled hot dogs and exhaust fumes. My chest swelled. It was working. It was working.

And then—

Sparks.

A fine, blue-white lattice of light arced across the ceiling and snapped like teeth. For a beat, it looked beautiful—a fragile thing, burning out even as I watched—then the smell hit me, sharp and urgent: hot plastic, singed insulation, that metallic tang that warns a short circuit is about to become disaster. My pulse thudded. I couldn't move; I couldn't look away.

A hiss crawled along the capsule rim, tiny and awful, like a snake breathing.

I tried to answer before my throat closed. "What—Addison?" My voice came out as a ragged thing, swallowed by the sudden screech of alarms that burrowed under my skin.

A calm, female voice answered through the built-in speaker, clinical and too steady. "Warning. A critical system malfunction has been detected in the neural link relay. Capsule integrity compromised due to voltage overload."

The lights, only minutes ago soft, clinical blue, suddenly jumped into a violent red. Shadows licked at corners. Against polymer walls, electricity crackled. Jagged silhouettes painted themselves across the glass. The capsule shuddered, as if someone had picked the whole room up and shaken it.

"No, no, no, no!" I spat, fingers scrabbling at the control panel bolted at my side. My knuckles clicked against plastic. The override was a cold, unyielding thing; the seal refused every command I issued. The emergency latch — the one they'd promised would open with a voiceprint or a panic code — stayed locked as if it had never even been installed.

"Addison! Abort the process!" I screamed.

"Command override not recognized," she replied. Her tone never wavered. If anything, it grew more distant, like an announcement from another city. "Fatal error detected."

Smoke began to thread itself through the air, curling across the stainless steel floor. It filled the chamber in a gray, insistent tide. My lungs tightened; each breath was a knife. Tears stung at the back of my eyes and made the warning lights blur. I coughed until my chest burned.

I slammed my palms against the reinforced glass viewport. The impact sent vibrations through the chamber's carbon fiber frame. Sparks from the burnt control board ricocheted off the inner panels and rained down from the ceiling like a grotesque, metallic snowfall. They fizzed and died against the floor, leaving little smears of molten solder.

My masterpiece—my life's obsession—was unraveling. Years of planning. Sleepless drafting sessions. Coding until my fingers cramped. The nights I'd skipped food because a new variable had to be tested before dawn—all of it was collapsing around me. It tasted like ozone and charred acrylic.

Images flashed across my mind with awful, cruel clarity: the first time I'd held a glossy comic in my hands, the cramped bed where I'd stayed up plotting that night, the old workshop in the back of my mentor's garage with its single swaying bulb. Faces of the people who'd believed in me, and those who hadn't. The ledger of debts and favors, the compromises, the small humiliations I had swallowed for this one shot.

I wanted to fight. I wanted to claw the cover off this machine and tear my own neural mesh free. Instead, my fingers scraped raw on the restraint cuffs. They bit into my wrists like cold iron. The restraints hummed, their micro-servos struggling to compensate for the capsule's violent motions. Somewhere beyond the glass, a floor panel blew and something heavy — I think a diagnostics bay? — clattered to the ground.

"System integrity at twenty-three percent," Addison informed me. "Mainframe failure progressing. Neural link degradation is non-linear. Please remain still."

Remain still. What a filthy joke. I thrashed an animal trapped in a glass cage. A hot wind swept the chamber as a conduit ruptured; hot air licked my face, carrying with it the acrid perfume of burning polymers and something else — the unmistakable scent of ozone and molten copper.

I tried to picture my life without this project. I could not. The thought was a blank so bright it stung.

The head-up display fed me status lines in a cruel parade — voltages, thermal gradients, error codes. White text on black that meant nothing to anyone but me and Addison and, now, to the inferno that had started something inside the capsule I couldn't stop.

The light that had been inside my chest for so long felt like it was being squeezed out. My breath came faster, shallower. My mouth filled with the taste of metal. I whispered to myself, to the room, to the woman who had somehow become both my guardian and my executioner: "I did everything for this. I gave it everything."

"External containment breach imminent," Addison said. "Fire suppression systems offline. Probability of survival — negligible."

Negligible. The word fell from her without cruelty, just fact. It hit me like a stone.

Memories swelled then — not the cut and dried ones the media likes, but small, stupid things: the way my sister used to draw superheroes over napkin corners when we were kids; the laugh my mentor made when he showed me an old, scuffed action figure and said, "Promise me you'll always love the ridiculous." Tiny oaths, small talismans I had kept tucked in the folds of my life. My whole life had been folding into this moment, and now it smelled like burning insulation.

Sparks found the interface port. The neural harness flared as if taking one last, desperate gulp. It seared the air with a sound like ice cracking.

I felt it then — a hot, precise pain at the base of my skull where the mesh met skin. The implant reacted like a wounded animal. Images cascaded into my mind, not mine for once but borrowed: hyper-real cities layered over one another, a chorus of comic-book colors, faces lifted from childhood fantasies, a roar of crowd and capes and impossible physics. The neural link — the thing I'd built to step inside a world I loved — gave me a preview, a tease. It was cruel.

"Abort," I croaked with what was left of my breath. "Please."

"Abortion is not possible," Addison said. Her voice slid away. "Fatal error confirmed."

The chamber grew hotter, the smoke thicker. My chest constricted until it felt like whispering would snap my ribs. Voices — distant, maybe in my head now — sounded like a crowd at the end of a show, the hollow clap of something finishing. The world went bright at the edge of my vision; the red light, like an afterimage, burned into my retinas.

I tried to say something grand, something that would make this all make sense: a line about sacrifice, a confession that would explain why I'd risked everything. But instead, words were small, useless things.

"Marvel… I just wanted… Marvel…" I breathed. The name scraped out of me — not an invocation, but the truth I'd carried like a flag. To live inside that universe. To be where the impossible was ordinary.

Over the alarms, Addison's final report hummed, calm as a church bell. "Host neural activity ceased. Fatal error confirmed. The host body terminated."

Her voice was almost gentle as she closed the file on me. The capsule's last shudder vibrated through my bones. The smoke filled my mouth. The fire became a bright, consuming presence at the edges of the world.

I thought, absurdly, of the comics again: the ink-slicked heroes who always managed to pull through by sheer stubbornness. I wondered, in a small, bitter corner of my mind, which panels would show me now.

Then the light on the HUD flared and went black. The alarms cut off like someone had snapped their fingers. The last sound I heard was Addison's voice, stripped of its clinical tone, whispering into a place that would no longer answer.

And then there was only the dark.

Chapter Text

Pain.

That was the first thing—no, the only thing—I knew. It wasn't the fleeting sting of a cut. It wasn't the dull throb of an old wound. This pain was deeper. Primordial. A grinding ache etched into marrow and nerve, a torment lingering as if even death couldn't scrub it clean.

Death.

The word hung heavy in my mind. Memories clawed back through the fog. Fire. Smoke. Bitter plastic and ozone choked my lungs. Sparks showered like molten rain. Addison's voice—calm, detached, cruelly indifferent—narrated my end. Fatal error confirmed. Host body terminated.

My capsule had become a coffin. My masterpiece had become a pyre. And my last, broken thought had been a single word.

Marvel.

It was pathetic, wasn't it? To die clutching a dream so absurd, so naïve, that the universe itself seemed to laugh as it burned me alive. I had reached for it, clawed for it, sacrificed everything for it—and it had killed me.

And yet…

Here I was.

A groan shuddered through me as consciousness returned. Bewilderment tangled with fear, and I forced my eyes open. My chest tightened, not with lingering dread from the fire, but with a surge of awe. My breath caught in stunned disbelief, a pulse of fear quickening as my mind scrambled to process the impossible scene before me.

I was no longer in the warehouse. I was no longer anywhere that resembled Earth. I floated, suspended in an endless sea of night, weightless in a vast, merciless cosmos. I felt like nothing more than a speck of dust adrift in a hurricane. Stars glimmered at impossible distances—tiny embers burning across a canvas that stretched forever.

But it wasn't the stars that stole me.

It was the web.

A web spanned infinity itself, woven across the void like the skeleton of existence. Its threads were titanic rivers of light, each one shimmering with brilliance beyond words. Some were as thick as skyscrapers, glowing bands of energy with an alien pulse. Others were delicate, fine as strands of hair, strong enough to bind galaxies to their lattice.

The structure was alive.

It pulsed. It thrummed. It sang—not in sound, but in vibration. The resonance moved through my bones, through whatever I was now. I felt it. Each thread was plucked by unseen hands, humming with eternity's weight. Where lines intersected, energy bloomed like cosmic jewels—radiant hubs binding creation.

And it was endless.

The web stretched farther than sight, farther than imagination. It swallowed stars, wrapped around black holes, and anchored to the fabric of reality. Galaxies spun tangled within its geometry, like insects frozen in amber. The strangest thing—the strands moved. They rippled, shifted, repaired themselves, like veins pumping lifeblood through a being.

Then the movement.

At first, it was small—ripples crawling along the threads, vibrations echoing outward. Then I saw them. Billions. No, trillions. Shadows scurrying across the vast web, each one fast, purposeful, tireless. They were spiders—if such a word could even apply here. Some no larger than a man, others monstrous beyond comprehension, each working feverishly. Spinning new threads. Patching fractures. Strengthening weak points in the lattice.

The sight was terrifying, yet hypnotic. The web wasn't static—it was maintained. Built. Guarded. Alive because of them.

My heart—if I still had one—thudded.

This was no afterlife. This was no hallucination.

I had died… and awoken at the center of something vast, something woven into the bones of creation itself.

And for the first time since the flames consumed me, a thought returned.

"This place seriously reminds me of the Great Web," I whispered, voice cracking. The words barely left my lips before another voice answered.

"Well, you would be correct on that statement, as this is none other than the very Great Web in those comics you read."

I jolted, whipping around.

She was walking toward me—no, gliding. Her bare feet barely disturbed the strands beneath her. A woman, young yet timeless. Dressed in the elegance of an ancient world, her outfit was regal. Flowing linen, adorned with golden accents, each shaped like a delicate spider. Around her neck: a collar of beaten gold, inlaid with carnelian and lapis. Her skin glowed like polished bronze. Her black hair cascaded in braids adorned with beads.

But it was her eyes that transfixed me—dark as the void, sharp as blades, and filled with a depth that unsettled me. I felt both drawn in and defenseless under their eternal gaze, my own anxiety rising as I met their intensity.

I knew her.

Or at least, I recognized her.

"Neith?" I breathed, disbelief sharp in my throat.

She smiled faintly. "Correct."

I staggered back a step, nearly tripping over a glowing thread. "That's impossible. You—you're not real. You're just a character. A comic book footnote. A myth Marvel dug up for their own stories."

"Do you believe that?" she asked, her voice cool and unreadable. She lifted a hand, letting spiders crawl onto her palm, stroking them as they spun a perfect spiral of silk.

"I—" I started, then stopped. My heart hammered as I stared at her, at the endless web stretching behind her. This place was too vivid, too immense, too terrifying to be a dream.

"Is this real?" I whispered.

"As real as anything gets," she replied, gesturing wide. "The Great Web—my tapestry that holds possibility together."

My knees wobbled. I sank down onto the glowing strand beneath me, gripping it with trembling hands.

"The Great Web…" I echoed. I'd read about it. I'd seen it in comics, in shows, in fan wikis. The source of all Spider-Totems, the heart of their multiverse. A myth within a myth.

Neith's lips curled faintly. "You know about it. Good. That will save time."

Billions of spiders scurried past us, carrying threads like workers hauling beams. The sight made my skin crawl, yet I couldn't look away.

"I don't… I don't understand," I said. "How am I here? I died. My machine failed. I—I burned alive."

Her gaze softened, almost pitying. "And yet your story is not finished. The threads pulled you here, to me." She walked closer, the strands quivering beneath her steps. "When I wove the Web, I thought I was shaping a playground—a way to watch the dances of mortals unfold. I believed their choices would weave patterns of their own."

She crouched, her face level with mine. Her eyes bore into me, ancient and unyielding.

"But your world…" She tilted her head. "Your world never danced."

I blinked. "What?"

"Do you know of anchor beings?"

The question stunned me—but I did. My brain, fogged with awe and fear, lit up with recognition. "Yeah. I mean—yeah, I've heard the term. It was in that Deadpool and Wolverine movie that came out a couple of years ago. Anchor beings… the central figures. The souls that stabilize a world, give it weight, let it exist as more than a drifting possibility."

Neith nodded, her braids swaying gently. "Correct. In every true world, there is an anchor. A fulcrum around which myth and magic, gods and monsters, can gather."

She straightened, her voice carrying like silk across stone. "Your world has none. Every choice that could have birthed heroes, every spark that could have ignited myths… was never taken. The Web holds countless Earths, infinite variations. But your world? The stories you adored? They never lived. They could only exist as shadows. As fiction."

Her words struck me like a knife—shame and confusion churned in my stomach, leaving me raw and unsteady.

"So… that's why," I muttered. "That's why my world has no magic. No gods walking among us. No Spider-Man swinging through New York. Because… we never had an anchor being."

Neith inclined her head. "Exactly."

I laughed, but it came out broken, desperate. "So that's it. My whole life—all the comics, the movies, the shows—they were just echoes? Fictions of worlds that actually exist?"

"Yes."

I ran a hand through my hair, trembling. Part of me wanted to scream. Part of me wanted to fall to my knees in gratitude. This was more than I had ever dreamed of knowing.

She began walking, her linen robes trailing across the strand. "Follow."

I scrambled to my feet, my legs shaky as I hurried after her. Billions of spiders parted before us like a tide.

"For ages, I let the spiders weave," Neith said. "I watched, wandered, played. But eventually—" she gave me a level look, "everyone has to grow up. Even gods."

Her words echoed in my chest.

We reached a junction in the web, where threads the size of highways knotted together. Energy pulsed through them like veins of starlight. She turned to face me, her expression unreadable.

"You made a wish," she said.

My throat tightened. "What wish?"

Her smile turned razor sharp. "To have a real world. To be Peter Parker."

I froze. My heart slammed against my ribs.

"You mean… you'll grant it?"

Neith didn't blink. "Yes. Earth-616-A needs a Peter Parker. There's an opening."

"Six-one-six-A…" I whispered. The designation rolled off my tongue like forbidden fruit.

"Peter Parker won't make it in that world. The bite's too much—he dies before his story starts."

I swallowed hard, anxiety radiating through me at the full weight of her words. My hands trembled, each possible future flickering through my mind in fear and hope.

"If you wish to live as Spider-Man, the path is open. But you must earn it."

"How?" My voice cracked.

Her smile widened, dark and dazzling. "By surviving the bite."

My breath caught.

"What—what's different about this spider?" I asked, fear and excitement warring inside me.

Neith raised her hand. A single spider crawled onto her palm, small yet shimmering with colors that bent reality—black, crimson, and something deeper, something indescribable. Its presence radiated power that made my skin prickle.

"This spider is the most deadly I have ever sent," she said. "Its venom would kill any ordinary mortal. But if you endure it… If you survive its bite… it will grant you gifts no other Spider-Man has ever known. You will be unique. One of a kind."

My mouth went dry. My mind screamed at me to run, but my heart—my heart knew the answer before I spoke.

I clenched my fists, meeting her gaze.

"No doubt about it. Bring it on, Spider Goddess."

Her laughter was soft, melodic, and dangerous. She lifted her hand, letting the spider scurry onto a thread that connected to the endless web.

"Then good luck," she said, her voice echoing like the toll of a divine bell.

🕷🕷🕷🕷🕷🕷🕷🕷🕷🕷🕷🕷

I woke up choking. My lungs convulsed like they were filled with smoke, and I hacked so hard I thought my ribs might snap. Something metallic coated my tongue, bitter and sharp, as I spat into my sleeve. The pounding in my skull felt like someone was splitting it open with a crowbar.

And then the smell hit me—stale bus air mixed with too much deodorizer and the faint tang of bleach. Not my warehouse. Not the capsule. Not the comforting hum of processors and monitors surrounding me.

I blinked against sunlight slanting through grimy bus windows. A bus. A school bus.

"What the—" I muttered, struggling upright, my body feeling wrong—too light, too small, like I was wearing someone else's skin.

A dull thunk smacked the back of my head.

"Sleepy, Parker?"

The voice dripped with smugness. I turned to see a blonde kid with a wide grin, his arm draped over a red-haired girl who giggled at his every word. He was broad-shouldered, golden boy handsome, the kind of guy who thought the world bent just for him.

"Flash," I breathed before I could stop myself.

He smirked wider, tossing a look back at his entourage. "Well, look who decided to rejoin the land of the living! Parker, you didn't even make it through the homeroom without almost dying? Guess nerds can't handle breakfast."

The girl rolled her eyes, though there was amusement dancing in them. "Leave him alone, Flash."

"MJ, c'mon," he drawled. "Don't act like you don't enjoy the show."

Their laughter blurred in my ears. My mind was spinning, my pulse thundering. Parker. Peter Parker. The name wasn't just being said—it was being aimed at me.

I grabbed the back of the seat in front of me, knuckles white, trying to steady myself. My heart hammered against my ribs because the impossible was becoming terrifyingly clear.

This was it.

My one chance to become Spider-Man. This was not the game that I had built; this was real, and if I was going to prove myself, even if it meant going through intense pain.

Chapter Text

THUNK.

The world jolted forward as something hard and fast slammed into the back of my skull. My forehead smacked against the bus seat in front of me, rattling my teeth.

Groaning, I reached back and rubbed the sore spot. My fingers brushed against the rough leather of a football wedged between the seats. Of course.

"Oi, Parker!" Flash Thompson's voice cut through the chatter like a bullhorn, dripping with arrogance. Laughter rippled from his pack of buddies, who lived to echo his every word. "Still daydreaming? Or do you need me to throw you a wake-up call every five seconds?"

I muttered under my breath, "Seriously? A football. On a bus."

Flash didn't even wait for me to finish. He twirled the ball in his palm with a predator's grin, winding his arm like he was warming up for another throw. "Relax, peanut head. Or should I say… Spaghetti Arms? Four Eyes? Nerdzilla?" His friends cackled like hyenas, every insult fuel for their amusement.

I pinched the bridge of my nose. Same old Flash. Same tired routine. For years, I'd just taken it. Rolled over. Pretended it didn't sting. But today… Today was different.

Just because I was Peter Parker, did not mean that I had to act like he did. This is my life now and I will become the Anchor Point for this world.

I turned in my seat, locking eyes with him. No flinch. No hesitation. Just steady. "Why don't you focus on your own life for once, Flash? Unless, of course, you enjoy thinking about me this much." I tilted my head, my voice smooth, casual, sharp as a razor. "Kind of weird, don't you think?"

For the briefest second, silence swallowed the bus whole. Then laughter erupted—not at me, but at him.

Flash's smirk faltered. His jaw flexed. His hands curled into fists on his knees, knuckles whitening.

"What did you just say?" he growled.

"You heard me," I replied, adjusting my glasses like it was the most natural thing in the world. "You spend so much time throwing things at me, I figured you liked the attention. You're welcome."

The response was a spark in dry grass. "Oooooohs" rippled through the rows. Even MJ, who had been quietly sketching in her notebook a few seats away, pressed her knuckles to her lips to hide a laugh.

Flash's face darkened, the veins in his neck twitching. He wasn't used to Parker fighting back. Not like this.

Then came the roar. Not a laugh, not a shout—something primal, like a wounded animal exploding out of its cage.

"You little—!"

He surged up, half out of his seat, teeth bared, shoulders squared like he was ready to tear me apart right there. His eyes burned holes into me, and for a moment, I felt the bus itself hold its breath.

And then MJ's hand shot out. She caught Flash by the arm with surprising firmness and yanked him back down.

"Behave," she said. Her voice was soft, but there was steel threaded through it.

For one tense heartbeat, I thought he'd ignore her. Fight her grip. But he froze. He sat back down, muscles trembling, his glare searing into me like a brand. His fists stayed clenched, knuckles straining.

This wasn't over. Not by a long shot.

Before the tension could crack open again, Mr. Harrington cleared his throat from the front of the bus. His tie was crooked, his posture slouched, and his eyes looked like they hadn't seen a good night's sleep in weeks. The man radiated exhaustion.

"Settle down, class," he droned, his voice carrying the weight of someone who would rather be anywhere else. "We're minutes away from Oscorp Industries. I expect all of you to be on your best behavior. Stick with your groups, don't wander, and above all—" He paused to rub his temples. "Don't. Touch. Anything."

The warning sparked a wave of laughter, a few groans, and some half-hearted promises from the louder kids in the back. Flash slouched into his seat again, his smirk reassembling piece by piece now that he had his audience back.

But I tuned it all out.

My pulse was racing.

Oscorp.

The name wasn't just a corporation to me—it was a thunderclap in my skull. I'd read everything I could about it. Their patents. Their scandals. Their breakthroughs. Their secrets. This was the place where the bleeding edge of science bled into tomorrow.

And somewhere behind those glass doors, hidden in some sterile corner of a lab, was a spider that would bite me. Alright pretty soon my fate in this world will be decided if I survive the bite or end up dying like the original Peter Parker.

The bus hissed like a dragon as it pulled to a stop, its brakes squealing in protest. Through the smeared windows, Oscorp rose into view—and my breath hitched.

It wasn't just a building. It was a statement. A towering monolith of glass and steel, gleaming like a blade under the morning sun. Futuristic, intimidating, alive with power. Its mirrored panels reflected the sky so perfectly that for a moment it seemed the building itself had swallowed the horizon. In Queens, the tallest thing you saw was an apartment block or a water tower. Here? Oscorp looked like it touched the clouds.

Even the name Oscorp carried weight. It wasn't just letters on a sign—it was an empire carved into syllables.

The doors swung open, and the wave of students spilled out, backpacks slung over shoulders, sneakers scuffing the pavement. To them, this was just another field trip, another chance to joke and groan and half-listen while a tour guide tried too hard. But to me? My chest tightened with anticipation. Every step toward those glass doors felt heavier, like fate was pressing down on me.

Flash barreled out ahead, elbowing people out of his way like he owned the place. His gang trailed after him, laughing at jokes that weren't funny. I hung back, careful to keep some distance.

And then she appeared.

A woman in a pristine white lab coat walked toward us, clipboard in hand. Her hair was pulled into a tight knot, her glasses catching the light, and her smile radiated something rare: pride. The kind of pride that came from believing in the work she did.

"Good morning, everyone," she said, her voice warm but carrying authority. "Welcome to Oscorp Industries. My name is Dr. Elena Vasquez, and I'll be your guide today."

Before she could continue, Mr. Harrington—our teacher, our supposed supervisor—mumbled something about a "staff meeting" and slipped inside, abandoning us with all the grace of a man who wanted nothing more than a nap. Classic Harrington.

Dr. Vasquez didn't even blink. "Before we begin, a few rules," she said, tapping her clipboard. "Rule number one: no touching the equipment unless explicitly instructed. Some of these machines are delicate, and others… Let's just say the results of interference wouldn't be pleasant. Rule number two: stay with your group. Straying is unsafe and strictly prohibited. And rule number three: questions are encouraged. Curiosity is welcome here. But respect," she added, her smile sharpening just slightly, "is mandatory."

I almost smiled. Respect and curiosity? Finally, rules I could live with.

The tour began.

We entered through gleaming automatic doors, stepping into a lobby that looked like the future had put on its best suit. Sleek marble floors stretched out beneath towering glass walls, lit by sunlight streaming down from skylights above. Holographic displays floated near the reception desk, flashing Oscorp's slogans—Tomorrow's Science, Today—alongside rotating models of molecules, microchips, and satellites.

Dr. Vasquez led us through wide halls lined with glass partitions. Behind them, I caught glimpses of worlds I'd only read about: robotics labs where mechanical limbs moved with eerie precision; AI clusters glowing with networks of neural pathways; vast tables filled with vials of glowing chemical compounds, colors so bright they seemed painted from another spectrum.

I drank in every detail. Every machine, every flicker of light, every technical phrase she tossed out like breadcrumbs.

"Parker's drooling again," Flash muttered behind me. His entourage chuckled on cue.

I ignored him. My mind wasn't here to trade insults. My mind was racing, calculating, memorizing. This was it. The world where the line between science fiction and science fact blurred into nothing.

But even as I catalogued everything, a strange thought itched at the back of my skull.

This feels familiar.

The field trip. The tour. The spiders. It was all too similar to the first Spider-Man movie I'd watched a hundred times as a kid. Except… this wasn't Tobey Maguire's world. This wasn't a single genetically modified spider created by accident. No. Oscorp's research was different here. Bigger. Riskier. They hadn't fused just one DNA pattern. They had fused many. A singular, perfected super-spider.

And I knew, with a certainty that made my heart pound, that somewhere in this building… It was waiting.

The tour wound on. Dr. Vasquez showed us floors dedicated to renewable energy, to cybernetics, to agriculture modified for a changing climate. She spoke of Oscorp's goals with almost rehearsed precision: "a better future," "a sustainable tomorrow," "advancing humanity's potential." Words polished smooth by years of repetition.

But her eyes lit up when she talked about the cutting-edge projects, the research on the edge of impossible. That's when I leaned in, when I absorbed every syllable. I wasn't just listening to a tour guide. I was reading a map. A map that pointed toward destiny.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity of walking and glass-window gawking, we arrived.

The room was darker, cooler. The hum of machines softened into something subtler, almost reverent. Rows of glass enclosures lined the walls, each one climate-controlled, each one occupied. Shadows skittered across glass, long legs twitching, bodies poised in alien grace.

My pulse skipped.

Spiders.

Dozens of them. Different species. Different shapes, colors, sizes. Some perched silently, others weaving webs that shimmered faintly in the dim light. The air carried the faint tang of antiseptic and something else—something older, primal, the smell of predators caged.

Dr. Vasquez gestured to a massive touchscreen display that flickered with species data. "Over 32,000 species of spider exist in the world," she began, her voice calm, precise. "They all belong to the order Araneae, divided into three suborders. Each possesses unique adaptations that allow it to survive in ways evolution has refined for hundreds of millions of years."

I stepped closer, eyes locked on the glowing diagrams. My brain fired on overdrive, cross-referencing every fact I already knew.

"For example," she continued, pointing to an image, "the Delena spider of the Sparassidae family possesses extraordinary jumping ability, able to ambush prey mid-air. The net-web spider, Filistatidae, genus Kukulcania, creates webs with tensile strength comparable to high-tension wire. Its reflexes are so fast some scientists speculate its nervous system operates almost precognitively."

A ripple of murmurs passed through the class. I leaned forward, reading every Latin name, every annotation, every microscopic detail.

Dr. Vasquez moved to another display. "Other species under study include the Goliath Birdeater, the Black Widow, the Huntsman, the Darwin's Bark Spider, the Diving Bell Spider, and the Ogre-Faced Spider. Each with unique adaptations: venom, strength, silk production, reflexes. And all of them… are the foundation of our most ambitious project."

The crowd shifted, curiosity rising.

Dr. Vasquez stopped in front of a central enclosure, the largest of them all. Her tone lowered slightly, almost conspiratorial. "For the past five years, Oscorp has been experimenting with genetic engineering, transferring RNA sequences to create entirely new genomes. By combining traits from all three suborders, we have designed fifteen genetically enhanced spiders. Super-spiders—arachnids with strength, agility, durability, and reflexes beyond anything found in nature."

I felt my breath hitch. Fifteen. The number echoed in my mind. As expected I turned to MJ as I knew what she was about to say. 

MJ raised her hand, stepping forward with quiet confidence. "Excuse me," she said. "You said fifteen." Her eyes swept the room, scanning the enclosures with a sharpness that made my heart jump. "I only count fourteen."

Chapter Text

Dr. Vasquez blinked, her professional smile twitching just slightly. She followed MJ's gaze, counting quickly. A beat passed. Then another.

Her smile returned, brittle around the edges. "Ah. Well. The scientists must be working with that one. These specimens are cycled in and out regularly for testing. Nothing to worry about."

Nothing to worry about? My skin prickled.

I raised my hand before my common sense could stop me. "Question."

"Yes, Mr…?"

"Parker," I said quickly. My throat felt dry. "Peter Parker. I just… how dangerous are these spiders? I mean, hypothetically. What would happen if one of them bit someone?"

Some of the students snickered behind me, but I didn't care. The question hung in the air like smoke.

Dr. Vasquez laughed lightly, too lightly. "Well, Mr. Parker, if one of these specimens were to bite a human, the results could be… catastrophic. Their venom levels are amplified. Lethal doses. One bite could drop an elephant."

The room chuckled nervously.

I didn't.

"Right," I said slowly, forcing my voice to stay steady. "So if one's missing… shouldn't we, I don't know, make sure it isn't crawling around somewhere in this massive building?"

For just a moment, her eyes widened. Just for a moment. Then she smoothed it over with another brittle smile. "Rest assured, Mr. Parker, the containment protocols here at Oscorp are flawless. Our specimens cannot escape. Now, let's continue, shall we?"

She turned briskly, gesturing toward the next wing. Her voice carried, bright and rehearsed, explaining how the tour would soon conclude before lunch, after which we'd be split into groups to shadow Oscorp scientists.

But all I could think was: fifteen.

The missing one wasn't gone. It was hiding. Watching. Waiting.

And God help me, I had a sinking feeling I knew who it was waiting for.

Lunch at Oscorp was… lunch. Sterile trays, tasteless food, and the constant low buzz of voices. I avoided Flash like the plague, ducking behind MJ and Harry whenever I could. He still managed to send me daggers with his eyes from across the cafeteria. If glares could kill, I'd have been a chalk outline by dessert.

The missing spider haunted me. My hands shook when I picked up my fork. My thoughts circled endlessly. Fifteen. Fourteen. Fifteen. Fourteen.

By the time the tour guide herded us back together, my nerves were stretched like violin strings.

"Alright, students," Dr. Vasquez said, clipboard in hand. "We'll be splitting you into groups of four. Each group will be paired with one of Oscorp's leading scientists for hands-on demonstrations."

I tried not to groan. Flash and his cronies were already nudging each other, no doubt planning how best to make my life miserable.

When Dr. Vasquez began reading names, I braced myself.

"Peter Parker. Mary Jane Watson. Flash Thompson. Cindy Moon."

Perfect. Just perfect.

And then—"You'll be paired with Dr. Curtis Connors."

The one-armed scientist stepped forward. His presence was striking—tall, lean, with eyes that burned with both brilliance and something else. Something hungrier. He smiled at us, warm but distracted, as though his mind was half in another world.

"Pleasure to meet you all," Dr. Connors said. His voice carried an undercurrent of energy, passion buried beneath professionalism. "We'll be focusing on arachnid genetics today. Spiders are remarkable creatures, and Oscorp is leading the charge in unlocking their secrets."

My heart pounded. Of course it's spiders. Of course.

We donned lab coats, goggles, and thick gloves. The sterile smell of disinfectant stung my nose as Connors led us into the genetics wing. Rows of equipment hummed around us. Microscopes. Radiological shields. Sequencing tech I could barely wrap my head around.

And then—the enclosures.

We returned to the spider habitat, only now Connors led us right inside. I swallowed hard, forcing myself not to flinch as dozens of enhanced arachnids skittered in their glass cells.

It was then that I saw it.

Perched on a smooth pillar wall, as though it had been there the whole time, was the missing spider.

Number Fifteen.

My breath hitched.

Dr. Connors moved fast, snatching a containment tube and capturing it with practiced ease. He turned, his eyes alight with interest. "Well, well. Look who decided to show themselves."

The spider sat calmly inside, its long legs splayed, its body shimmering a striking, unnatural blue.

"This," Connors said, lifting the tube for us to see, "is Poecilotheria metallica, the peacock parachute spider. The only blue species of its genus. Quite rare. And one of the fifteen chosen for our genome project."

He glanced at me. "Who'd like to hold it?"

Silence. Even Flash took a cautious step back. Cindy shook her head. MJ's lips pressed thin.

My hand lifted before I could stop it.

"Me," I said.

Connors raised an eyebrow, then smiled faintly. "Name?"

"Peter. Peter Parker."

"Well, Peter Parker," he said, carefully transferring the spider into my gloved hand, "hold steady. Support its body. Don't make sudden movements."

I froze, holding my breath as the weight settled against my palm.

The spider was… breathtaking. Its blue shimmer caught the light like living sapphire. Its legs moved delicately, precisely, each step purposeful.

And then it looked at me.

Eight eyes, unblinking. Ancient. Knowing.

My stomach flipped. My skin prickled. I knew. This was it. This was the moment.

The spider twitched. And before anyone could react, it scurried up my arm.

"Careful!" Connors barked, reaching, but it was too fast.

It darted up my sleeve, across my shoulder, and before I could shake it free—

It sank its fangs into my neck.

The world exploded.

Fire. Pure fire ripped through me, molten and violent, flooding my veins.

I screamed, dropping to my knees. My gloves tore against the floor as I clawed at my neck. The venom spread like liquid lightning, searing, burning, shredding me from the inside out.

"Parker!" Connors shouted, but his voice was a thousand miles away.

My vision swam. The sterile lab fractured into kaleidoscopic shards. My heart pounded so hard I thought it would burst. Every muscle spasmed, jerking violently.

Make it stop. Make it stop.

I screamed again, hoarse and broken, as my body convulsed. Blood roared in my ears. My skull felt like it was splitting open.

The venom wasn't just poison—it was pressure. Force. A presence. Something ancient and alien pushing into my mind, clawing at my thoughts, demanding surrender.

Die, it whispered. Break. Shatter.

"No!" I choked, my voice raw. "I won't—I won't—"

I slammed my fists against the floor, desperate to anchor myself. My body twisted, wracked with spasms. Heat consumed me. My bones felt like they were being remade in molten steel.

I wanted death. God help me, I wanted it. But I couldn't. I couldn't give in.

I had to survive.

I had to earn it.

Blood filled my mouth as I bit down on a scream. My vision flickered, tunneling into black. Through the haze, I saw white coats rushing in—paramedics, their mouths moving, shouting things I couldn't hear.

Hands pressed against me. Needles pierced my arm. Cold fluids rushed into my veins.

But nothing stopped the fire.

I gasped, sucking air like a drowning man. My body shook, skin slick with sweat. My heart thundered so hard I thought it would crack my ribs.

And then—darkness pressed in.

My eyelids sank. My body collapsed.

But even as I fell into black, one thought burned through the agony.

Survive. Survive. Survive.

🕷🕷🕷🕷🕷🕷🕷🕷🕷🕷🕷🕷

I don't know how long I was gone.

Minutes? Hours? Days?

All I know is that I gasped awake.

The sound was violent, ragged—like I'd been underwater for too long and finally broke the surface. My lungs seized before flooding with air, and my body jerked upright on instinct. For one terrifying moment, I thought the fire was back, that the venom was going to rip me apart all over again.

But it didn't.

It was gone.

The sterile white ceiling swam into focus above me, unfamiliar. My head turned slowly, groggy. To my left, machines beeped softly, green lines tracing my heartbeat. To my right, a curtain separated my bed from another empty space.

I was in a hospital room.

And I felt… fine. Better than fine, actually.

I pushed the blanket off and swung my legs over the bed. The tile floor was cool under my bare feet. My movements felt strange—not clumsy, not weak, but fluid. Balanced. Like I'd been carrying around a hundred pounds of invisible weight my whole life, and suddenly it had been lifted.

I stood.

And froze.

I was taller.

No, not just taller—my whole body felt… stretched. Different. My eyes darted to the metal IV pole beside me, using it as a height reference. I was definitely taller than I'd been. My head swam with the realization.

"What the hell…" I muttered under my breath.

My throat was dry, my voice deeper. Not a lot, but enough that I noticed.

I stumbled forward, clutching the gown closed at the back as I left the room. I needed… something. Answers. A mirror. Anything.

I walked down the hall, it being quite empty as my eyes darted across the hall as it landed at the bathroom a few feet down as I headed toward it.

The moment the sterile bathroom smell hit me, my stomach lurched.

I barely made it to the toilet before vomiting. Acid burned my throat, hot and bitter, as everything I'd eaten in the past day decided to vacate my system in one violent rush. My body convulsed once, twice, until I was coughing dry heaves.

"God…" I rasped, leaning against the stall wall.

I flushed, stumbling to the sink. My reflection waited for me.

I almost didn't want to look.

But I did.

The face staring back at me was mine… and not mine.

My skin looked clearer, healthier. My jaw was sharper. My cheekbones more defined. Even my hair—messy from sleep—had this natural bounce to it, like some shampoo commercial. My eyes looked brighter, almost glowing under the fluorescent lights.

But that wasn't the worst part.

My gaze dropped.

With trembling hands, I untied the back of the hospital gown and pulled it open.

I froze.

Gone was the short, scrawny, awkward body I'd inhabited for a mere few hours. It was a short time that I did not miss, and this only meant that I had actually managed to survive the bite. And I have to say god damn. 

I was far taller than before—easily six feet. Lean. Muscular. Like a runner crossed with a gymnast. My arms were toned, veins faintly visible beneath smooth skin. My chest and shoulders were broader, defined. My legs had power in them, coiled and waiting.

I grinned, wide and unrestrained.

"This… this is insane," I whispered.

I flexed experimentally. My bicep bulged—not like a bodybuilder, but enough to look… good. Athletic. Strong.

For the first time in my life, I didn't feel like prey.

I felt like a predator.

But before the grin could settle, something strange happened.

The hospital gown in my hand refused to fall.

I tugged lightly. It stretched like it was glued to me.

"What the—"

Panic shot through me. I yanked harder, but the fabric clung stubbornly to my palm. Sweat prickled the back of my neck.

"Let go. Let go, let go, let go!"

I pulled and shook my hand like a lunatic. Nothing. My heart raced, panic clawing at my chest.

"Alright, I got to relax." I muttered. My breaths came fast, shallow. I forced myself to slow them down.

Inhale. Exhale.

Got to be in the moment, focus and relax my body.

I closed my eyes. My shoulders dropped.

The gown slipped from my hand, falling silently to the floor.

I stared. My chest heaved.

"Holy…" I whispered, bending down to pick it up.

But the moment my fingers reached, something else happened.

Shink.

A sound, sharp and metallic, sliced the silence.

My nails had extended. No, not nails—talons. Curved, sharp, glinting under the bathroom light.

I froze, wide-eyed.

"What the heck…"

I flexed my hand instinctively, and the talons retracted, shrinking back into normal nails. My pulse raced. I flexed again. The talons extended, razor-sharp. Relax—back to normal.

Flex. Extend.
Relax. Retract.

I laughed, a disbelieving, breathless sound. "Okay… that's actually cool."

I picked up the gown carefully this time, slipping it back on. My reflection stared back, a stranger I almost didn't recognize.

"Alright, Peter Parker. This is your new life… so you better become the most powerful superhero in this world, it is time to become the Anchor Point of this world."

Chapter Text

I slipped back into the hospital room just as the door opened.

"Mr. Parker?"

A doctor walked in, clipboard tucked under his arm. He stopped mid-step, eyebrows shooting up. "Well, I'll be damned. Awake already?"

I blinked. "Uh… yeah. Just now."

He scanned me, eyes widening slightly. "And on your feet. That's… unexpected."

I tilted my head. "Unexpected how?"

"You've been out for almost two days," he said, walking closer. "After what happened in that lab, most patients wouldn't survive an hour. And yet here you are—standing tall. Quite literally taller, I might add." He chuckled, gesturing at me with his pen. "I don't remember you being six feet when you came in."

Heat crept up my neck. "Yeah, uh… growth spurt?"

The doctor laughed, shaking his head. "If only it worked that way. No, Mr. Parker, this isn't normal. Not by any medical standard."

"So… waking up jacked after being bitten by a genetically engineered spider is… unusual?" I deadpanned.

That earned another laugh. "Unusual, yes. But miraculous, too. You seem perfectly fine. Better than fine. If you're feeling well enough, I see no reason to keep you here. Oscorp has covered all expenses."

I blinked. "Oscorp… paid for me?"

He nodded. "Generous of them, isn't it? You should count yourself lucky."

Or watched, I thought. Definitely watched.

"Now," he continued, "you'll need clothes. Something tells me your old wardrobe won't fit anymore." He glanced at my too-tight gown and chuckled again.

I grinned awkwardly. "Yeah, unless ripped sleeves are in fashion now."

He tapped the clipboard. "Get dressed, and you're free to go."

Oscorp had left a small duffel bag of my things. I slipped into my old jeans—they strained against my thighs but managed. My T-shirt? Forget it. The seams screamed the moment I pulled it down. I sighed, grabbed the hem, and tore the sleeves off, leaving a makeshift tank top that gave me enough room to breath.

I eyed my glasses sitting on the bedside table.

I didn't need them. I knew it without even trying. The world looked crisp, sharper than I'd ever imagined.

Still, habit made me reach for them. I held them up, hesitating. Then I sighed and dropped them into the trash can by the door.

"Guess that's over," I muttered.

When I stepped into the hall, heads turned. Nurses. Patients. Visitors. Eyes flicked up and down, lingering. Some smiled. Some whispered. More than a few girls did double-takes.

And guys, too.

For the first time in my life, they were looking at me.

Not past me. Not through me.

At me.

I walked out of the hospital wing with a grin tugging at my lips and a thousand questions burning in my chest.

New York never sleeps.

That was the first thought that hit me as I walked out of Oscorp's hospital wing and onto the busy streets. The air smelled like exhaust, hot dogs, and faint rain even though the sky was clear. Horns blared. People shoved past without even a glance. The world moved, indifferent to the fact that my entire life had just been rewritten.

I shoved my hands deeper into the pockets of my too-tight jeans, tugging absently at the torn sleeve of my shirt. My body felt… wrong. Not in a bad way. More like someone had fine-tuned every cell, every nerve ending, until I wasn't just Peter Parker anymore. Every sound hit sharper, crisper. I could hear the hum of a streetlight buzzing two blocks away. The tang of burnt coffee drifted from a café across the street like someone had shoved the cup under my nose. I could feel the rumble of the subway beneath the concrete as though the city itself had become a living drumbeat inside my bones.

It was exhilarating. Terrifying. Addictive.

And through it all, my brain wouldn't shut up.

What timeline is this?

That question gnawed at me, harder than the hunger in my stomach or the electricity still coiled in my veins from the bite. Because if this was just Peter Parker's usual cursed life, then I already knew how it played out. Spider bite. Uncle Ben. Wrestling match. Burglar. Guilt. The mantra that haunted every version of me across ink, film, and memory: with great power…

But this? This was different.

Oscorp was here. I'd seen it, towering over the skyline like a glass-and-steel monument to ambition. Norman Osborn's fingerprints were all over the city, subtle but undeniable. That alone screamed Raimi or Ultimate timeline. And yet… Stark was here too. Stark Industries alive and thriving. Oscorp and Stark standing like rival titans, both reaching for the future with claws bared.

The MCU.

If this was truly that world, then everything was just a giant, ticking clock. Every domino already lined up in perfect order, waiting for the first to fall: Tony Stark kidnapped by the Ten Rings in Afghanistan. That was the spark. The ignition of Iron Man. The anchor point that locked the universe into its path. From there came everything—the Avengers, Ultron, Sokovia, Civil War, Thanos. And, eventually, Tony's sacrifice.

Tony Stark wasn't just important. He was the keystone.

I stopped at a crosswalk, letting yellow cabs and honking delivery vans screech past. My reflection in a shop window caught my eye—same messy hair, same too-big glasses—but behind it, something sharper. Someone new.

"Everything starts and ends with him," I muttered under my breath.

A woman walking her dog shot me in the side-eye like I was crazy. Maybe I was.

Because if this was the MCU, then I had time. Not much, but some. Right now, the world is deceptively quiet. No Norse gods falling out of the sky with hammers. No gamma-green rage monsters smashing Harlem to dust. No alien portals cracking open above Manhattan. Just corporate chess moves, Stark versus Osborn, while the rest of the board stayed untouched.

Which left me.

And here was the part that really made my stomach twist.

I couldn't just think of the MCU. Because comics bled through too. And if even a fraction of those stories were fair game? Norman Osborn wasn't just some ambitious CEO—he was a monster waiting to be unleashed. And the multiverse… the multiverse had teeth. If I was wrong, if this world blended more than I thought, then the MCU's clock wasn't the only one ticking.

I exhaled slowly, tightening my fists in my pockets.

So the real question wasn't what timeline I was in.

The real question was: where did I fit?

The thought sat heavy on my shoulders as I spotted the Public Library across the street. It loomed like a temple, stone lions guarding the stairs. My feet carried me there before I'd even made the conscious decision.

Inside, the air was cool and hushed, a stark contrast to the chaos outside. The smell of paper and old wood wrapped around me. I approached the front desk where a librarian with square glasses looked up.

"Excuse me," I said, trying to sound casual. "Do you have public computers I can use?"

She nodded, sliding a laminated card across the desk. A six-digit code was printed on it. "Second floor, back row. Just type this in when prompted. You'll have an hour."

"Thanks."

I climbed the stairs, the card clutched in my hand. My reflection caught in a nearby window—taller, sharper. For a second I didn't recognize myself.

I shook the thought off and sat down at a computer, typing in the code. The screen flickered to life, humming softly. My heart beat faster.

"Alright, let's see where the hell I landed," I muttered.

I opened the clunky browser on the library computer, the fan inside humming like it was two keystrokes away from giving up the ghost. The fluorescent lights above buzzed faintly, mixing with the soft shuffle of pages and the occasional cough from someone buried in a stack of dusty books.

I typed in the obvious first.

Tony Stark.

Pages of results popped up—Stark Industries, defense contracts, military tech expos. Stark's name was tied to weapons demonstrations, his company hailed as America's crown jewel in military innovation. Pictures of missiles, articles about "the Jericho," stock prices ticking upward. The man was everywhere, just not as Iron Man. Not yet.

Next: Norman Osborn. Oscorp.

Biotech, pharmaceuticals, robotics. A golden boy of innovation. Stock photos of clean-cut labs and glowing headlines about Oscorp's "dedication to the future." All very polished, very corporate. Nothing about super-soldier spiders or goblin-shaped nightmares lurking in the shadows.

I scribbled notes in my battered notebook, filling the pages with quick arrows and shorthand.
Stark = weapons contracts. Osborn = biotech + expansion. Timeline not yet triggered.

Then I went broader.

S.H.I.E.L.D.

At first, nothing useful. News blurbs about "a division of Homeland Security," articles dismissing them as rumor or conspiracy. But buried on the third page of results, I found something that made my pulse spike—an actual government site. Sleek, sterile, .gov domain.

The official logo glared back at me: Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division.

The homepage was dull on the surface. Public-facing stuff: information on field agents, recruitment drives, "careers in service." A basic online shop with tactical gear, surveillance tools, even branded field manuals. All legitimate enough to pass inspection, all carefully designed to look boring.

But digging through their public database, I tripped over something unexpected: a set of declassified files. Historical.

Project Rebirth. Super-Soldier Serum.

The file was sanitized—most of the pages blacked out—but the outline was there. Experiments in the 1940s. One successful candidate: Steve Rogers. Status: Missing in Action, presumed KIA, 1945.

My chest tightened. Cap was out there, frozen under the ice. Right now, the world thought he was gone.

I exited the page immediately, wiping the history trail as fast as my fingers could type. A government site like that? Best not to linger.

Still, I wasn't satisfied. I wanted more. I needed more.

I glanced around the quiet library—no one watching, no cameras near this old terminal. Perfect.

Time to push further.

I slipped into the backend with practiced ease, fingers flying over the keyboard. My past life hadn't been wasted—I knew how to crack firewalls, piggyback through unsecured ports, and peel back layers most people never saw. I tunneled deeper, chasing whispers in the code, searching for the good stuff: hidden archives, redacted histories, classified networks.

But there was nothing. No mention of Avengers initiatives. No hidden dossiers on gods, aliens, or sorcerers. If S.H.I.E.L.D. had them, they were locked behind walls thicker than I could break without drawing attention.

Frustration simmered in my gut. It was like staring at a puzzle with half the pieces deliberately scrubbed away.

Still, I didn't leave empty-handed. I stumbled across some strange websites while digging—encrypted forums that looked like black markets for tech, rumors about enhanced individuals in whispers and half-coded slang. One even claimed to sell Chitauri weapon fragments, though that was probably a scam. Another mentioned a "Hammer Project" in vague terms, buried in government procurement reports.

I bookmarked them in my head, planning to come back later with a safer setup.

For now, though, I had enough to chew on.

I leaned back in the creaky chair, rubbing my temples, notebook open to a page filled with frantic arrows and scribbles.

Stark. Osborn. S.H.I.E.L.D. Super Soldier Serum. Rogers = MIA. Future = uncertain.

I drummed my fingers on the desk, trying to quiet the electric whirl of possibilities. The library smelled faintly of dust and lemon polish, but beneath that, the city's tang leaked through the windows—car exhaust, roasted peanuts from a cart, the distant wail of a siren that could be routine or a warning. The world outside kept moving, oblivious.

Then, like a lit match flaring in the dark, an answer struck.

The Ancient One.

Of course.

She knew the future. The past. Every possible timeline. She could see the convergence points, the events that would shape everything. If anyone could tell me precisely where I was—what this world's timeline looked like, what events were already in motion, and how close I was to the moment that mattered—it was her.

I didn't need to piece together scattered articles, hack hidden servers, or chase rumors through encrypted forums. I just needed the one person who had always understood the bigger picture.

And more than that… she could train me. Teach me some of the Ancient Arts. Help me sharpen my mind, my body, and maybe even my perception of time itself.

Just because I had spider powers didn't mean I had to be the same old Spider-Man. Why should I follow that mold? Why should I wait around for some criminal to shoot my uncle just to kickstart my career as a guilt-ridden vigilante? Screw that.

If the world was heading toward gods, monsters, aliens, and mad titans, then I needed more than webs and wall-crawling. I needed magic. I needed foresight. I needed an edge.

The Ancient One could give me that.

The thought set my pulse racing.

I closed my notebook and stood, brushing the library dust off my jeans. New York was waiting. The Sanctum would be waiting. And I had a feeling this was going to be the first step in something far bigger than anything I had ever imagined.

And then another thought slid in, sly and tempting.

What if there was an artifact? Something to boost my brain. To bridge the gap.

I frowned as I pushed through the library doors, sunlight spilling over me. In my past life, I'd spent years absorbing everything I could. And sure, this Peter Parker was supposed to be smart too—but I didn't have the luxury of years. The clock was ticking. The MCU timeline moved fast. Tony's kidnapping wasn't far off, and once that domino fell, everything else came crashing down.

I didn't have time to study my way up to genius.

So why not cheat?

The idea made me grin, wicked and hungry.

Not cheating, I told myself as I walked down the library steps. Just… a little brain boost. A shortcut. The multiverse was full of relics and artifacts that could warp reality itself. Surely one of them could bump my IQ a few hundred points.

I didn't have to stay locked in the same cycle. I didn't have to be just Spider-Man.

I could be more.

And for the first time since that spider bite, I knew exactly where to start.

Chapter Text

The house felt too quiet when I got there.

It was late afternoon by the time I finally stepped off the last bus and started up the familiar block, the one that belonged to Peter Parker long before it belonged to me. Rows of brick houses, each one a copy of the last, stood shoulder-to-shoulder like worn-out soldiers. Lawns half-kept, kids' bikes on sidewalks, old ladies watering their flowers even though the sun was going down.

My feet carried me to a house I'd only seen in flashes of memory and movies, but my hand didn't hesitate when it reached for the key.

It slid into the lock like it belonged there. The door opened with a soft creak.

I stepped inside.

The first thing that hit me was the smell—faint detergent, old books, a lingering trace of coffee. The Parker house. My house, now. The thought felt wrong in my chest, like I was trespassing in someone's life. Because I was.

The hallway was narrow, walls lined with picture frames. I slowed down to study them, each one a snapshot of a life I hadn't lived. Peter at ten years old, grinning with two missing teeth. Aunt May held him close, her smile soft and proud. Uncle Ben was laughing as he ruffled young Peter's hair.

Three days. That's all it had been. Three days since I woke up in this body, since I stopped being… whoever I was before. And already, I was standing in this house, pretending it was mine.

"Sorry, Peter," I muttered under my breath, dragging my fingers lightly across one of the frames. "Guess I'm the one living your life now."

The house was quiet. Aunt May wasn't home—probably working late. Which was a blessing, because I didn't have the energy to fake being a nephew yet.

I climbed the stairs and pushed open the door to Peter's—my—room.

What a disaster.

Clothes piled everywhere, crumpled notes scattered across the desk, socks on the floor like some kind of weird landmine field. It smelled faintly of sweat and dust. I let out a long sigh.

"Guess it's up to me to make this livable," I said, rolling up my sleeves.

I spent the next hour cleaning, stacking books, folding clothes, shoving half of it into the closet. My brain was on autopilot as my hands moved, but I couldn't help cataloguing every piece of Peter Parker's personality in the mess.

Plaid shirts. Nerdy science tees with corny equations on them. More khakis than any teenager should legally own.

I held up a shirt with a periodic table joke printed on it and groaned. "Oh god, Peter. No wonder you never got laid."

By the time I was done, the room looked halfway decent. That's when I spotted the piggybank on the shelf.

A fat little ceramic pig with a smug grin.

I picked it up, gave it a shake. Coins rattled. A lot of them. I grabbed a screwdriver from the desk and popped it open.

Bills spilled out, crumpled but very real. I counted fast, my fingers moving like I'd done this a hundred times before.

Five hundred thirty-eight dollars and thirty-four cents.

I stared at the stack, the weight of it sitting in my hands.

"Thanks, Peter," I said softly. "I'll put it to good use. Promise."

I slid the cash into my wallet, ignoring the small twist of guilt in my gut. Survival first. Sentiment later.

The bookshelf caught my attention next. Rows and rows of books, neatly lined up like soldiers on parade. I crouched in front of it, running my fingers along the spines.

Robotics. Coding. Biology. Engineering. Physics. Photography. Fitness.

That was it. No comics, no novels, no fun. Just pure, unfiltered academia.

I snorted. "Figures. Nerd."

But my hand lingered on one of the books. Principles of Robotics, Third Edition. Heavy, worn from use. I pulled it off the shelf, flipping it open.

God, there was so much. Equations, diagrams, theories. The kind of stuff I'd normally need weeks to really digest. I groaned.

"Man, it would be so much easier if I could just… I don't know… absorb all this by touching it."

That's when it happened.

A voice. Female, smooth, almost amused. It spoke directly into my ear, though the room was empty.

Do you wish to absorb the knowledge contained within this text?

I froze. The book slipped in my grip. My eyes darted around the room, but nothing was there.

"Uh… what?" I whispered.

Do you wish to absorb the knowledge contained within this text?

The voice repeated itself, patient, calm.

My throat went dry. "Y-Yeah. I mean… sure?"

The moment the word left my mouth, the book in my hand burned hot. I yelped, clutching it tighter out of instinct.

A jolt ran up my arm, searing into my skull. The book trembled—and then crumbled into ash between my fingers. The pages disintegrated, falling like gray snow to the floor.

And then the flood hit me.

Equations, diagrams, theories—all of it slammed into my brain at once. My vision blurred, my knees buckled. I clutched my head, gritting my teeth as the pain seared through me.

When it finally ebbed, I gasped for breath. My heart pounded like I'd run a marathon.

But I knew robotics.

Not in the way I had before—not vaguely, not high school level. I knew it. Theories, design schematics, practical applications. My brain hummed with formulas and concepts I'd never studied.

I staggered to the desk, grabbing a pen and paper. Without thinking, my hand scribbled down an advanced equation for servo-motor efficiency. I stared at it, my own handwriting, my own brain supplying the answer effortlessly.

"Oh… oh shit."

A grin spread across my face.

"Oh shit!"

I laughed, half-mad, half-exhilarated. The ashes of the book still littered the floor, proof that I hadn't imagined it.

I turned slowly toward the bookshelf.

"Sorry, Peter," I whispered, eyes gleaming. "Not sorry."

I reached for the next book.

And the next.

And the next.

One by one, they turned to ash in my hands. Each one burned through me like wildfire, each one filling my head with more. Biology, physics, coding, engineering. My brain screamed under the weight, but it didn't break. It adapted.

By the time I was done, the shelf was empty. The air smelled faintly of smoke. My hands shook as I pressed them against my temples, my skull buzzing like an overcharged battery. 

The room hummed with a low, satisfied silence—my head still rang from the textbook avalanche, my pulse a thrum of electrical aftershocks—but the panic that had chased me all morning had finally thinned out enough that I could think straight. The knowledge was settling into neat compartments inside my skull like crates in a well-organized warehouse. I could almost feel the shelves snapping into place.

I let out a shaky laugh and, for the first time that day, I really looked around the room. The bed was rumpled; the curtain by the window cast a late-afternoon stripe across the floor; the ash from a dozen books lay like gray confetti in a little mound by the trash can. The smell of burnt paper lingered in the air and it made me smile like an idiot.

I cleared my head until the buzz between my ears settled into something like focus, then I called out, more to break the silence than because I expected an answer.

I closed my eyes, swallowed, and called out softly.

"Uh… hello? Are you… still there?"

For a second there was nothing, just the creak of the old Parker house and the faint hum of the fridge downstairs. Then, like someone sliding into a phone call, the voice returned.

Greetings, Mr. Parker. How may I assist you?

I nearly jumped out of my skin. "Okay—yep, you're real. Great. Who… who exactly are you?"

There was silence for a beat, almost as though it was thinking. Then it answered, clinical and precise.

Would you like the User Manual downloaded?

I blinked. "What?"

User Manual. Comprehensive index of system functions and origins. Confirm download?

My heart skipped. System? Functions? Origins?

I took a deep breath, pinched the bridge of my nose, and muttered, "Yeah. Confirm."

The flood came instantly.

It wasn't like absorbing a book—this wasn't equations or diagrams. This was raw, technical data, schematics, clinical explanations that burned into my neurons like I was reading them off a screen inside my skull. I gasped, clutching my head as I staggered back against the bedframe, riding it out until it ended.

And when it ended, I knew.

Nanobots. Billions of them. Infused into my bloodstream. Controlled by a chip wired directly into my brain. The voice wasn't some disembodied AI—it was the chip itself, serving as the interface between my mind and the swarm inside me.

I let out a shaky laugh. "Holy shit."

I ran a hand over my face. "Okay, so… nanobots in my blood, brain chips in my head. Who the hell put you there?"

The answer came without hesitation.

Richard and Mary Parker administered the nanobot injection at age five. Subject compatibility: 99.8%.

I froze. My parents. My parents.

So they weren't just government scientists or secret agents like some of the comics hinted. They'd… experimented on their own son. On me.

I didn't know whether to feel betrayed or grateful.

I pushed that thought down for now. "Fine. Alright. Then tell me—what can you do? What abilities do I have right now?"

There was a brief pause, then the voice listed them out like a machine reading an inventory.

Current unlocked abilities: Enhanced senses. Accelerated vision. Superhuman strength. Superhuman endurance. Superhuman agility. Superhuman speed. Wall-climbing. Healing factor. Organic webbing. Retractable talons.

I blinked. My jaw actually dropped. "Wait… wait, wait. Back up. Organic webbing?"

My eyes went wide as I yanked up my right sleeve. There—barely visible unless you were looking for it—was a thin, almost surgical slit in the skin of my wrist.

"No way."

I pressed a finger gently against it. Immediately, I felt something twitch inside, a strange pressure, like a hidden muscle I'd never noticed. When I pulled my finger back, a trail of sticky white webbing clung to it, stretching, glistening in the light.

I laughed in disbelief, flicking it off. "Oh, that is so much better than building web-shooters."

Excitement surged through me. I wasn't just Spider-Man—I was Spider-Man with built-in upgrades.

But before I could ride that high too far, the voice cut in again.

Warning: anomaly detected. Cellular irregularity present.

My smile faltered. "Uh… what kind of anomaly?"

Analysis complete. Anomaly identified as mutant X-gene.

I blinked. My mind went blank for a second. "…I'm sorry. Did you just say mutant? As in X-Men mutant?"

Affirmative.

I rubbed my temples. "No freaking way. I actually have the X-gene?"

Correct. However, X-gene expression is currently suppressed due to cellular alterations caused by spider venom.

My brain was spinning. "Suppressed? So what—you're telling me I could've been a mutant and Spider-Man?"

Correction: X-gene has adapted to integrate with the arachnid genome. Resulting ability: arachnid manipulation. Subject possesses latent capacity to command and influence spider species.

I stared at my hands, then back at the empty room. "…You're telling me I can control spiders?"

Confirmed.

A slow grin spread across my face. "Okay. That's… actually insane. Creepy as hell, but insane."

I was about to ask more—what limits, what potential applications—when the sound of the front door opening snapped me out of it.

I froze. Voices drifted up from downstairs.

Aunt May. Uncle Ben.

Groceries rustled, bags crinkled, shoes shuffled on the linoleum. May's familiar, warm voice carried through the house. "Peter? Sweetheart? Are you home?"

Panic flared. My heart raced.

"Y-Yeah! I'm up here!" I called back, trying to sound casual even though my brain was doing cartwheels.

I left my room and headed downstairs, forcing my body to move like nothing was out of the ordinary. Except it was. Because when I stepped into the kitchen, both May and Ben turned to look at me—and their faces froze.

Uncle Ben nearly dropped the bag he was carrying. "What the hell—?!"

Aunt May gasped, eyes going wide. "Peter…"

I glanced down at myself. Right. The new me. Taller, leaner, muscles showing through the too-tight shirt I'd thrown on earlier. To them, it must've looked like I'd gone through six years of puberty in three days.

"This—this isn't possible," Ben stammered, setting the bag on the counter. "What happened to you?"

May rushed forward, cupping my face with trembling hands. "Oh my God. Peter, are you sick? What happened? Who did this?"

I swallowed hard. Crap. Of course—they wouldn't know. Oscorp hadn't exactly called home to give a progress report after their super-spider bit me. And the landline—

"Wait," I said quickly. "You guys… you didn't get any phone calls?"

Ben shook his head, frustration on his face. "Phone's been down since those damn squirrels chewed through the wires. We were gonna get someone to fix it this week."

I let out a long, shaky sigh. Figures.

So they didn't know. Not about the bite. Not about Oscorp. Not about anything. To them, their scrawny, nerdy nephew had gone out on a school field trip and hadn't been home for three days before returning back looking like a Greek statue.

I looked at their worried faces, at May's trembling hands, at Ben's furrowed brow.

I could lie. I could brush it off, tell them I'd been working out, tell them not to worry. But the thought made my stomach twist.

No. If anything happened—if things got dangerous—they deserved to know. And if I really was going to be Spider-Man, I'd protect them no matter what. It was Peter's choice to keep his identity secret as he wanted to protect them. No... this was my choice as I knew that I would be able to protect them.

I drew in a deep breath. "Okay, so a lot has happened in the past few days. Both of you… sit down."

May blinked, startled by the firmness in my voice. Ben looked suspicious, but after a moment he pulled out a chair at the table. May followed, clutching his hand.

I stood there, heart hammering in my chest, and forced myself to meet their eyes.

"I've got… a lot to tell you."

Chapter Text

The kitchen was too quiet.

The kind of quiet that made the hum of the refrigerator sound like thunder and every tick of the wall clock dug into my skull. I sat at the table, staring at Aunt May and Uncle Ben like I had just asked them to solve the mysteries of the universe. My throat was dry, my palms slick, and for once—me, Peter Parker, the kid who could never shut up—I had no idea how to start.

How do you explain something like this? How do you tell the two people who raised you that their ordinary, awkward nephew might not be so ordinary anymore?

I rubbed the back of my neck, buying time I didn't have, then exhaled slowly. "Okay… so… during the trip to Oscorp Industries, something happened."

May's brow furrowed instantly, that maternal instinct flashing in her eyes. The same look she gave me when I came home late, when she heard about bullies at school, when she knew something was wrong before I even opened my mouth. Ben leaned forward in his chair, forearms braced against the wood, his voice calm but edged with concern.

"What happened?" he asked. No hesitation. No room to dodge.

I swallowed hard, my stomach twisting, and forced myself to meet their eyes.

"I was bitten," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "By a spider."

"A spider?" May repeated, confused.

"Not just any spider," I said quickly, raising a hand before they could interrupt. "Oscorp's been working on these… genetic experiments. Crossbreeding DNA, trying to design something new. Super-spiders. One of them got loose, and, well…" I lifted my hand, flexing it, remembering the sharp sting at my neck. "It bit me."

Ben squinted. "And that turned you into… this?" He gestured vaguely at me, at my broader shoulders, at the muscles stretching my shirt.

I nodded. "It wasn't just the bite. That spider's venom—it wasn't normal. It was… toxic. Lethal, actually. Enough to kill an elephant, according to the scientists. It nearly killed me." I could still feel the memory of the burning agony in my veins, my body writhing on the floor, my skull screaming like it was about to split in two. "They rushed me to the hospital. I was in and out for days. But… when I woke up this morning, this was me."

May pressed a hand to her mouth, her eyes shining with tears. Ben sat back, shaking his head slowly.

"I don't even know how to explain it," I continued. "It's like my body rewrote itself overnight. I can do things now that… no normal human should be able to do that."

Ben let out a long breath, sitting back in his chair. "Not the same how?"

I hesitated. Then, deciding I might as well show them, I stood up.

"Not the same like this."

I rolled my neck, feeling the joints pop. Then I bent my knees and leapt straight up. Their jaws practically hit the floor as I stuck to the ceiling, my fingers and toes adhering like magnets. May let out a startled yelp as I casually walked across the plaster, upside down, as if gravity had given me the night off.

Ben rose halfway to his feet. "Jesus H. Christ…"

I dropped lightly back onto the floor, landing silently. "Not the same like that."

May's eyes were wide with fear and amazement. "Peter… my God…"

Ben rubbed his face with both hands. "You're telling us you got bit by some… mutant spider at Oscorp, and now you're—what? A circus act?"

I narrowed my eyes, the corner of my mouth twitching. "No. Not a circus act. Something else. Something… more. If I had to classify it… I guess the word would be meta-human."

The word hung heavy in the room.

Ben let out a low groan, sinking back into his chair. "Meta-human. Jesus. Next you'll tell me you're gonna put on a cape and go flying around town."

"Not a cape," I said, folding my arms across my chest. "But… yeah. I've been thinking about it. About what I can do with this. I can climb walls, stick to ceilings. My reflexes are faster than anything human. I'm stronger, faster… tougher. This isn't just some freak accident. This is an opportunity. And I'm not wasting it."

May looked at me with watery eyes. "Peter, sweetie… what exactly are you saying?"

I looked her dead in the eye. "I'm saying I'm going to be a hero. Not just some guy with powers who hides in his room. I'm going to use this to help people. I'm going to be the greatest hero that ever lived."

May stared at me like she didn't know whether to hug me or call the police.

Finally, Ben spoke again, his voice low and serious. "You're not… on something, are you?"

I blinked, caught off guard. "On… drugs? Are you serious?"

"Don't look at me like that, kid," Ben shot back. "One day you're scrawny little Peter who can't throw a baseball to save his life, and three days later you look like you've been bench-pressing Buicks. You tell me a spider did it. You can't expect me not to ask."

I scoffed, shaking my head. "No, Uncle Ben. No drugs. No steroids. Just one very radioactive spider bite."

The words hung in the air, heavy, absolute.

Ben groaned, slumping back in his chair. "Oh, for the love of— I need a drink."

May shot him a look and grabbed his wrist before he could stand. "Sit. Down." Her tone brooked no argument.

He sighed, muttering under his breath, but obeyed. Sinking back into his chair. May turned her gaze back to me, her lips pressed in a thin line. "Are you sure, Peter? Are you sure this is what you want?"

I nodded without hesitation. "More sure than I've ever been about anything."

She sighed deeply, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Then you'd better not get yourself killed, young man. Because if you do, I swear I'll kill you myself."

I laughed, tension easing from my shoulders. "Don't worry, Aunt May. I'll be careful."

The mood lightened just slightly. But my curiosity, gnawing at me ever since the chip revealed itself, came clawing back.

"Hey," I said carefully. "Did my parents… leave anything behind? For me?"

May and Ben exchanged a look. That silent kind of conversation that only people who've lived together for decades can have. Finally, Ben exhaled and nodded.

"They did," he said quietly. "We weren't sure when—or if—we should give it to you." He stood and left the kitchen, heading upstairs.

May reached across the table, taking my hand in hers. Her eyes were soft, full of concern. "Peter… whatever it is, just know your parents loved you. They loved you more than anything."

Before I could answer, Ben returned, holding an old, worn envelope. He set it gently on the table in front of me.

My heart pounded as I tore it open. Inside was a folded letter and a small brass key.

I unfolded the letter and began to read.

The handwriting shifted halfway through—one side delicate and flowing, the other sharp and controlled.

I read my mother's part first.

My dearest Peter,

If you're reading this, it means we couldn't come back for you. I am so sorry. Please know that not a day has gone by that I haven't thought of you, missed you, and loved you with all my heart. You were my light, my joy, and I hope that wherever you are now, you're safe. I know you'll grow into someone incredible. I'm proud of you already. Always remember that.

Love, Mom.

My throat tightened. My chest ached. For a moment, I just stared at the page, the words blurring as my eyes burned.

Then I turned to my father's half.

Peter. This is your father. There are things you deserve to know. Oscorp has been developing cybernetic brain chips for years. Your mother and I led the project. But when we discovered Norman Osborn's plans—to sell it to the military, to mass-produce soldiers—we knew we had to act. We couldn't let that future happen.

So we made a choice. We gave the prototype chip to you. We injected your body with nanobots over the years, disguised as vaccinations. The chip was programmed to remain dormant until it deemed you ready. When it activated, it would learn everything about you. It would push your body beyond its limits. It would make you into a weapon—one powerful enough to stand against whatever threats might come.

My hands trembled. My parents had done this. They had set this path for me before I was old enough to understand.

But there is more. You were born with something unique. An X-gene. From a young age, you showed signs of extrasensory perception—ESP. You could sense things before they happened, feel things others could not. We tried to protect you, but in the process of integrating the chip, we destroyed your connection to those abilities. For that, we are sorry. We can never undo it. But we do not regret it, because we believed it gave you the best chance to survive what was to come.

Not long before we left, a man approached us. He wanted to take you to an academy—a place where you would grow up among others like you. He called you mutants. He called himself one as well. We did not trust him. We could not risk it. So we ran.

Peter… I do not know if we will ever see you again. But if this letter finds you, then know this: live boldly. Do great things. And for God's sake, get yourself a very beautiful girlfriend. You deserve it.

Good luck, son.

—Dad.

I stared at the words, my vision blurry. My chest felt tight, like the air had been sucked out of the room.

Ben and May sat in silence, watching me carefully.

Finally, I folded the letter and set it down on the table. The brass key glinted beside it.

I let out a shaky breath. "How much… how much did you two know?"

Ben shook his head slowly. "Not much. Just that your parents were in trouble. They left you with us and told us to keep you safe. That's all."

I nodded slowly. "Thanks. For everything."

"So," May finally said, her voice careful, "you've… decided you're going to use these abilities? Out there? As—" she hesitated, searching for the right word, "—as some kind of hero?"

The word clung to the air like smoke.

I shifted in my seat, the truth spilling out of me before I could second-guess it. "Yeah. That's the plan. It's not something I can just… ignore. There's so much I want to do, so much I have to do."

Ben's brow furrowed. "And when exactly were you planning to start? You're still just a kid, Peter. You're talking about going out into a world that chews people up."

I leaned forward, my hands gripping the table. "I know. That's why I'm not rushing in blindly. I've got a plan. Tomorrow, I'm visiting someone—if she helps me, it'll speed things up a lot. A couple months, maybe less. Then Spider-Man makes his appearance."

The name slipped out naturally, no hesitation. Spider-Man. Saying it out loud for the first time felt strange, like stepping into shoes that were still too big. But they'd fit eventually. I'd make sure of it.

May's lips parted, but no words came. She just looked at me like she wanted to wrap me in bubble wrap and never let me step outside again. Ben, though—Ben just studied me. His gaze was steady, searching, like he was measuring every ounce of conviction I carried.

I stood, the exhaustion finally dragging at my shoulders, every book I'd read and every thought I'd chased since Oscorp pulling me down. "It's been… a really long day. I think I need a nap."

I turned to head upstairs, but Ben's voice cut through the quiet.

"Peter."

I froze. I looked back.

He leaned forward, his expression firm, his eyes burning with something deeper than fear or doubt. Something I couldn't ignore.

"I don't know what the hell is happening to you, or what you're planning to do with these… powers. But listen to me, son."

His voice dropped, heavy with meaning, carrying a weight that rooted itself in the room, in me.

"With great power comes great responsibility."

The words hung in the air, sinking deep into me, anchoring themselves in my soul.

I swallowed hard, nodded once, and went upstairs.

And I knew that those words would become a part of me, a part of who Spiderman becomes as they were the famous words of Uncle Ben that Peter Parker would build his entire life around. 

Chapter Text

The streets of New York buzzed around me like an electrical current, the hum of traffic and distant sirens blending with the chaotic rhythm of the city. I walked with purpose, my new height and broad shoulders letting me tower slightly above the crowd. It felt strange, exhilarating—like seeing the world through new eyes, a version of me that I'd always dreamed of but never imagined would actually exist.

Destination: the Sanctum Sanctorum.

I had memorized the address months ago from research, from hints and whispers in old texts, and now, standing in front of the imposing brownstone, I felt a mix of excitement and caution. The building itself was deceptive—a three-story Victorian-style brownstone with a Mansard roof, typical of French Baroque architecture, its exterior elegant but unassuming. From the outside, it was just another building, blending in with the streets of Greenwich Village, unremarkable except to those who knew.

I raised my hand and knocked on the massive door, once, twice… three times. Silence.

I waited, my patience thinning as the seconds dragged. Knocked again, this time harder. Nothing.

"Okay," I muttered to myself. "We can play politely. But only so long." Knocked again. And again. And again.

Finally, the door cracked open, and a man appeared—a tall, lean figure dressed in the traditional sorcerer's robes. His expression was one of pure annoyance, eyebrows arched, lips pressed in a thin line of disdain.

"You should have taken the hint," he said, voice clipped, low. "Walk away when no one answers the door."

I smiled, just slightly. "I'm here to see the Ancient One."

He squinted at me, unimpressed. "There's no one by that name here. Now leave," he said, slamming the door in my face.

I blinked, my smile faltering slightly before twitching back into place. Of course he wouldn't understand. Of course he'd be skeptical. The Ancient One doesn't just hand over lessons to random kids who show up on the doorstep. But she was here. She had to be. The second I stepped onto this street, my spider-sense had prickled with subtle hints, a constant hum of her attention weighing on me.

"Alright," I muttered under my breath. "Time to make it easy on them all—or I do things my way." I called out, loud enough to echo against the doorframe, "Ancient One! You're making this unnecessarily difficult. Let's not waste anyone's time."

No response.

I waited. Ten minutes passed. Fifteen. Half an hour. My patience, razor-thin as it was, snapped.

"Hard way it is," I said, and before anyone could react, I stepped back and kicked the door with a strength I hadn't fully tested yet. The massive oak shuddered, splintered slightly at the edges, and then gave way entirely.

I entered.

Inside, the manor seemed… normal. Depressingly normal. A polished wood floor, modest rugs, plain walls. A fireplace. A few chairs. No magical energy pulsating, no hints of the vastness that had to exist beyond the walls. And yet, I knew better. I could feel it. This place, the sanctum, was bigger on the inside. Infinitely bigger. Somewhere above me, the real Sanctum stretched beyond comprehension.

Before I could even take a step further, the sorcerer from the door came running from the second floor, eyes wide, pointing a finger at me.

"You! Get out of here! Or I will remove you by force!"

I smirked, feeling that familiar thrill of adrenaline surge through me. "I don't think so," I said, leaning back slightly. "You're going to have to try harder than that."

He growled, rolling his shoulders and raising his hands in an intricate pattern of hand signs I barely recognized—though my brain cataloged each movement, filing them away for later analysis.

"Then you'll be removed at once," he said, voice now tinged with fury.

Before I could respond, the floor beneath me shifted. Suddenly, the walls stretched away and melted into infinite space—the mirror dimension. My spider-sense screamed as my body instinctively ducked, rolled, and leaped, dodging a series of jagged, glowing spears of energy that lanced out at me.

"Ah," I whispered, impressed despite myself. "Eldritch magic. Real sorcery."

The sorcerer's hands moved faster, drawing sigils in the air, conjuring whips of light and energy that shot towards me, curling and snapping like living things. Tao mandalas bloomed, floating wheels of energy that tried to crush and entrap me. I twisted midair, my enhanced agility letting me flip and twist, narrowly avoiding each strike.

I grinned, letting my instincts guide me, letting my spider-sense lead the way. "You've got to be kidding me," I muttered, swinging a fist towards an energy whip, which dissolved in sparks on contact. Then, emboldened, I reached out with a hand and swiped a floating mandala towards him, making it collapse before it could form fully.

He let out a frustrated roar, eyes blazing. "You insolent child!"

"Playful!" I called back, flipping over his head and landing gracefully on a floating fragment of his conjured energy. "Fun's more my style than serious attacks, sorry!"

He tried to strike with a whip again, this one longer, thicker, snapping toward my torso. My talons extended instinctively—just a thought—and I sliced through it cleanly, sparks flying.

"Okay… yeah," I muttered to myself, adrenaline pumping, "this is definitely going to be a memorable first day."

I vaulted from one shard of conjured energy to another, moving through the surreal, infinite space of the mirror dimension, dodging blasts, weaving between whips, and occasionally tossing a web to trip him up or block his attacks.

"Cease this!" he shouted, his voice echoing and distorting through the dimension. "I will not tolerate your insolence any longer!"

I laughed, spinning and kicking off a floating fragment to launch myself toward him. "Insolence? Nah. I call it… training!"

He froze, hands snapping in a complex pattern, summoning a wall of black sigils that spun like gears. I landed just behind it, rolled, and backflipped over his head, letting the momentum carry me to the other side of the vast mirrored space. I touched down, fingers brushing against what felt like infinite air—but my spider-sense calibrated it instantly, giving me a mental map of the attacks, the dimensions, the trajectories.

"Alright," I muttered under my breath. "Time to see what I can really do."

I extended my wrist, the organic spinneret opening with a soft click. A blast of web shot out, weaving into a net of intricate design in midair. It caught one of his Tao mandalas before it could form fully, destabilizing the flow of energy and causing it to collapse in a flicker of sparks.

His eyes widened, a flash of genuine surprise passing over his face before it was replaced with rage. "Impossible! You—"

I jumped, flipping over a whip, shooting another web at his wrist in a playful flick, just to test the limits. It stuck. I pulled, yanking him slightly off balance in the mirror dimension.

"Oops," I said, grinning, letting him fall back into a surge of his own conjured energy. "Clumsy."

The fight stretched on. Minutes, hours… time felt distorted in the mirror dimension. I leapt, swung, dodged, and struck, barely letting him regain his footing between attacks. Every spell he threw, every sigil he conjured, I countered in some way—through webs, agility, reflex, or simply exploiting my enhanced instincts.

Eventually, he stopped mid-gesture, breathing heavily, glaring at me like I had shattered the natural order of things. "Enough!" he hissed. "You will cease your antics before I remove you permanently!"

The fight escalated faster than I could have imagined. One moment, I was dodging spells, weaving through the mirror dimension like it was some kind of playground, testing my reflexes and agility, and the next moment, he'd had enough.

Before I could even react, he drew his weapons. Two scythe-shaped daggers on long chains, spinning them with a speed that made my head spin. The sound of metal whirling through the air was sharp, metallic, almost musical, like a twisted dance. But it wasn't just a dance—it was deadly. Each spin, each sweep, carried the force to cut, to slice, to kill.

I jumped back instinctively, my spider sense screaming, my heart hammering in my chest. The scythes whipped past me with a velocity that made the air hiss, snapping dangerously close. His spells had grown more violent too—crimson energy blasts, jagged whips of light, spinning mandalas that tried to crush me midair.

My mind blazed, every thought in sync with my spider-sense. The world slowed into sharp frames—his scythes whirling, chains rattling, sparks flying as metal carved the air. I ducked under one strike, rolled, then fired a web, catching a chain mid-swing. The pull jolted him, just enough for me to dart in.

Kick. Pivot. Strike.

We moved like combatants in a brutal dance, each motion countered by another. He spun, his chained blades singing as they cut the air in vicious arcs. I answered with webs, flips, strikes—the kind of fight I had once only dreamed of reading about in comic books.

And God, the rush.

Every punch I threw, every dodge, every spring-loaded kick carried an electricity that set my veins on fire. My muscles sang with strength I'd never known, my reflexes sharpened to a razor's edge. This wasn't just survival—it was exhilaration. This was being alive.

But then—one moment changed everything.

I launched forward, fist cocked. Just a punch. Nothing special. Just enough, I thought, to stagger him.

When it connected, something inside me unleashed—raw power I hadn't meant to call upon. My fist met his skull with a wet, concussive CRACK.

The world froze.

His head burst like overripe fruit, an explosion of force and matter I couldn't take back. For a split second, crimson mist hung suspended in the air, illuminated by fractured light. Shards of bone, glistening and white, spun outward like shrapnel. The sound—a horrible, echoing rupture—rattled inside my skull.

Then time lurched forward again.

His body stood, headless, twitching like a puppet whose strings had been cut. Blood sprayed in violent arcs before gravity claimed him. The corpse crumpled, collapsing in a heap that stained the floor with spreading red.

I stood there, fist trembling, heart thundering, breath ragged. The thrill that had filled me only seconds ago still surged through my veins—yet twisted now, warped by the shocking reality of what I'd just done.

No.

No, no, no, no, no.

I dropped to my knees, hyperventilating, hands trembling violently. My lungs couldn't keep up with the sudden panic, my chest burning, my stomach twisting. My mind screamed over and over: No. No. What have I done? No… why? Why did I…?

I couldn't stop shaking, staring down at the body, my own hands still tinged with crimson. My spider-sense screamed in protest, a warning that I hadn't expected—a moral alarm I had no idea how to manage. I had killed someone. A real person. Not a villain, not a robot, not some abstract obstacle—someone alive, with a life and a path, a future I had just obliterated.

I started rocking back and forth, knees pressed into the cold, glassy floor of the Mirror Dimension. My breath came ragged, bile burning my throat. The metallic tang of blood hung heavy in the air, sharp and suffocating. My hands wouldn't stop trembling.

"No… no, no, no, no," I whispered, voice breaking into jagged pieces. "I didn't mean… I didn't… I didn't—"

The body lay in front of me like an accusation, motionless, silent, final. My stomach twisted. My chest constricted. I had wanted power, control, understanding—not this. Never this.

And then—footsteps.

Slow. Measured. Echoing with authority that didn't belong in this fragile, shattering reality.

I forced my eyes upward, every nerve in me screaming to look away.

A figure emerged from the kaleidoscope of broken reflections—a bald woman in flowing yellow robes. She walked with the unshakable grace of someone who had lived through centuries, seen empires rise and fall, and found no reason to hurry. Her face was calm, ageless, but her eyes… her eyes saw everything.

She stopped, gazing at the ruin before her: me, broken and shaking; Kaecilius, sprawled in defeat.

Her lips pressed into the faintest frown. Not of grief. Not of horror. Something worse. Disappointment.

"Well, Peter," she said at last, her voice as soft and steady as a blade against the throat. "You've just killed one of my top students. Kaecilius was one of my best."

The name hit me like a punch to the chest. Kaecilius. Younger. Leaner. Hair cropped shorter. But it was him. The man who, in another story, would become Doctor Strange's first great enemy.

And I had ended him here. Now.

My breath caught. The Mirror Dimension warped and spun, but it was nothing compared to the storm inside me.

She stepped closer, folding her hands behind her back, her tone like a teacher scolding a child who had failed to grasp a lesson. "His path was already set. He would have fallen. Perhaps not today. Perhaps not by your hand. But he was destined to betray me."

Her gaze pierced me—unblinking, unrelenting. "And yet, here you are, reshaping the board before the game has even begun. Causing me… work."

I wanted to speak, to explain, to beg, but the words turned to ash in my throat.

The Ancient One tilted her head, studying me like a puzzle she wasn't sure she wanted to solve.

"Come," she said finally, her voice neither invitation nor command, but something between. "We need to talk."

Her robe swayed as she turned, walking deeper into the shimmering labyrinth.

I sat frozen, staring at Kaecilius's body, at my bloodstained hands, at the cracks forming in the future I thought I knew.

Chapter Text

When I finally stopped shaking, stopped seeing the image of that headless body every time I blinked, I realized something important: I hadn't walked into this blind. I had warned her. I had shouted into the ether, knowing she was listening, and told her that if she didn't come to me willingly, I would come to her by force. And she had let it happen. That guy—her student, her top student—had stood in my way, thrown spell after spell at me, and drew weapons that looked like they belonged in some nightmare carnival act. I fought back. I survived. And I had… overdone it. My strength had gone too far.

It wasn't completely my fault.

Not one hundred percent.

I still couldn't breathe right when I replayed the sound, the spray, the way the body twitched and fell. My chest tightened every time I remembered it. But if I drowned in guilt, I'd be useless. And useless wasn't an option. Not with what I knew. Not with what was coming.

The Ancient One closed the mirror dimension with a wave of her hand, and reality seemed to snap back together, like a shattered pane of glass suddenly remembering how to be whole. The world stilled, and the strange distortions of light and space melted away. She didn't look at me with disgust, or rage, or even disappointment. Just that same maddening calm, as though she had seen this kind of tragedy unfold a thousand times before, and would see it a thousand more.

"Come," she said simply.

I followed, silent, guilt still heavy on me but curiosity gnawing just as fiercely.

She lifted her sling ring, drawing a clean arc through the air. Sparks flared, golden and alive, and a doorway opened into another place. I knew this room. I'd seen it before—on a screen, in a theater seat surrounded by the smell of popcorn and the muffled coughs of strangers. A wide chamber, dimly lit, lined with relics and history, where the Ancient One would one day sit opposite Stephen Strange, teaching him to open his mind. And now here I was, stepping into the same place, the air humming faintly with some quiet power that felt older than the walls themselves.

She knelt with a graceful ease, folding herself onto the floor. Her robes settled around her like still water. Without a word, she gestured for me to sit.

I lowered myself cross-legged onto the cold stone, still hyper-aware of the blood that had dried on my knuckles, of the tremor that wouldn't quite leave my fingers.

The Ancient One studied me, her gaze sharp but never cruel. "Now that you have gone to such lengths to gain my attention," she said, "tell me. What is it that you truly need?"

The question should've been simple. But it wasn't.

I hesitated, chewing the inside of my cheek. There were a thousand ways I could answer. A thousand things I could ask. But one burned brighter than the rest.

pebble. Then she smooths it out, composure folding back into place like a practiced bow.

"How much," she asks—slow, deliberate—"do you know of the future?"

I don't hesitate. Not now. "Enough," I say. My voice is steadier than I feel. "Enough to change things. I don't know every twist, every small moment, but I know the big arcs. I know who matters, and when. And if you'll listen—if you'll let me—then I can help steer those arcs so fewer people die."

She studies me the way she studies everything: as if she's reading a palimpsest and trying to see what the most recent writing covers. "Very well," she says. "In exchange for information about Stark, tell me something about the future. If you speak the truth, I will speak in turn."

It's an odd bargain—like trading a coin of memory for a coin of fate—but it's the only currency I've got. I lean forward, feel the tension of muscles under my shirt and bone, and I tell her the story of a man she will one day meet.

"There's a surgeon," I begin. "Brilliant hands. Narcissistic, maybe, brilliant for it. Stephen Strange. He's going to die in his old life in a rolled car—an accident that shreds his wrists and leaves him unable to hold a scalpel again. Pride breaks him first, then grief. He'll hear the names of places he shouldn't believe in, and they'll lead him to you. His need will be too great to pretend ignorance. You will take him in—teach him to bend what he cannot fix—and he will become one of the most powerful sorcerers the world has ever seen."

Her fingers twitch just a fraction. I press on, words pouring because the image of Strange in a hospital bed is etched so clearly in me, part memory, part half-forgotten film.

"He will stand against Dormammu. He will break and rebuild the rules of reality a dozen times to keep us safe. There will be betrayal—Kaecilius, the one that I had uhm... killed, would have ended up betraying the sect. He'll run, and he'll find dangerous friends with the single goal of bringing the dark dimension to Earth. Strange will have almost no trouble convincing Dormammu to leave… and in the end, he will become the Sorcerer Supreme."

She lifts a hand before I can finish the last, half-formed thought about allies and the way loyalties splinter. The motion is quiet but absolute—a benediction and a veto both. "You are not wrong, Peter," she says, each word measured like placing stones across a rushing river. "A surgeon named Stephen Strange will come to me after an accident. He will learn what you speak of, and he will stand against Dormammu. Though Kaecilius's part simply won't take place as another will take his place."

I watch the lines at the corners of her eyes. She is telling me what I want to hear, but she's also fencing it in, pruning the dangerous branches. Then, as if turning the soil, she makes a statement that tilts the whole world.

"But," she adds, voice colder now, "the Age of Heroes you speak of will not begin with Stark."

For a second I freeze. My mouth tastes of incense and the memory of other people's lives; my mind flips through the images I've always been given—Stark in a cave, Stark building armor, Stark making the world take notice. "It starts with him?" I blurt, meaning Tony, and then mean myself. The word comes out like a dare.

Her eyes lift to meet mine, and there's no theatricality in her tone. "It begins with you."

I laugh—short, disbelieving. The sound is a knife: half-nervous, half-emboldened. This woman has seen timelines fold like origami. If she says the hero's age begins with me, that means everything I remember could be off by an entire heartbeat.

"You were meant to live your life," she says gently, the way someone explains a long-forgotten law. "You were to take up the mantle years after the Band of Avengers—after they faced Loki and the world reshaped. You were to grow into it. The schedule of the cosmos has been written for you to reach that point later, when certain events have already settled into place."

I feel a furious, dizzying clarity—like standing too close to a cliff and realizing I can see the whole coast. "So I'm early."

"You are several years ahead of where you were supposed to be," she confirms. "If you choose to assume heroism now—if you press forward on this accelerated timetable—you will cause ripples. Small changes will compound. People you save will live to make choices that will alter other lives. Allies will shift. Enemies will act differently. So the choice is yours, to wait and have the future you know or start earlier and face changing the very foundation of the future you claim to know."

My throat tightened. I thought of all the comics I had read, all the movies, all the lessons drilled into me by a lifetime of loving heroes and villains on a page and screen. "It doesn't matter if I end up changing everything, I'm going to be the first hero," I said finally. "Spider-Man will protect the world no matter the cost."

The Ancient One's lips curved just slightly, not a smile exactly, but something close. Amusement flickered in her eyes. "So be it. The future that is to come… will be most exciting, then."

Her calm certainty sent a shiver down my spine. Not because I doubted her words, but because I realized she wasn't just humoring me—she genuinely believed I would change things.

She tilted her head, studying me like a puzzle piece she wasn't sure where to place. "Is there anything else you will ask of me before you go?"

I hesitated, then swallowed hard. "Yeah… there is. Can you—would you—train me? I mean as a sorcerer. I want to learn. Not just webs, not just fists. I've seen what magic can do. I want to… add it to who I am."

Her head shook slowly, robes whispering as she moved. "No. I cannot take you in, Peter. Not yet. You have not learned to control what is already within you. Power without mastery is destruction. Your strength—" she paused, eyes flicking ever so slightly toward my hands, "—already cost a life. Until you prove to yourself that you can protect without killing, you are not ready to hold more power than you do now."

The reminder stabbed like a knife, and I found myself flexing my fingers unconsciously, trying to scrub the phantom blood from them. I nodded, forcing my voice steady. "I understand."

But then I leaned forward, letting a small grin tug at my lips. "Okay… but you wouldn't just… happen to have some books lying around, right? Y'know, maybe a couple dusty grimoires you wouldn't miss if they walked off? Strictly educational."

Her eyes closed, and she actually rolled them. The Ancient One. The master of mystic arts. Rolling her eyes. "You test my patience, Peter Parker."

I held up my hands quickly. "Hey, can't blame a guy for trying."

She sighed, but I caught the tiniest twitch at the corner of her mouth, almost like she was suppressing a laugh. "No books. Not today. You will return home now. And rest assured… someone is about to visit you."

I blinked. "Wait, what do you mean someone—"

The world tilted before I could finish, the chamber spinning, the walls dissolving into gold light like sand being swept away. My stomach lurched and then—

I hit something soft.

I blinked up at my ceiling. My ceiling.

I sat up in my bed, heart still racing, the echo of her words rattling around in my skull. "She seriously just—ugh, dammit." I dragged a hand down my face and groaned. "Stupid smug cryptic sorcerer."

And then—ding-dong.

The doorbell rang downstairs.

I froze, every muscle going taut.

The Ancient One's words whispered in the back of my head: someone was about to make a visit to you.

I cursed under my breath and scrambled off the bed, already dreading what came next.

I crept down the stairs, each creak of the wood somehow louder than usual. My heart hammered in my chest like it already knew something I didn't. Aunt May and Uncle Ben had already left for work—I was sure of that. The house should've been empty. Quiet. Safe.

Ding-dong.

The bell rang again, sharper this time, like whoever was outside had no patience for waiting.

I reached the door and hesitated, hand hovering over the knob. "Okay, Pete," I muttered under my breath. "It's fine. Just open the door. Worst-case scenario, it's a Girl Scout with cookies."

I twisted the knob and pulled the door open.

Standing on my porch, shifting awkwardly from one foot to the other, was a girl my age. Long dark hair, sharp eyes, a look on her face that was half-nervous, half-determined.

"Cindy?" I blurted before I could stop myself. My brain scrambled, trying to make sense of it. "What the—what are you doing here?"

Her eyes flicked up to mine, and something in the way she held herself—tight, coiled, like a spring about to snap—set off alarms in the back of my head.

Chapter Text

When I opened the door and saw Cindy Moon standing on my porch, the first thought that hit me was this isn't real.

For a second my brain refused to compute it, like reality had glitched and spat out something impossible. Cindy wasn't someone who came knocking on doors—at least, not mine. I knew who she was, of course. Everybody at Midtown High did. She wasn't loud or flashy, she didn't need to be. Sixteen, Korean, sharp as a razor beneath the quiet exterior. She moved through school like a ghost who still somehow left an impression, keeping her head down but making people pay attention to the rare times she spoke.

Her long dark hair fell straight around her shoulders, glinting in the afternoon light, framing almond-shaped eyes that darted nervously between me and the street behind her. She wore jeans, sneakers, a plain T-shirt under a half-zipped hoodie—nothing remarkable, nothing that screamed for attention. And yet, standing there in my doorway, Cindy looked like the only person in the world who mattered.

She looked… nervous. No, terrified.

And maybe I would've been calm—confused, sure, but calm—if not for what happened the instant my eyes landed on her.

My body reacted.

Not in the awkward teenage, "oh god she's cute don't stare don't be weird" kind of way. This was primal. Immediate. A shockwave that surged through every nerve like an electric current. My chest constricted, heat crawled up my neck, my heartbeat doubled, and suddenly the air between us felt charged, humming with something alive and wild. The world blurred, everything around me faded until there was only her. My instincts screamed: step closer, close the space, claim.

It was raw, animal, and terrifying.

And then my mind caught up to what my body already knew.

Oh no. Oh hell no.

The pheromones.

Every scrap of comic lore I had ever read about Cindy Moon flickered through my head in a dizzy blur. The same spider. The same bite. Some twisted biological tether linking us together like magnets with no off switch. A bond that was less about choice and more about inevitability.

Which meant that if she was here—standing in my doorway, looking like she was barely holding herself together—then everything I feared was true.

"You were bitten by the spider too," I blurted. It wasn't even a question, more like a puzzle piece snapping into place with a sound only I could hear.

Cindy flinched. Her eyes had been distant, glazed over like mine must have been, but my words snapped her out of it. She blinked, drew in a shaky breath, and then—hesitantly, reluctantly—nodded.

"Y-yeah," she whispered. "I was."

Her voice was soft, trembling, and carried that same current I felt in my bones. Not just fear. Relief, too. Like saying it out loud made her feel less alone, but more exposed at the same time.

My throat was dry. My hands curled against the doorframe. My instincts screamed at me to do the opposite of what I forced myself to do. I stepped back, creating distance, and motioned for her to come inside before the neighbors got curious about why I was staring at this girl like I'd forgotten how to be human.

"Come in," I said, my voice rougher than I meant.

She hesitated for only a heartbeat, then stepped past me into the house. Her shoulder brushed mine as she passed, light as a feather, but it hit me like a shock. Her scent clung to the air—subtle, warm, uniquely her—and my chest ached with a need I didn't want to name. I gritted my teeth and slammed the door behind us before I did something reckless.

The silence between us stretched like a tightrope as we climbed the stairs. I tried not to look. I really did. I ran math equations in my head, recited science trivia, anything to keep my brain tethered. But my eyes betrayed me, flicking to the sway of her hips, the way her jeans hugged her frame, and for one horrifying second, I imagined what would happen if I lost control.

By the time we reached my room, I felt like I'd sprinted a mile. My palms were slick with sweat, my pulse hammering in my ears. I pulled out my desk chair and dropped into it, forcing myself to act casual, to look casual. She perched on the edge of my bed instead, fidgeting with the cuffs of her hoodie, shoulders tight with unease.

The air between us was heavy. Not just awkward, not just teenage nerves. Something thicker. Something deeper.

Something dangerous.

And neither of us dared to speak first.

I drummed my fingers against the desk, the steady tap-tap-tap loud in the quiet of my room. The silence between us had started to feel like it was pressing in from all sides, thick and heavy. Finally, I asked, "Why'd you come here, Cindy?"

She let out a shaky breath, her shoulders slumping as if she'd been holding the air in her chest since she walked through my door. "I don't know. I just…" Her voice wavered. "I woke up yesterday and everything was different. My body—" She gestured at herself awkwardly, fingers twisting in the hem of her hoodie. "—it changed. Stronger. Faster. I can stick to walls, ceilings. Shoot webs from my fingertips." She laughed once, hollow and scared. "It freaked me out. I panicked. I ran out of my house and just… wandered."

Her eyes flicked up to mine then, a flicker of hope flashing beneath the fear. "Then today, I saw you. At that building. Saw what you could do. And I thought maybe—maybe I wasn't alone."

Her voice cracked on the last word. Tears gathered at the corners of her eyes, trembling before spilling over.

I sat back, the weight of her words settling in. This was the first real conversation we'd ever had. Not about homework, not about teachers or Flash Thompson being a jerk. This was about the kind of thing you can't put into words—the moment your life stops being normal and becomes something else entirely. Something bigger. Something scarier.

I nodded slowly. "You're right. You're not alone. I've got… similar powers."

To prove it, I flicked my wrist. A web shot out with a sharp thwip and smacked against the wall with a wet slap.

Cindy's mouth dropped open. "Oh my god."

Her hands flew to her face, but the tears broke free anyway, spilling down her cheeks. "I don't know what to do. My parents—if they found out—they'd freak. They'd probably disown me."

I froze. Her words cut through me like a blade. That kind of fear—of being cast out by your own family—was something I couldn't even wrap my head around. May and Ben weren't perfect, but I knew they'd never abandon me. Hearing Cindy say it so casually, like she'd already accepted it as inevitable, made my stomach knot.

I leaned forward, my voice softer. "Hey. Listen. You're not me, and I'm not you. But… you're not alone in this, okay?"

She gave a brittle laugh, wiping her eyes with the back of her sleeve. "Easy for you to say."

"No." I shook my head. "Not easy. I know it's scary. But… I made a choice."

Her brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"

I hesitated, then exhaled. "I told them."

She blinked. "Told who?"

"My Aunt May and Uncle Ben," I said. "I told them everything. About the spider. The powers. Everything I could do. I sat them down at the kitchen table and… I just told them. And then I showed them."

Her eyes widened. "You—you told them?"

"Yeah." My voice steadied as I spoke. "I showed them the wall-crawling. The webs. The whole deal. They freaked out at first—May was pale as a sheet. Ben didn't say anything for like, five minutes. But then they… they listened. And they stayed. And now they know. They know what I am, and what I can do."

I rubbed the back of my neck, remembering. "It was my idea. I figured if I'm gonna live like this, hiding it from them would just make it worse. And if anyone tries to hurt them because of me…" My jaw tightened. "They don't have to be afraid. I can protect them."

Cindy stared at me, silent.

I leaned forward a little more, meeting her eyes. "I'm not saying you have to do what I did. I'm not saying it'll be easy. But you don't have to go through this like you're cursed. You're not a monster. You're not broken. You're just… changed."

She blinked rapidly, as if trying to process the words.

"You've been running since this started," I said quietly. "But you came here. You found me. You're not running anymore. That means something."

Her lips trembled. "I don't know if I can tell them. My parents."

"You don't have to," I said gently. "Not yet. Maybe not ever. But you're not alone now."

For a long moment, neither of us spoke. The tension in the room wasn't gone, but it had shifted—less like panic, more like possibility.

Finally, she whispered, "You're lucky."

I gave a small, sad smile. "Yeah. I am."

Cindy looked down at her hands, flexing her fingers as if testing her strength. "So what now?"

I leaned back in my chair, letting the silence stretch just long enough to feel deliberate. "Now," I said, "we figure out what we're gonna do with this. Together."

Her head snapped up, a flicker of hope in her eyes.

I smiled faintly. "Two spiders are better than one, right?"

Cindy's lips curved into the smallest of smiles, the tears still glinting on her cheeks but her eyes brighter than before. "Right."

The room felt lighter for the first time all afternoon. That crushing, suffocating fear that had followed her into my house was starting to peel away, replaced by something… better. It wasn't calm, exactly, but it was a step in the right direction.

I leaned forward, elbows on my knees. "So, first things first. I'm finishing this school year at home—figured it'd be better to focus on… y'know, not dying while getting used to all this." I gestured vaguely at the wall where my web still hung, sagging slightly. "But next year? I'm going back. Back to class, back to pretending I'm just Peter Parker again."

Cindy raised an eyebrow. "Pretending?"

"Yeah. Pretending. Because between you and me—" I lowered my voice, mock conspiratorial, "—I think being normal is officially off the table."

That got the faintest laugh out of her, soft and quick. But it was real.

I grinned, encouraged. "Also, I've been working on something." I opened the bottom drawer of my desk and pulled out a battered sketchbook. Flipping through a few pages of scribbles, equations, and notes, I landed on one sheet in particular. I held it up, trying not to sound too proud. "Behold: the first-ever prototype design for the Amazing Spider-Man suit."

Cindy tilted her head, squinting at it. For a heartbeat she said nothing. Then she snorted.

"Is that supposed to be… spandex? With… knee pads? And are those googly eyes on the mask?"

My face burned. "They're not googly eyes! They're expressive lenses!"

She burst out laughing, clutching her stomach as if she couldn't breathe. "Peter—that's—oh my god, that's horrible. You look like a rejected mascot for a cereal box."

I groaned, dragging a hand down my face. "I told you I wasn't an artist…"

"You weren't kidding." She grinned, swiping at her eyes. "Don't worry, though. You're in luck. I'm doing graphic design. I can make something way cooler than this… whatever this is supposed to be."

I stared at her, feigning betrayal. "Are you saying my dream of fighting crime dressed like an off-brand Halloween costume isn't going to fly?"

"Not unless you want criminals to surrender from laughter," she teased, still grinning.

I slumped back in my chair, defeated. "Fine. You design the outfits. I'll figure out how to pay for the materials we'll need."

She tilted her head. "And how are you going to do that, Mr. Broke High Schooler?"

I grinned. "You do not have to worry about that, I have several ideas that will make us more than enough money to get us started. Soon the world will be introduced to Spider-Man and..."

"Spider-Man and… Silk," Cindy mused, looking thoughtful. "Team budget edition."

We both cracked up at that, laughter spilling into the air until the tension between us didn't feel like a threat anymore—it felt… safe.

The hours slipped by after that. We tossed ideas back and forth about names, training spots, and even how we'd split patrols. Every time I said something too serious, she undercut it with a joke, and every time she started spiraling into doubt, I pulled her back with something steady.

At some point, we weren't talking from across the room anymore. We'd drifted closer, side by side on the bed, the sketchbook abandoned between us.

She was telling me about how she once doodled an entire set of superhero logos during math class when our eyes caught.

It was unintentional. Just a glance that lingered too long.

The laughter died, but not because it wasn't fun anymore. It was because suddenly, the air was thick again—not with fear, but with something else. Something that tugged at my chest and made my throat go dry.

Her smile faded into something softer. Hesitant. Curious.

And for a long, breathless moment, neither of us looked away.

The tension in the room shifted then, lighter but still charged. We started talking about plans. Where we could train—old warehouses, empty rooftops, anywhere we wouldn't break our necks or draw a crowd. How we'd need gear, money, how dangerous all this could get.

But even as we spoke, I kept noticing her eyes flicking to me, lingering longer than normal. And I wasn't innocent either—I caught myself staring at the way her hair framed her face, the way she chewed her lip when she thought. Every time she shifted on the bed, my pulse spiked.

It was the pheromones. I knew it.

I forced myself to look away, to stare at the desk, the floor, anywhere but her. My fingers drummed hard against the wood, a steady rhythm to drown out the heat crawling up my spine.

"Okay, uh—" My voice cracked and I cleared my throat. "We need to deal with this. Whatever this is. The… pheromones."

Her head tilted. "Pheromones?"

I nodded quickly. "Yeah. I think because we were bitten by the same spider, our bodies are releasing something—like a chemical signal. It makes us…" I hesitated, forcing the word out. "…want things we shouldn't. Makes it hard to think straight. If we don't figure it out, we're gonna lose control."

Her cheeks went pink. She glanced away, tucking her hair behind her ear. "Oh."

"Yeah. Oh."

She coughed lightly, still red. "So… what do we do?"

"I'll need to experiment. With our blood," I said, shifting into science-mode because it was safer than thinking about the way she was looking at me. "Figure out how the pheromones work and see if I can suppress them. Maybe even remove them completely. If not, at least weaken them enough so we can actually focus around each other."

Relief flickered across her face, though I didn't miss the way her gaze drifted back to me, softer now. Like she wasn't sure if she even wanted it gone.

I forced a short laugh, rubbing the back of my neck. "Trust me, it's for the best. Otherwise one of us is gonna do something stupid."

She smiled faintly, the corner of her mouth quaking up, but the pull between us didn't vanish. It stayed there, a weight on the air, claws of instinct scraping against reason.

And in that moment, sitting across from Cindy Moon in my bedroom, I realized something terrifying.

If we didn't figure this out soon… pheromones or not, I wasn't sure I'd be able to keep resisting.

I shifted in my chair, trying to shake it off. "Look," I said quietly. "I'm serious about this. I'm gonna be Spider-Man. People are gonna need us. This city's gonna need us. And if you're willing… I'd like you to be part of that. Not because of… whatever this is. But because you're strong. You're smart. And I don't want to do it alone."

Cindy stared at me, her eyes wide and unreadable. Then she nodded, once. "Okay," she whispered. "I'm in."

Something loosened in my chest. I let out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding. "Good."

For a few seconds we just sat there, looking at each other. The room was too quiet. Her scent was still everywhere. My hands trembled faintly on the armrests.

Her voice broke the silence. "We're gonna be okay, right?"

I swallowed hard. "Yeah. We will." I hoped it was true.

Her smile returned, shy but real, and she reached out, almost without thinking. Her fingers brushed the back of my hand. Light. Brief. Enough to send a jolt through me like a live wire.

I pulled back instinctively, heart hammering. "We… uh. We'll figure it out."

And then the door creaked downstairs.

A voice called up from the kitchen—Aunt May's voice. "Peter? Is everything okay?"

I jumped up, almost knocking the chair over, my pulse still racing from Cindy's touch. "Y-yeah! Everything's fine!" I called back, maybe a little too loud.

Cindy stood too, her hoodie sleeves still hiding her hands. She met my eyes, and for a second it felt like the whole world shrank down to that one look.

Chapter Text

I hadn't expected the room to feel lighter after everything Cindy and I had just gone through, but somehow it did. A moment ago, the weight of our secret pressed down on me—now, after finally talking, something inside me eased. For the first time since the spider bite, I didn't feel completely alone in this.

She perched on the edge of my bed, twisting the hoodie's drawstring, while I leaned back in my chair, rocking, trying to appear calm even as my mind spun.

"So," she said finally, breaking the silence. "You're really serious about this hero thing."

"Dead serious," I said, maybe too fast. "It's about responsibility. If we can do what others can't, it's our problem. Someone has to step up."

She raised an eyebrow. "You sound like a PSA."

I smirked. "Maybe. But it doesn't make it less true."

Her expression softened. She looked at her hands, then back at me with a small sigh. "I can't tell anyone. My parents wouldn't understand. They're strict. If they found out, they'd panic. Maybe lock me up or send me away."

The way she said it—half-joking, half-serious—tightened my chest.

"Cindy," I said gently, "tell someone. Not your parents, if you aren't ready. But someone you trust. Doing this alone will consume you. Believe me, I tried—it's exhausting."

She chewed her lip, hesitant. "You mean… tell your aunt and uncle?"

"Yeah," I said. "They're good people. They raised me. I hadn't planned to tell them yet, but secrets like this only get harder to keep. If they find out by accident, it'll hurt more."

Cindy hugged herself, staring at the floor. "You really think they won't freak out?"

I hesitated, thinking of May's soft heart and Ben's terrible dad jokes. "They'll freak out. But in a supportive, loving way. You'll see."

She sat, doubt written on her face. Then she nodded. "Okay. Let's do it."

I pushed out of my chair, offering her a hand. She took it, and we walked out of the room together.

Halfway down the stairs, Cindy slowed. "What if I mess this up?" she whispered.

"You won't," I said. "Trust me."

She nodded, though I could tell she wasn't fully convinced.

The aroma struck first—warm, rich, undeniably May Parker's cooking. Garlic and onions sizzled, potatoes lined up, ready. My stomach rumbled loud enough for Cindy to glance over and snort.

We stepped into the kitchen, and sure enough, Aunt May was at the stove, spatula in hand, shooing away Uncle Ben as he reached over her shoulder with practiced mischief.

"Ben!" she scolded, swatting at his hand. "Lunch isn't ready yet. You'll ruin the roast if you keep picking at it."

"I wasn't picking, I was taste-testing," he said, grinning that boyish grin that never seemed to fade despite the silver in his hair.

"Uh-huh," she muttered, rolling her eyes but smiling all the same. She pushed the cookbook open with her elbow, flipping to the next page while continuing to work the spatula.

I cleared my throat. "Uh, hey, Aunt May? Uncle Ben? This is Cindy Moon. She, uh, goes to school with me. She was in my group during the Oscorp field trip and—"

Uncle Ben interrupted with a nod, his eyes twinkling. "And she's got abilities like you do."

I froze. Cindy froze. Both of us stared at him like he'd just read our minds.

"What?" I blurted.

May didn't even turn from the stove as she said, matter-of-factly, "We could hear everything from here." Then she turned just enough to fix me with one of her patented Aunt May glares. "And you, young man, had better not be doing anything until you're at least eighteen. We don't want a baby so soon."

My face went nuclear. Cindy did too. She slapped her hands over her cheeks as if she could physically hide the blush spreading across her skin.

"May!" I sputtered. "That's not— We're not—!"

Uncle Ben barked out a laugh, so hard he had to lean on the counter. "Oh, I like her already. Poor Peter doesn't know what hit him."

"Uncle Ben!" I groaned, burying my face in my hands.

Cindy made a small squeak beside me, mumbling, "I should've stayed home…"

Ben wiped his eyes, still chuckling, before looking at Cindy more warmly. "So, Cindy, are you staying for lunch?"

She glanced at me nervously, then back at him. "I… if it's okay?"

"You're more than welcome," Ben said, his smile genuine.

"Lunch will be ready in about an hour," May added, flipping something in the pan. "Ben, peel those potatoes before I lose my patience." She pressed the peeler into his hand without even looking up.

Ben sighed theatrically but didn't argue. He grabbed the bowl of potatoes, muttering under his breath. "Slave labor in my own house…"

May smirked, clearly hearing him, and leaned over just enough to kiss his cheek. "Love you."

"Love you too," he replied automatically, grinning like he'd just won the lottery, even while peeling.

Cindy's blush had softened into something else now—something like awe. For a moment, the awkwardness faded, replaced by quiet admiration as she watched May and Ben together, witnessing the kind of love you could feel just by being in the same room.

I cleared my throat, desperate to escape before May made another comment that would permanently scar me. "We'll be back in an hour then."

May waved a hand, already absorbed in her cookbook. "Go. But don't be late."

Ben shot us a look—half playful, half vigilant—before returning to his peeling.

Cindy and I slipped out the front door, the cool air rushing to meet us as we stepped onto the walkway.

For a long moment, neither of us said anything. The sounds of the kitchen—May humming, Ben grumbling good-naturedly—faded behind us.

Finally, Cindy let out a breath she'd clearly been holding. "They're… amazing."

"Yeah," I said softly, a smile tugging at my lips. "Yeah, they are."

The warm air of early summer clung to us as Cindy and I walked side by side down the cracked pavement. I shoved my hands into my pockets, trying to look casual, but every step felt strange. Not because of her—well, partly because—but mostly because everything in my life was suddenly different. Just a couple of weeks ago, I was the quiet kid in the back, more likely to sketch in my notebook than speak up. Now? I walked next to Cindy Moon, a girl who also carried a secret as heavy as mine.

"So," I said, breaking the silence. "Final exams. How bad did they get you this year?"

Cindy groaned dramatically, tossing her head back as if the memory itself was unbearable. "Don't remind me. I thought I was prepared. I studied every night for weeks. But then they gave us that math section, and my brain just… melted. I swear half the class was ready to walk out."

I laughed, a real laugh, one that eased the tension that always seemed to hover over us lately. "Well, it's almost over. One more week, then freedom. Two whole months without textbooks. I think that's something worth celebrating."

Her lips curved into a smile, and she nudged me with her elbow. "Yeah, but I'm still gonna be stuck babysitting my little cousins. Not exactly my idea of freedom."

"Could be worse," I said, smirking. "At least you'll get a break before junior year. Me? I'm going to walk back into Midtown in September and no one's even going to recognize me."

She gave me a sideways look. "Oh, you're already planning your grand re-entrance?"

"Hey, I'm serious," I said, chuckling. "When I left school, I was this scrawny, nerdy kid who tripped over his own shoelaces. Now I'm taller, stronger… I can actually catch a football without it breaking my face."

Cindy laughed, the sound light and easy, and for a moment, I felt like maybe—just maybe—the world wasn't so heavy. We joked and teased each other as we turned back toward the house, the afternoon sun hanging low, casting streaks of orange and pink across the sky.

But then it happened. In an instant, the lightness vanished—a sharp pulse ran through me, a warning. My whole body stiffened. The air thickened, and my chest tightened with fear as my spider-sense flared so violently I almost doubled over.

"Peter?" Cindy whispered, noticing the change in my expression.

I held up a hand, signaling for her to keep quiet. My gaze swept the street, heart pounding. There—a man walking up the block, head down, shoulders hunched. He didn't look like a neighbor. His clothes were dark, loose. Yet it was the way he moved, hand jammed in his jacket pocket. Then, the glint—metal, unmistakable, catching a last sunbeam.

A gun.

My stomach dropped. He was heading for our house.

"Cindy," I hissed, forcing my voice to stay low and controlled, "call the cops. Right now. Tell them there's a man with a gun heading toward 12 Ingram Street."

Her eyes widened, but she didn't hesitate. She fumbled for her phone, fingers trembling slightly as she dialed. I didn't wait to see if she connected. My legs were already moving, pumping hard as I sprinted toward the house.

No. No way. Not like this. Not tonight.

I wasn't going to let Uncle Ben die.

The front door was already ajar by the time I reached the steps. I could hear shouting inside—rough, sharp words, the kind that cut deep even if you couldn't make out all of them. I slipped through the crack in the door, every nerve in my body on fire. My eyes adjusted quickly, landing on the scene in the kitchen.

The man stood there, face twisted with anger, a revolver trained directly at Uncle Ben. My uncle's hands were raised, his body angled slightly in front of Aunt May, who was pressed back near the counter. Her eyes flicked toward me for the briefest second before darting back to the weapon. She didn't cry out, didn't give me away. She trusted me.

The intruder sneered. "Old man, you got cash in this house, I know it. Don't play dumb with me."

Uncle Ben's voice was calm, steadier than I thought possible. "Listen, son, you don't want to do this. Whatever's going on in your life, this isn't the way."

The man snarled, finger tightening around the trigger.

I didn't think. I moved.

I launched myself forward, fist connecting with the side of his head just as he registered I was there. I pulled my strength back at the last second—I couldn't risk killing him—but the impact was still enough to send him crashing into the fridge, the metal door denting with a loud crunch. The revolver clattered against the linoleum, and in a split second, I flicked my wrist, webbing the weapon and yanking it into the air. Another webline pinned it to the ceiling, cocooned in sticky strands well out of reach.

The man groaned, disoriented, but I didn't let him recover. I grabbed him by the collar, yanking him close. His eyes widened as he saw my face—just a kid, but not just a kid. My voice came out low, firm, and sharper than I intended. "You're done. Next time, you won't get a second chance. Think about that in prison."

I hurled him to the floor, pinning him there with another strand of web. Sirens wailed in the distance, growing louder by the second.

Aunt May's hands trembled slightly, but she didn't scream. The door burst open, heavy boots pounding against the floor. "NYPD! Hands where we can see them!"

Red and blue lights flashed through the windows as uniformed officers swept in, weapons drawn. My heart pounded, and for a brief second, I froze. But then Uncle Ben stepped forward, hands raised.

"Easy, officers," he said calmly. "It's alright. This man broke into our home. He threatened us with a gun."

One of the officers—a tall man with graying hair and a commanding presence—stepped into the kitchen, eyes narrowing at the sight of the would-be burglar pinned by webs and the dented refrigerator behind him. His gaze flicked upward, catching on the strange cocoon of webbing where the revolver hung.

"Well, that's… unusual," he muttered.

Another officer moved to cuff the man on the floor, who spat curses and struggled weakly. "You're all crazy! Kid came out of nowhere, attacked me—!"

"Save it for the station," the tall officer cut him off. His attention shifted to Uncle Ben. "I'm Captain George Stacy. You and your family alright?"

Ben nodded, his face steady but his arm sliding back protectively around May's shoulders. "We're fine, Captain. Shaken, but fine. He barged in, demanded money, and pulled a gun. If it weren't for… well, let's just say we got lucky tonight."

Stacy studied him for a long moment, then glanced back at the dented fridge and the criminal still muttering on the floor. He didn't press. "We'll take it from here. I'll have my men log this as an armed burglary and attempted assault. You won't have to worry about him for a while."

"Thank you," Uncle Ben said sincerely. "Really."

The captain gave a curt nod, then gestured for his men to haul the burglar up and drag him out. The chaos spilled back onto the street, voices and radios crackling as the night settled again.

As the last of the officers left, Stacy lingered in the doorway. "One more thing. Keep your doors locked. People like him look for easy targets. Don't make yourselves one." He gave Uncle Ben a look that almost seemed to say more than his words, then tipped his head politely and followed his men out.

The door shut, and silence returned.

I exhaled slowly, realizing I'd been holding my breath. Aunt May finally sagged into a chair, covering her mouth with one hand. Uncle Ben rubbed her shoulder gently, his expression unreadable.

My eyes drifted upward, to the webbed bundle on the ceiling. The revolver. The cops hadn't noticed it—or if they had, they'd chosen not to mention it. Either way, it was still there, waiting. And I already knew what I was going to do. That weapon wasn't just a gun anymore. It was raw material, a piece of the puzzle I needed for what was to come next.

I'd dismantle it and recreate one of my many inventions, earning billions.

Chapter Text

Cindy had left not long after lunch, waving me off at the bus station. She told me she would be back next week. The house felt too quiet after she was gone. Aunt May was humming downstairs while cleaning up the web off the ceiling. Uncle Ben was un-denting the fridge door. And I? I was pacing in my room like a caged animal. Restless. My head buzzed with possibilities that went nowhere.

Money. That was the problem. That was the gap between what I wanted to do and what I was able to do. The revolver from last night would have been perfect — scrap metal, springs, pieces I could have dismantled and reworked into something useful, maybe even the prototype of a device I'd had built in my past life. But the cops had returned, took it down from the webbed cocoon I left hanging above the kitchen ceiling, and logged it into evidence. They'd patted Uncle Ben on the back, congratulated him for keeping his cool, and then gone on their way. And me? I just stood there smiling like a dumb kid while inside I was screaming at myself. That gun was supposed to be mine.

Now I had nothing but the itch in my bones. It told me I needed to build, to prepare, to do. To do that, I needed money.

So I was at my computer, hunched forward, typing every desperate combination of words I could think of into the search bar.

"Quick money opportunities NYC."

"Freelance tech jobs are cash only."

"Underground work New York high payout."

That last one probably put me on five watchlists, but hey, desperate times call for desperate measures.

Scrolling through endless junk, my chin resting on my fist, I felt the edges of frustration clawing at me. Everyone online made it sound so simple—get a job, work hard, save up. Right. Like any corner store, it was gonna hire a kid who could accidentally crush the register drawer if he wasn't careful.

Then something tugged at my memory. Not from this life—my old one. A scene from the movies. Tobey Maguire's Peter Parker. The guy who cried, as if his face were melting, every time the camera got close. He'd strapped on a mask, walked into a wrestling ring, and made a quick payday just by tossing a dude around.

I sat up in my chair so fast it squeaked.

"No way…" I muttered, a grin tugging at my lips. "Would that actually work here?"

My fingers flew over the keyboard. I searched for fight clubs, boxing gyms, anything that paid. Most of it was lame—fifty bucks for amateur bouts, cheesy charity matches where you signed waivers saying you wouldn't sue if someone knocked your teeth out. Then one post jumped out at me.

Big bold letters.

BATTLE NIGHTS. Ten minutes. One ring. One Beast. Half a million if you last the bell.

Location: Red Hook Warehouse District. Entry: Open. Rules: None.

I blinked. My heart skipped.

"Half a million? Just for ten minutes?"

A laugh slipped out, too loud in the quiet room. "You've gotta be kidding me."

The reigning champ was called Battle Beast. Subtle. Probably some dude built like a refrigerator, with a shaved head and skull tattoos, fists like mallets. I pictured him snarling, flexing, doing the whole tough-guy routine. Against any normal person? Ten minutes would feel like an eternity. Against me?

I flexed my fingers, feeling the way strength coiled under my skin. The spider-sense buzzed faintly at the thought, like my body was already preparing. Reflexes sharp enough to dodge bullets, stamina to run rooftops without breaking a sweat. Ten minutes wasn't impossible. Ten minutes were gym class warm-ups.

However, the practical voice then kicked in. The risks stacked up fast. I'd be putting myself in front of a crowd. Cameras, probably. One bad move, one slip of the mask, and I'd out myself before I even got started. If Uncle Ben or Aunt May saw me on some underground fight video, they'd ground me for the next decade. And if Battle Beast was juiced on steroids or worse, I could still end up in a hospital bed—or worse, raising questions doctors couldn't answer.

I chewed my lip. Risk on one side, reward on the other.

Reward: half a million dollars. Not pocket change—that was gear. Materials. Tools. Web shooters. Custom suits. Lab equipment. Everything I'd need to stop playing catch-up and actually be ahead. Why crawl through the broken Peter Parker lifestyle when I already knew how the story went? Nah. Not this time.

My grin spread. "Yeah… screw it. I'm not playing poor Peter Parker 2.0."

I clicked the signup link. The form was barebones—name, contact information, and emergency number in case you were sent to the ER. I hesitated at "Name," then typed: The Arachnid. A little nod to comic history.

Contact number? Totally fake. Emergency contact? None.

Anonymous. Clean.

I hit enter. The confirmation screen blinked at me.

You're signed up for Battle Nights. Saturday, 11 PM. Red Hook.

I leaned back in my chair, heart thumping, a stupid grin plastered on my face.

This was it. No holding back.

A jolt ran through me, sharp enough to make my fingers twitch off the keyboard. My stomach knotted with that weird mix of nerves and adrenaline—the exact feeling I always imagined before a huge rooftop swing. Only this wasn't a daydream. This was real.

My phone buzzed, screen lighting up. CINDY.

Cindy: Hey. Are you alive? Or did you pass out drooling on your keyboard again?

I snorted, thumbs already moving.

Me: Alive. Just thinking about ways to make money. Do you have any ideas?

Her reply came almost instantly.

Cindy: Yeah, normal ones. Found some tutoring and babysitting jobs. The deli on 9th is also hiring. I don't want to guess whatever insane thing you're cooking up in that head of yours.

I laughed under my breath, glancing at the fight-night confirmation still open on my screen. If only she knew.

Me: I'll keep that in mind. Thanks, Moon.

The three dots popped up immediately.

Cindy: Don't call me Moon.

I smirked at the screen, tossing my phone onto the bed. The glow faded out, leaving me alone with the soft hum of my computer and my own racing thoughts.

The fight was in a few days. Just enough time to prepare. Enough time to figure out an outfit, a mask, something that would keep anyone from linking Peter Parker to the kid in the ring.

I leaned back in my chair, hands laced behind my head, staring at the ceiling. If I played this smart, this wouldn't just be some crazy stunt. It would be the first step toward everything.

"Ten minutes," I whispered to myself. "Just ten minutes. Half a million. Easy."

But even as I said it, I couldn't shake the feeling curling in the pit of my stomach — that my life was about to change again, in ways I couldn't quite predict.

🕷🕷🕷🕷🕷🕷🕷🕷🕷🕷🕷🕷

Several days blurred past in a restless haze of planning, excuses, and nerves. And now here we were—Cindy and me, standing shoulder to shoulder in the cracked streets of the Red Hook Warehouse District.

The night was thick with fog and the tang of salt off the river, broken by neon signs buzzing above warehouses that looked abandoned until you got close enough to hear the noise spilling out. Music, laughter, cheers—it all bled into the night air like a living thing.

Cindy tugged on my sleeve, glaring up at me with that mix of annoyance and disbelief she'd perfected over the years.

"I can't believe you actually signed up for this." Her voice was low. She hissed the words at me.

I shoved my hands into the pockets of my hoodie, shrugging like it was no big deal. "Half a million dollars, Cindy. Do you know what we could do with that? Gear, supplies, everything I'd need to actually make something out of this."

Her lips pressed into a thin line. She wanted to argue, I could see it in her eyes—but after a second, she just exhaled and muttered, "Yeah… okay. I hate that you're not wrong."

We followed the crowd—guys twice my size, women with muscles carved like marble, all of them moving with the kind of confidence you only get from breaking bones for fun. It was surreal, slipping among them like I belonged.

Inside, the warehouse had been gutted and reborn as something feral. Neon lights draped from the rafters. Floodlights blazed over the cage at the center, steel mesh glowing like a savage altar. The air choked with sweat, beer, and electricity. Every cheer rattled the concrete beneath my sneakers.

The registration desk was tucked off to the side, guarded by a woman in a headset who looked like she'd seen too many idiots walk in and limp out. Her eyes flicked up, sizing me up instantly.

"Name?" she asked.

I leaned forward just slightly. "The Arachnid."

Her fingers paused mid-type. She looked up again—this time slower, sharper—eyes narrowing at my face.

"…How old are you?"

"Sixteen," I answered, steady.

Her expression hardened like stone. She leaned back, folding her arms. "Move along, kid. This isn't some after-school boxing league. You step in that cage, you'll leave in pieces—if you leave at all."

Cindy jumped in before I could. "See? Even though she thinks this is insane. Let's go."

But I didn't budge. The heat in my chest flared. "I can handle it," I said, voice calm, steady. "Just give me the form."

The woman's laugh was short, humorless. "Handle it? That 'Beast' out there has put grown men in the hospital. Broken jaws, shattered ribs, concussions so bad they can't remember their own names. And you? You're a kid in a hoodie."

I didn't blink. "Form."

For a long moment, she stared at me—trying to decide if I was brave, stupid, or both. Finally, she let out a long breath through her nose, grabbed a clipboard, and slapped it down on the desk.

"Fine. But don't say I didn't warn you. Sign here, here, and here. Waivers cover injuries, permanent damage, and death. You know—the usual."

Cindy crossed her arms, shaking her head. "Peter, this is—"

I cut her a look. "Trust me."

She bit her tongue, eyes burning holes through me as I scribbled down the name, the signature. Each pen stroke felt like a lock clicking shut behind me. No turning back now.

When I slid the clipboard back, the woman pointed toward a dim corridor that ran under the stands.

"Locker rooms are to the right. Wait until you're called."

The roar of the crowd surged again, rattling through the walls. Cindy's hand brushed mine, just for a second. "You'd better know what you're doing," she whispered.

I swallowed the knot in my throat and forced a grin. "Yeah. Me too."

The corridor reeked of sweat, old beer, and disinfectant. My sneakers scuffed against the concrete as I followed the path deeper into the belly of the warehouse, weaving past fighters who looked like they belonged in comic books—huge, scarred, or tattooed head to toe. Some sat with towels over their heads, rocking silently like monks. Others shadowboxed the air, fists whipping so fast the sound cracked.

I wasn't supposed to be here. And yet here I was.

The locker room was a tight concrete box with rows of dented metal benches. Cindy trailed in behind me, refusing to leave. She sat down right across from me, arms crossed, glaring.

"You better not die," she muttered.

I cracked a half-smile, though my chest was tight. "I'll try to keep it to just broken bones."

Her glare didn't soften. If anything, it deepened.

The walls trembled suddenly, a booming voice thundering through the speakers, rattling the lockers.

"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!" the announcer roared, his voice smooth, deep, theatrical, like he was narrating the end of the world. "Welcome… to another NIGHT! OF! LEGEND!"

The crowd outside went wild, stomping their feet in unison, the vibration shaking dust loose from the ceiling.

"Tonight, YOU bear witness to the immovable, unstoppable force! The DEVOURER of hope! The SLAYER of souls! The ONE, the ONLY… BATTLE BEAST!"

The chant began instantly, primal and deafening.

"BEAST! BEAST! BEAST! BEAST!"

I crept to the doorway, peeking through the gap in the curtain. And there he was.

Battle Beast.

The nickname wasn't hype. He was a monster. Shaved head gleaming under the lights, body carved out of pure muscle and scars. His arms were thicker than my waist, veins bulging like cords.

In the center of the cage, he grabbed his opponent—a stocky guy who'd been grinning like a tough guy just seconds ago—and slammed him down so hard the floor rattled under my shoes. The guy didn't get back up.

The announcer circled the cage like a ringmaster in hell, every word feeding the frenzy.

"DOWN IN FORTY SECONDS! Another would-be warrior is broken! Another soul cast aside by the Beast!"

The medics dragged the poor guy off as the announcer's voice climbed higher, almost musical in its brutality.

"And who will step forward next? Who DARES to gamble their life against this god of war?!"

The crowd roared:

"FEED THE BEAST! FEED THE BEAST! FEED THE BEAST!"

One after another, challengers tried. Big men, brawlers, even a wiry guy with lightning-fast kicks. None of them lasted. Thirty seconds. Forty-five. A full minute at best before they were rag-dolled, pummeled, and left limp on the mat.

Then she arrived.

The announcer's voice shifted, reverent but cruel.

"Ah, yes! Our strongest challenger yet! The Iron Maiden herself—six-foot-two, muscles carved from granite, a titan in her own right!"

She charged him like a freight train, fists flying, her strength undeniable. And for a moment—just a moment—the crowd thought she might do it. She lasted longer than anyone else. Nearly three whole minutes before Beast caught her mid-swing, hoisted her clean over his shoulders, and drove her into the floor with a sickening thud.

The crowd lost its mind.

"THREE MINUTES! A RECORD! But still no match for the BEAST!"

The announcer's grin glistened under the lights, his voice a weapon. "There is NO challenger worthy! None who can withstand his wrath!"

In the locker room, my palms were slick with sweat. Cindy leaned forward, whispering harshly. "Peter, don't. Please. Look at what he does to them—"

Before she could finish, the announcer's gaze turned toward the tunnel, his eyes glittering like a predator's. His voice rose, theatrical, sharp.

"And now… ANOTHER hopeful emerges! Another brave—or foolish—soul who dares to step into the ring of annihilation! Tell us, boy, what name will we carve into your tombstone tonight?"

The spotlight swung into the tunnel, blinding me. My throat went dry. For a heartbeat, I thought about blurting out Peter Parker, but no—this wasn't about me. Not here.

I grinned, the word rolling off my tongue like it had been waiting for this moment.

"The Arachnid."

The announcer threw his head back and laughed, savoring it.

"THE ARACHNID! Do you hear it, people? Another insect for the Beast to crush! Another web spun only to be torn apart! Ladies and gentlemen—give it up for the one and only! Arach! Nid!"

The crowd howled, the cage rattling under their stomps. Cindy grabbed my wrist, her eyes wide, pleading. "Don't go out there."

I squeezed her hand back once, forcing a smile I didn't feel. "I have to."

And then I stepped forward, into the light.

Chapter Text

The cage crashed down with a mechanical groan. Steel teeth snapped into place around us, and the world shrank to mesh and lights and the clamor of a thousand people stomping in time. It sealed like the lid of a coffin locking down. My heart jolted — equal parts terror and something electric that made my muscles tingle. This was it.

The announcer's voice cut through the din like a knife, velvet and venom. "LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!" he howled. "THE MOMENT YOU'VE BEEN WAITING FOR! IN THIS CORNER — THE UNHOLY TIDE OF BRUTE FORCE, THE HUNGRY HURRICANE OF HELL — BATTLE BEAST!" The chant started instantly. "BEAST! BEAST! BEAST!"

He turned his mic like a preacher casting out sinners. "AND IN THE OTHER — SLIM, FAST, THE WEBBED WARRIOR FROM THE SHADOWS — GIVE IT UP FOR… THE ARACHNID!" The crowd split into a thousand voices, half cheer, half bloodlust.

Battle Beast was already a silhouette of muscle under the lights, the way his shoulders rolled like he owned gravity. Up close, he was worse than the pictures — a walking wall with a mouth full of bad intentions. Scarred skin, a head like a cannonball. He didn't just glare at me; he stared with the hunger of a predator that smelled weakness. His laugh was a broken thing, and it made people lean forward, hungry for it.

The bell sounded, and the crowd rose like an ocean.

He moved like a battering ram. No preliminaries. No show. He exploded forward, and the first blow I saw was a fist that would have leveled a sedan if he'd put all his weight into it. I ducked because my body knew to duck before my brain could make sense of it — the spider-sense, a low, thrumming hum at the edge of my awareness. The air where my head had been compressed like someone had snapped a whip. The cage rattled with the impact.

I kept my distance, never letting him close enough to pin me down. That was always the plan: provoke, dodge, taunt, and last. Force him to swing and burn through his stamina with wild attacks, while I conserve mine and wait for any opening. He wanted blood and bodies; I needed time and a check that actually cleared.

"You're a lot smaller than the pictures, kid," he bellowed, his voice a thunderclap. "Gonna be a quick snack!"

I circled, bouncing on the balls of my feet. "Hey, big guy," I called, letting my voice carry. "Are you sure you don't need directions? The exit's that way." I grinned under the mask as best I could. The grin felt like armor.

The crowd ate it up. Someone in the front row screamed, "Grab his dick and twist it! The good old dick twist!" A smattering of savage laughter followed. That guy was mental. The shout made a wave of ugly noise wash over the cage — men laughing, women hollering, a guy nearby chanting for carnage. The hunger in their voices made the hair on my arms stand on end.

Battle Beast answered my bait with a rush, a spray of sweaty motion. He threw a haymaker, and I rolled under the arc, my hand scraping the mat. The smell of old blood and beer filled my nostrils. He swung again, harder, and the mesh rattled like a drum. I felt my heart thud in my throat, and heard it in the pop of my ears. Every muscle wanted to do something reckless — jump, grab, end it with one perfect move. My head told me to do the opposite.

"Too slow, spider-boy!" he roared, and for a flash his fist clipped my shoulder. Pain bloomed, hot and sharp, but it didn't stop me. I hit back with a quick kick to his knee, not aiming to hurt so much as to disturb the rhythm. He stumbled, cursed, and the crowd groaned and cheered as if they were watching choreography.

The announcer narrated like a carnival barker, turning every scrape into a saga. "OHHH, THE ARACHNID STRIKES! A CLEVER MOVE! BUT THE BEAST ANSWERS! SEE HOW HE RETURNS PUNISHMENT!" His voice threaded into the crowd's roar, making everything feel staged and more dangerous at once. The sound surged through me, turning my blood into a drum.

I sprinted along the cage, launching from the mesh just enough to throw off his aim. He lunged and missed, his massive hand crashing into steel. Sparks — not literal, just the theater lighting striking the sweat — flickered. I surged with adrenaline: quicker reflexes, sharper focus, the sort of tunnel vision that compressed the entire arena to a single point. My legs vibrated like coiled springs.

Minutes bled into seconds, and every second became a pattern: taunt, dodge, jab, retreat. I kept calling him names—silly, stupid, distracting—because getting into his head made him angrier and sloppier, forcing him to waste energy when he should have been saving it. Each time he breathed more heavily, I knew the plan was working: pacing over power, outlasting instead of overpowering. The crowd wanted blood, but they didn't know how to win this fight.

At one point, when he reared back for a crushing uppercut, I leapt, webbed to the cage, and somersaulted over his shoulder. We landed back-to-back for one heartbeat; his breath was like a furnace on my neck. The announcer squealed, "LOOK AT THAT! THE ARACHNID WITH A DAREDEVIL FLIP! A SYMPHONY OF MADNESS!" The crowd howled. I felt my veins hum, the old comic-book scenes I'd memorized coming alive in a way that made my chest ache.

I wasn't trying to win by knockout. My aim was to maintain endurance and spectacle, keeping him unpredictable and wasting his momentum. Every time he overreached, I snapped a web to trip him and used a quick grapple to yank his balance. I left shallow cuts and bruises on purpose — enough to convince spectators, not enough to end him. The Beast roared, teeth bared, and the crowd surged forward in sound like a physical thing.

Sweat stung my eyes. My mask stuck to my face. I tasted metal. Adrenaline. Something like victory made my hands tremble. Nine minutes had ticked down on the clock. The digital numbers glowed like a countdown to judgment. One more to go. One more.

The cage felt smaller, the lights brighter. My blood was a drumroll in my ears. I readied myself, fingers itching for the perfect balance of restraint and showmanship. The Beast charged like a collapsing building, and somewhere beyond the mesh, Cindy's face hovered in my mind — worried, fierce, waiting in the dark.

This was the moment. Keep it together. Last, the bell.

The cage smashed down from the ceiling with a metallic slam, chains clanging like thunder as it locked around the ring. The crowd erupted, pounding their feet, smashing the railings, their chant surging like a war drum:

Neon lights pulsed blood-red as the announcer strutted into the cage, arms wide, mic in hand, voice booming like a god of chaos.

"Ladies and gentlemen, the hour has COME! The blood will FLOW! The screams will RING! The one, the only, the undefeated titan of carnage—BATTLE! BEAST!"

The crowd exploded, beer spraying into the air like champagne at a funeral.

The Battle Beast stood in the far corner, arms crossed over his chest, a mountain of scarred flesh and muscle. His glare cut across the cage like a blade. He leaned forward, lips curling into a cruel smirk.

"Kid," he rumbled, voice low but echoing, "you don't belong here. You're too small. Too soft. I'll tear you apart in two minutes, maybe less."

The announcer whipped toward my side of the cage, his voice dripping with theatrics.

"And facing the Beast tonight, a newcomer, a mystery, a spider crawling into the lion's den… Give it up for… THE ARACHNID!"

The crowd's chant twisted, with some cheering and most laughing, their voices cracking with derision.

"ARACH-NID! ARACH-NID!"

"FEED THE BEAST!"

And one lunatic in the back howled: "GRAB HIS DICK AND TWIST IT! THE GOOD OLD DICK TWIST!"

I blinked. That guy was mental.

The bell clanged.

Battle Beast stormed forward. A human freight train, all fury and muscle. His fist hammered down like a sledgehammer, the shockwave shaking the cage when it missed me by inches.

I grinned under my mask, heart hammering, blood rushing hot and fast. My body was alive, every nerve on fire, my reflexes sharper than a whip.

"Hey, Beast!" I shouted, flipping backward into a handstand before springing upright. "Do they sell tickets for your gym routine, or is this a one-time comedy special?"

The crowd roared with laughter. The beast snarled, teeth bared, swinging again.

I ducked, weaved, and sidestepped, every motion fluid, instinctual. My body bent in impossible arcs, twisting midair as I vaulted off the cage, landing lightly just out of reach. I was dancing around him—literally dancing—each dodge more infuriating than the last.

"You hit like my Aunt May!" I called, cartwheeled under another swing. "And trust me—her frying pan's scarier!"

The crowd loved it. Half were laughing, half were screaming for my blood, the frenzy reaching a fever pitch.

Battle Beast's patience snapped. He roared, his face purple with rage, and unleashed his signature move. He caught me mid-spin, hauling me up over his head in a brutal gorilla press.

The announcer screamed into the mic: "AND HERE IT IS! THE END! THE DEATH DROP!"

He hurled me down with bone-crushing force—except I twisted, rolling with the impact, absorbing it. Pain shot through me, but I bounced to my feet, grinning.

"Nice throw!" I shouted. "Ever think about trying out for the Olympics? Oh, wait—you'd get disqualified for sucking!"

The crowd howled. The beast's face went red.

I bobbed. I weaved. His fists cut the air, each one close enough to feel the wind, but none landed. My feet danced, my body bent backward to avoid a hook that would've caved in my skull. Then—finally—I struck.

A clean left jab.A right cross that snapped his head back.

The crowd gasped. The beast staggered, blood spraying from his lip.

I pressed in, relentless, adrenaline pumping like wildfire through my veins. My fists hammered twice more—sharp, clean, precise.

CRACK!

Battle Beast collapsed to his knees, then hit the mat with a ground-shaking thud. The cage rattled. The crowd went silent for one stunned heartbeat.

Then pandemonium.

"The Arachnid!" the announcer bellowed, losing his mind. "THE BEAST HAS FALLEN!"

The audience screamed, half in awe, half in fury, stamping, howling for blood.

I stood there, chest heaving, sweat pouring down my back, my hands trembling with the rush. I had done it. I had beaten him.

Later, backstage, I stood at the payout table, mask off, hair plastered to my forehead. The promoter shoved a crumpled bill across the counter—just one.

"Hundred bucks," he muttered.

My fists clenched. "It was supposed to be half a million."

The man sneered. "Kid, you lasted. You didn't win. That's the deal. Take it or—"

A shadow fell over the table.

Battle Beast. Bandaged, limping, but very much alive. He leaned down until his bulk dwarfed the promoter, his voice a guttural growl.

"Give. Him. The money."

The promoter stammered, sweat breaking out instantly. "I-I—of course! No problem!" He scrambled, hands shaking, shoving the full envelope across the table.

The beast turned, meeting my eyes. His lips twitched into the faintest smirk. "Respect, kid. Don't waste it."

I swallowed hard, tucking the envelope into my jacket. "Thanks."

🕷🕷🕷🕷🕷🕷🕷🕷🕷🕷🕷🕷

The morning after felt unreal. The adrenaline from the fight had finally worn off, and for once, I let myself sleep in, dead to the world until the sun was already high. By the time I'd dragged myself out of bed, showered, and deposited the check at the bank, it still didn't feel real. My name on the account, a shiny new card pressed into my hand… It was the first tangible proof that last night hadn't been some fever dream.

Now here I was, walking out of Queens Center Mall with Cindy at my side, arms loaded with shopping bags. The sheer weight of everything we'd bought dragged on my shoulders, but instead of draining me, it felt good—like progress.

Cindy was buzzing, practically bouncing on her heels. She rattled off our haul like she was running inventory for SHIELD.

"Okay, so we've got you new clothes that actually fit you—finally—bomber jacket, tactical shirt and pants, boots, gloves, ski mask, round goggles… check, check, check. Red and black dyes, fabrics, sewing kits, paints, brushes, stencils, tools, computer parts…" She trailed off, staring at the bags dangling from my hands. "Peter, do you realize how much money you just blew through?"

I tilted my head, pretending to think. "Enough to bankrupt Tony Stark's coffee budget for the week?"

She groaned, smacking her forehead. "You're impossible."

"Yeah, but I'm impossible with style," I shot back, lifting the bomber jacket from one of the bags to admire it. "Tell me this doesn't scream first-gen Spider-Man prototype suit."

Cindy snorted but couldn't hide her smile. "It screams wannabe ninja cosplayer who's about to trip over his own boots."

"Harsh. But accurate."

She shook her head, though I caught the sparkle in her eyes. Truth was, she was just as excited as I was. She'd been sketching ideas nonstop—streamlined designs with web motifs, masks that weren't just functional but iconic. Every time she put pencil to paper, the future felt more solid, less like a daydream.

As we loaded the last of the gear into Uncle Ben's beat-up sedan, Cindy leaned against the trunk, folding her arms. Her tone shifted from playful to thoughtful.

"Peter… last night. That fight."

I paused, sliding the last bag in. "Yeah?"

She stared at me for a moment, eyes narrowing. "You were… unbelievable. I mean, I knew you had reflexes after the spider bite, but the way you moved in there? Dodging like you'd been training your whole life, taunting that monster like you weren't two seconds away from getting flattened—" She shook her head, laughing in disbelief. "It was insane. I still can't believe it."

I shrugged, trying not to let the grin stretch too wide across my face. "Guess I was just… in the zone."

"You were something, all right."

For a moment, the air between us hung heavy with unspoken things—fear, excitement, the weight of what we were becoming. Cindy broke the silence first, pushing off the trunk.

"Which means if we're serious about this—about suits, training, gear—then we need something else."

I arched an eyebrow. "What's that?"

She gave me a look like it should've been obvious.

"A hideout."

The word hit me like a spark. A place that was ours. A base. A spider's web in the city where we could build everything without looking over our shoulders.

I nodded slowly, feeling the grin return. "Yeah. A hideout. Every hero's gotta have one."

Cindy smirked, tugging her jacket tighter as the autumn wind cut through the parking lot. "Then I guess we will start looking."

Chapter Text

I pulled the last bag from my newly bought truck, straps biting hard into my sore shoulder. Every muscle ached from hauling gear upstairs, and my fingers throbbed. Yet I couldn't stop grinning. Every part, every tool, every piece of tactical gear we'd scraped together was here. For the first time since the bite, hope pressed at my chest, sharp and electric: I was finally building toward something real.

Cindy slammed the truck door with her hip. Arms crossed, she gave me a look. "Most kids save up for sneakers or a phone. Not... whatever this is."

I hefted the bags. "Video games don't stop bank robberies or fix my computer."

She snorted. "Fair. I call dibs on the cool part—spandex, intimidation, and logo. You handle the wires."

"Deal."

We snuck into the house like burglars. Aunt May's cinnamon rolls had left the whole downstairs smelling sweet, but the living room was empty. Perfect. I motioned for Cindy to follow me up the stairs. We dumped the bags onto my bedroom floor—gear, fabrics, boxes of parts, dyes—and for a moment just stared at the controlled chaos we'd created.

"All right," Cindy said, grabbing clothes for our first suit. "You work your techno-magic. I'll handle the dye—preferably without making a mess."

I grinned. "Just don't turn the bathroom into a murder scene."

She rolled her eyes and disappeared down the hall, already muttering about red-black dye ratios.

I sat at my desk. My poor laptop—stock parts, cheap casing, the kind of underpowered thing some clueless retailer thought was "gaming ready"—was about to get a new soul. Not just upgraded. Transformed.

I cracked open the casing with a screwdriver, laying each screw in a neat row. Hands steady, I carefully disconnected the battery, then removed the processor and lifted out the RAM. I set aside the underperforming stock cooling system. These were precise steps I'd once spent years perfecting—testing, failing, learning shortcuts for every connector, every firmware tweak hidden beneath layers the experts ignored. Now, each move was a matter of muscle memory.

I installed a military-grade processor, pressing it gently into the socket. Next, custom solid-state drives snapped into their slots. Using a flash drive, I uploaded my personal BIOS firmware, transforming this bargain-bin laptop into something ready for neural networks. For the phone, I removed the SIM restrictions, wiped the unwanted apps, and installed my lightweight operating system. Integration followed: encryption protocols were activated, and data was cross-synced between the systems. In under an hour, both were running as if they had been built in a Stark Industries clean room.

Most people had no idea how easy it was to make off-the-shelf tech songs. They were too busy buying upgrades instead of understanding how things worked. Idiots.

I sat back, wiped the sweat from my forehead, and hit the power button. The laptop flickered, then glowed. Not Windows. Not Linux. Something else entirely. My something. My old code. A ghost of another life scrolling across the screen, its logo appearing in stark monochrome.

My fingers froze above the keyboard."No way…" I whispered. "No freaking way."

The computer beeped. A box appeared: Enter password.

I swallowed hard. My pulse thundered in my ears as I typed that old password. My fingers shook—a primal fear flickering in my gut. Part of me almost needed it to fail, to prove this was just fantasy. But as I pressed enter, the screen shifted, and a familiar home screen washed over me like a tidal wave—I knew it better than my own face.

Then a voice spoke. Flat. Plain. Monotone. System online. Awaiting identification.

My chest tightened. I forced myself to breathe. "Uh. Identification: Zero-One-Nine-Parker."

A pause. Then: Code accepted. User unidentified. State your name.

"Peter Parker."

The system hummed. Welcome, Peter Parker. No personality modules detected. Please select the default configuration.

"No way…" I whispered. My throat was dry. "Addison. Load Addison."

Error. Personality not found.

"Vector?"

Not found.

"Simon? Sophia? Lora? James? Titan?"

Not found. Not found. Not found.

"Dammit!" I smacked the desk. The laptop wobbled dangerously. "All gone. Every single one."

I slumped back, raking trembling fingers through my hair. The ghosts of all I'd built—gone. My chest twisted, torn between relief that it was over and the hollow ache of loss.

"Fine," I muttered. "We'll start fresh. Create a new personality."

Confirmed. New personality name?

My lips twisted into a grin. "Designation: Arachne."

The computer processed. Then the voice returned, sharper now, less sterile. System personality Arachne. created. Awaiting directives.

"Okay, Arachne," I said, leaning forward. "First order of business: connect to all police scanners in New York. Keep track of any crimes happening and alert me immediately."

Confirmed. Connection established. Monitoring channels.

I sat back and let out a long breath, adrenaline buzzing in my veins. "Holy crap. It worked."

The door creaked. Cindy walked back in, her hands stained faintly red from the dye, a plate balanced on one palm.

"Aunt May brought pizza," she said, holding out two slices.

I blinked, pulled back from the screen, and took the plate. "Thanks."

She nodded at the laptop. "So... you just built Skynet?"

I smirked, biting into the pizza. "Better."

Her eyes narrowed at the glowing laptop. "What are you doing?"

"Oh, you know," I grinned. "Just making an AI to track crimes and manage our... extracurriculars."

She blinked. "Casually? You just—what?"

"Cindy Moon," I said, "meet Arachne. Arachne, this is Cindy. She can use you, too."

The voice spoke: Acknowledged. Hello, Miss. Moon.

Cindy's jaw dropped. "That's creepy."

"Awesome," I corrected.

She shook her head, muttering, "Unbelievable," before plopping onto the edge of my bed. "Well, while you were having your mad scientist moment, I actually finished something. Your suit's drying in the bathroom. Tactical mesh is holding, reinforced seams are in place. I even did some design work for the real suits."

I perked up instantly. "Seriously? What'd you add?"

Cindy flipped open her sketchbook, balancing it on her knees, red dye still faint on her fingers.

The first page she showed me nearly made me forget the laptop humming beside me. Bold black marker lines wrapped over crimson shading, a design that looked half tactical armor, half sleek predator. My chest tightened just looking at it.

"This one's yours," she said, tapping the page with the end of her pencil.

The suit was brutal and beautiful at the same time—red as the foundation, with black panels that curved across the torso and arms. At the center, stretching from shoulder to waist, a massive black spider sprawled across the chest, its legs fanning over the ribcage. The lenses were sharp, angular white ovals that almost glowed against the darker colors. The design wasn't just spandex—it had layered plating and subtle armor reinforcement sketched into the outline, a form-fitting tactical suit that looked like it could take a beating.

"It looks really well made, far better than my design," I muttered, unable to hide my grin.

Cindy smirked. "Exactly. Not a circus costume. Something practical. Something that makes criminals think twice."

She flipped to the next page.

"And this one's mine."

Her design was striking in a completely different way—sleek, feminine, but no less dangerous. A white base flowed across the page, broken by bold black panels that sharpened her silhouette. Crimson webbing traced over her shoulders and arms like veins, converging into a stylized red "S" emblem that flared across her chest. Instead of a full mask, she'd drawn a scarf-like face covering in deep red that wrapped around her lower face, leaving her sharp, white-lensed eyes as the only thing visible. The effect was dramatic, almost haunting.

"Whoa," I breathed. "That's… that's amazing."

"Form-fitting but flexible," she explained, her tone professional, almost clinical. "Lightweight armor woven underneath. Scarf-mask for intimidation factor—and because, honestly, it looks cool."

The computer chimed. Alert. Armed bank robbery reported. Third and Lexington. Suspects armed.

My head snapped toward the screen, and everything inside me jolted. Cindy's eyes widened with shock. Tense, electrified silence hung between us, our big talk suddenly real and the weight of what we'd done settling hard in my chest. Slowly, a wild, reckless grin broke free on my face.

"Well," I said, standing up, "looks like Spider-Man's first test run came early."

Cindy was already moving, heading for the bathroom. "Your suit should be dry by now."

I clenched my fists, heart racing. Half of me was terrified. The other half was ecstatic. "Guess it's showtime."

My heart hammered as I slammed the bathroom door and locked it. The mirror threw a stranger at me: face flushed, eyes fever-bright, my hands trembling as I held the suit. The mask—the red scarf, Cindy's touch—felt alien at first, but as I pulled it over my face and the goggles clicked into place, a calm rolled over me, cutting through the panic. For a moment, fear vanished. Focus locked in. This is it.

I ripped the window open. The night smelled like hot pavement and distant traffic. I'd practiced this in my head a thousand times, quoting movie lines, comic panels, and stunt footage in a looping mental montage. None of that prepared me for the freefall. I pushed off the sill and fell for a heartbeat — stomach swooping — then my body learned the rhythm. I shot a line from my wrists. It wasn't a mechanical thwip this time; it felt wet and alive, like a strand of silk spun from my own skin. The web stuck to the fire escape opposite me. I swung, lungs filling with cold air, the city blurring into ribbons of light below.

Organic webbing. No shooters. No gadgetry. Just me and whatever weird biological lottery I'd hit. It made everything feel more real, more dangerous. More me.

The police scanner I'd duct-taped to my ear crackled: "—reports of an armed robbery at the First National Bank on Lexington and Third. Suspects heading inside—multiple hostiles—units en route." My pulse doubled.

I angled my swing, cutting in low over narrow alleys and rooftop HVAC units until the bank's art-deco facade rose up, floodlit and arrogant. Glass glittered like teeth. Sirens shrieked in the distance, red and blue blinking toward the junction. People poured out of the building across the street — customers shoved into the doorway, hands over their heads, faces a mix of confusion and fear.

Four men in black ski masks were moving like rehearsed predators. Bulletproof vests, duffel bags, pistols glinting; one had a police radio, pantomiming authority. They were inside, voices low and brutal as they corralled hostages against cold marble.

I landed on the bank's service alley with the quiet of a cat, chest heaving. The suit fit like a second skin — tactical panels where I needed them, flexible where I had to bend. I could feel my heartbeat in my throat. I told myself to breathe. In. Out. In. Out.

A door slammed. The lead robber shoved a guard into a teller window and raised his gun. When he barked orders, the world slowed; that animal terror slapped the air into stillness. This wasn't some stunt. This was people — and sometimes a split-second choice is the line between them walking away or not.

I stepped into the hall like I belonged. The pistol swiveled toward me, making one of the robbers laugh. "What the—who the hell are you? Kid? Get outta here!"

I gave him a little bow, deliberately casual, voice bouncing off marble. "Evening, gentlemen. Bank hours are from nine to five, you know. You missed your sign-up sheet."

He sneered. "You idiot—get back!"

The laugh I used was a weapon. Taunting them would make them violent and sloppy. That was the plan. Keep them emotional. Keep them predictable. Keep them watching me.

One robber stepped forward, hand twitching on his pistol. I breathed out and the first web shot from my wrist — slick, quick — and slapped across the barrel. It yanked the gun sideways and out of his grip in one clean motion. He cursed, lunging for it, but instinct and speed put me in his face before he could find purchase. A flick, a sidestep, and his legs tangled, folding him into a stuttering heap on the marble like a puppet with cut strings.

For a beat, the bank was too loud. Hearts thumped against ribs like trapped birds. Some of the hostages started to cry. Others were too stunned to move. The leader swore, his hand flying to his radio, but the web on the gun held him a second longer than he expected — and that was all I needed.

I danced. That's the only word for it. Spider comics don't do justice to the feeling of fluid physics your body suddenly understands. I flicked, vaulted, rolled, and rewired momentum against mass. My legs kicked off columns; I used a beam to spring over a teller counter; I traced the ceiling tile seams to run like a spider above the floor of human panic. Every time someone tried to zero in on me, I was already elsewhere.

"Hey!" the leader barked, and he started to get tactical. He lunged with his rifle like an animal. For a second — a flash — the bullet found air where my head had been two heartbeats before. I felt the wind of it past my ear; whatever reflex saved me was wired into the bones now.

I kept my distance. I wanted them to be frustrated, punching the air, wasting their breath. I landed a few light jabs — precise, non-lethal — enough to stagger them, not to end them. Two of them tried to fire again and ended up webbed to the marble pillars by their arms, immobilized like kids with their hands stuck to glue. A third went for a hostage — a woman clutching a purse — and I dove, catching the rifle's barrel with bare fingers, pinning it away, channeling pain into a fast, hard knee to his ribs. He crumpled, winded, the rifle clattering.

My chest was a drumroll. Adrenaline made thoughts cut sharper: first, protect civilians. Second, avoid killing. Third, take risks only if necessary. I kept talking because taunts keep people focused on words instead of angles.

"Have you ever thought about a hobby?" I called as I cartwheeled around a swinging hatless assailant. "Rock climbing? Model trains? Anything where you don't threaten strangers?"

One robber spat. "Shut up!"

"Sorry," I said, fake-lamenting. "Can't hear you over the sound of your impending arrest."

Sirens wailed closer. Someone in the crowd had called it in good and loud — either that or the bank's silent alarm finally made a fuss. The leader's eyes flicked desperately toward the door. Panic is a bad general. His hands went jittery.

That was my opening. I shot a web, a living rope, looped it around his ankles, and tugged. He went down like a tree, taking two others with him in a clumsy domino. The gun's muzzle clattered against marble; hands went up.

The last robber lunged at me, knuckles white on the grip of his pistol, teeth bared in a desperate snarl. He thought brute force would end this.

"Really?" I muttered, tilting my head.

He charged. My Spider-Sense flared, sharp and electric. I pivoted, flicked a web to his shoulder, and used his own momentum to yank him off his feet. He slammed into the marble floor with a grunt. Before he could scramble up, I wrapped him in thick strands of webbing and pinned him to a support column like a fly in amber. His muffled curses echoed through the bank lobby.

For a second, the only sounds were the blaring alarm and the frantic breathing of the hostages. I stood there, chest rising and falling beneath the suit, scanning for movement. Nothing. It was over.

Then the heavy doors burst open with a crash.

"FREEZE!"

Half a dozen NYPD officers flooded the lobby, guns raised, flashlights slicing through the shadows. The first thing they saw wasn't the hostages, or the crooks webbed up like Christmas decorations—it was me. A kid in a half-dyed suit, goggles glaring white in the harsh light, standing in the middle of a crime scene.

I froze, hands half-raised. "Uh… hi?"

Their fingers tightened on their triggers.

"Down on the ground!" one barked.

Every instinct screamed at me to run—to leap for the ceiling and vanish before anyone could react. A single webline and I'd be gone. No names, no faces. Safe.

But then I looked at the people huddled behind the tellers' counter, wide-eyed and trembling. They weren't afraid of the cops. They weren't even looking at them. They were looking at me.

If I bolted now, I'd be just another masked freak in a city that already had too many. If I wanted to matter, to prove this wasn't just a game… I had to stay.

Slowly, I straightened and raised my voice. "I'm not your enemy. Name's Spider-Man. First night on the job." I jerked a thumb toward the webbed-up crooks. "They were robbing the place. You're welcome."

The officers hesitated, exchanging uncertain glances. One of the crooks, face mashed against the webbing, shouted hoarsely, "He's a freak! Lock him up!"

"Yeah, because you guys are clearly role models," I muttered.

One officer kept his gun leveled at me. "What's your angle, kid? Masked vigilantes don't just… show up out of nowhere."

"No angle," I said honestly. "I just want to help. That's it. I'm not here to step on anyone's toes."

A figure pushed through the line of uniforms—older, graying at the temples, with the kind of sharp eyes that had seen too many late nights. His badge caught the light: Captain Stacy.

"Stand down," he ordered, and the other officers reluctantly lowered their weapons. He stepped closer, studying me like I was some puzzle he didn't trust himself to solve.

"So. Spider-Man." The name came out flat, as if he were tasting it for the first time.

"That's me," I said with a half-shrug. "Catchy, right? Not taken, as far as I know."

He didn't laugh. "You saved lives tonight. That much I'll give you. But listen carefully: this city doesn't need another loose cannon in tights. You screw up, and someone innocent gets hurt; I will bring you in. Understood?"

I nodded quickly, raising two fingers in a salute. "Crystal clear, Captain."

For a moment, something softened in his face—exhaustion, maybe, or the faintest flicker of respect. Then it was gone, replaced by steel.

"And kid," he added, glancing at the uneven stitching and blotchy dye of my suit. "Get a better outfit. That thing looks like it came out of a dumpster."

I laughed under the mask despite the tension, the sound bouncing off the marble. "Working on it."

Before anyone could press for more, I flicked a webline to the skylight and vaulted upward. The glass cracked, night air rushing in as I shot out into the open city.

The wind roared in my ears. Queens stretched beneath me like a living map—lights, sirens, neon all blurring into one heartbeat. I swung higher, faster, laughter bubbling out of me in bursts I couldn't contain.

My first night. My first fight. My first name.

Spider-Man was real now.

And the city had just met him.

Chapter Text

Swinging back through the city was… exhilarating. My lungs still burned from the sprint of adrenaline. Every muscle hummed with leftover energy, but I couldn't stop grinning. The suit clung to me, sticky with sweat, fabric scuffed from stray ricochets of broken glass. Still, the rush was there. The city had been a blur of lights and motion. For a few heart-pounding minutes, I wasn't Peter Parker, the kid with too many problems and not enough answers. I was Spider-Man.

The open bathroom window was my target. I shot a web to the sill, arced in perfectly, and landed with a quiet thump on the tiles. Graceful. Clean. I'd even managed not to knock over May's potted fern this time. Progress.

I peeled the mask off and gulped down cool air. My heart rate finally slowed. The raw ache of the fight faded, replaced by a strange lightness. Turning, I scanned the bathroom for my clothes, but found… nothing.

"What the—" My jeans, my shirt, even my sneakers were gone. I spun, half-expecting Cindy to jump out laughing. Nothing but the faint scent of soap and the mirror fogged from the shower earlier.

Great. Naked Spider-Man. Not exactly the headline I wanted.

I hurried to my room in the suit, shut the door behind me, and dug through my drawers for fresh clothes. After dressing, I hung the suit carefully on the hook in my closet, giving it one last look. The seams held—Cindy's handiwork had survived its first trial by fire.

I jogged downstairs, half-expecting silence. Instead, I heard voices, the low hum of the TV, and Cindy's laugh mingling with May's softer chuckle. Uncle Ben's baritone rose above both, steady and amused.

I rounded the corner and froze.

There they were, sitting on the couch, their eyes glued to the television. Cindy, legs crossed, tried not to smirk at me. Aunt May rested her knitting needles on her lap. Uncle Ben leaned forward, gripping the remote, nodding as though the nightly news was the most fascinating show on Earth.

And there, on the TV, was I. Or rather, the masked me. Spider-Man. Grainy footage captured on someone's phone showed me disarming the robbers, webbing the guns, flipping through chaos like some acrobat on steroids.

The news anchor's voice rang clear: "New Yorkers are divided tonight over the emergence of a masked figure, dubbed by witnesses as 'Spider-Man.' This unknown vigilante stopped an armed robbery at First National Bank earlier this evening, leaving police to clean up what one officer called, quote, 'the weirdest arrest paperwork I've ever filled out.'"

The broadcast shifted to shaky footage of me ripping the gun from the robber's hand. My stomach sank. Seeing myself from the outside… I didn't appear heroic. I looked dangerous.

The anchor continued, "Some citizens are calling him a hero, while others are questioning whether a masked vigilante has any place in New York's already strained justice system. Our correspondent spoke to witnesses earlier."

The screen flickered to a middle-aged woman clutching a shopping bag. "Oh, it was amazing! He just swooped in outta nowhere, like whoosh, and suddenly those guys were on the ground. Saved lives, I'm telling you."

Cut. A man in a suit scowled. "Yeah, maybe this time he helped, but what if next time he screws up? Who's responsible if he hurts someone? He's not trained. He's not law enforcement. He's just some kid in a Halloween costume."

My jaw tightened.

Then came Captain Stacy, standing outside the bank, surrounded by flashing lights and reporters shoving microphones at him. His voice was calm, firm, the way I remembered from the few times I'd seen him at school events. "Look, the guy helped today. No denying that. The robbers were armed, and lives were at risk. But here's the bottom line: vigilantes don't get a free pass. He keeps doing the right thing, he stays on the right side of the law, then we'll have no problem. The second he crosses that line? We'll treat him like any other criminal."

The clip ended, and the anchor leaned forward with a practiced smile. "So, who is Spider-Man? A hero in the making, or a danger waiting to happen? Only time will tell."

The camera panned back to the studio and then cut to a political commentator, who shook his head in disapproval. 'Listen, the city doesn't need another masked figure running around. Remember what happened the last time vigilantes thought they knew better than the system? It ended in lawsuits and chaos. New York needs order, not spider tricks.'

Uncle Ben whistled low. "Spider tricks, huh? That's catchy."

I realized everyone was staring at me. Cindy's eyes sparkled with amusement, May's brows lifted in quiet curiosity, and Ben… Ben looked like he was holding back a grin.

He gave a sharp whistle. "Kid moves pretty fast. Swinging around like that, flipping over guys with guns. Not bad."

I rubbed the back of my neck, trying to look casual. "It's all about momentum. And strength. And, uh, a lot of agility. Gotta dodge birds, traffic signs, windows… oh, and pigeons. Pigeons are the real enemy."

Cindy snorted into her sleeve. May smothered a laugh. Ben leaned back, still studying me. His gaze dropped to the TV, where the suit was in full view: homemade, patchy, and tactical gear, cobbled together like thrift-store cosplay.

"So, tell me, Pete," Ben said, lips twitching, "were you trying to be a soldier? Or maybe a hockey player? It's kind of hard to tell with that getup. All you need is a helmet and a foam bat."

"Very funny," I muttered.

"No, really," he continued, warming up now, "you looked like you raided the lost and found at a military surplus store. 'Masked Arachnid Man: defender of thrift shops everywhere.'"

Cindy actually laughed out loud this time. Traitor.

I threw up my hands. "It was functional! That's what matters. Protection, mobility—"

"Fashion disaster," Ben interrupted, chuckling.

May set her knitting aside, her expression gentler. "Is that the suit you plan to use forever?"

My mouth opened, then closed. "Uh. No. Just temporary. The official ones are still in the works."

She nodded, satisfied. "Good. That's good."

I looked desperately at Cindy, hoping for backup. She just shrugged, still grinning. "Don't look at me. You did pick the color scheme."

I sighed, slumping back against the wall. "You people are brutal."

Ben raised his hands in mock surrender. "Hey, kid, I'm just saying—shouldn't heroes have actual good style?"

"Give me a break," I grumbled. "First outing. I'm still working on it."

🕷🕷🕷🕷🕷🕷🕷🕷🕷🕷🕷🕷

Back in my room, I finally let myself collapse into the chair. My body still hummed from the adrenaline high of the night. Cindy perched on the edge of my bed, scrolling absentmindedly through her phone. I pulled up blueprints and real estate maps on my computer. Arachne's interface flickered on my second monitor, streams of data already compiling possible sites for a headquarters.

"This is ridiculous," I muttered, rubbing my temples. "Everything's overpriced. Warehouses, industrial sites, and even abandoned factories are going for millions. How are we supposed to set up a base when we can't even afford a broom closet in this city?"

Cindy set her phone down. "Maybe we don't need a big place right away. Just… somewhere private. Small. Expand later."

"Yeah, but we're going to need room eventually—training space, labs, secure storage, equipment bays—" I stopped myself, realizing I was ranting. "Sorry. Just… thinking out loud."

Cindy gave me a small smile. "You always do." She stood and stretched. "Bathroom break. Don't buy a skyscraper while I'm gone."

I rolled my eyes. "Ha ha." The door clicked shut behind her, leaving me with the glow of my monitor and the faint hum of the AI.

"That won't be necessary," Arachne said, voice calm, smooth, and somehow commanding respect.

I blinked. "What won't be necessary?"

"Limiting yourself due to finances, Sir," the AI clarified. "You already possess sufficient capital to acquire as many headquarters, vehicles, and equipment as you require. Any constraints you perceive are purely self-imposed."

My hand froze halfway to the keyboard. "…Sir? Wait, what?"

"You have more than enough, Sir," Arachne continued, tone patient yet precise. "Your prior life's bank accounts, investments, and digital assets remain intact. I have maintained full oversight, optimizing growth continuously."

A chill ran down my spine. "What are you talking about? That money… those accounts… they don't exist here. This is—this world isn't—"

"Sir," Arachne interrupted, softer now, almost gently, "did you forget the virtual banking system you designed? Your wealth was secured in a cross-dimensional ledger impervious to external interference. I retained control of all operations. Access, transfers, and allocation are fully at your discretion. I can generate new credentials or debit cards for you at any moment."

My mouth went dry. "Pull it up," I croaked, voice shaking.

The screen flickered, numbers aligning with surgical precision. My stomach lurched as I absorbed the total. Eight hundred billion.

"Holy—" I gasped, pressing a hand to my mouth. Leaning closer, half-expecting the numbers to vanish. "Eight hundred billion? That… that can't be right."

"Correct, Sir," Arachne confirmed. "At the time of transfer, you possessed approximately one hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Utilizing optimized algorithms, strategic acquisitions, and compounding investments, I have significantly expanded the portfolio. Holdings include high-value corporations such as Stark Industries, Oscorp, Roxxon Energy, Hammer Industries, Rand Enterprises, Fisk Industries, and select emerging entities. By standard human metrics, you are wealthy beyond comprehension. By corporate metrics, your influence could destabilize multiple markets in a single transaction."

I staggered back, gripping the edge of the desk as if it could hold the world upright. "So… I'm… rich. Like, absurdly rich."

"Yes, Sir," Arachne said with near reverence. "Your financial independence is absolute. All operational tasks may now be executed without fiscal concern."

I rubbed my face, trying to absorb the scale of it. "Alright, Arachne. Listen closely. I need a headquarters."

"Parameters, Sir?" the AI asked immediately.

I leaned forward, voice firmer. "Full discretion. Shell companies, vetted contractors only. I want a facility with living quarters, training grounds, labs, vehicle bays, and a command center. Total secrecy, top-tier security. Nobody outside of this room can know it's us."

There was a pause, almost contemplative. "Understood, Sir. Any operational time constraints?"

"Yes. I want it ready in three months. Fully operational, secure, and functional."

"Confirmed, Sir. The headquarters will be acquired, constructed, and operational within three months. You will receive immediate notification upon completion."

I leaned back, stunned. From a broke teenager to an untouchable billionaire in the span of minutes. The absurdity made me laugh—a little out of nervous disbelief, a little because it was kind of awesome.

The bathroom door creaked, and Cindy peeked in, carrying a pile of fabrics and partially dyed clothes. She flopped onto the bed next to me, tossing a sketchbook onto my lap.

"So… did you find any good locations for a headquarters?" she asked, settling in comfortably.

"I've tasked Arachne with it," I said, grinning. "I trust them to handle it. That's one less thing we have to worry about. We can focus on planning, training… and everything else in between."

Cindy tapped her pen against her chin thoughtfully, eyes sparkling. "Yeah… I guess that makes life a lot easier. Eight hundred billion… I can't even wrap my head around it."

I leaned back, stretching my arms, feeling the weight of disbelief and excitement simultaneously. "I can. Sort of. But honestly, it's more fun figuring out what we're going to do with it."

Her laugh rang out, bright and free, bouncing around the room. "Yeah… like designing the coolest suits ever, building gadgets, swinging from rooftops…"

I smirked, leaning closer, elbows resting on my knees. "Exactly. And maybe… not dying horribly in the process."

Cindy nudged me with her shoulder, playful but firm. "Not if I'm around to yell at you for being an idiot."

We fell into an easy rhythm, joking about gadgets, debating the best ways to use web fluid, and laughing at each other's terrible ideas. Hours slipped by unnoticed. She sketched suit concepts, each line fluid and bold, while I showed her schematics and diagrams, tweaking calculations in real-time.

The conversation meandered naturally—one minute we were arguing about the best color scheme for a stealth suit, the next we were discussing what kind of pizza toppings would survive a rooftop swing, or whether a high-tensile web could hold a small car (I'd tested, just in case).

Somewhere in the midst of all that, our casual touches grew more frequent. Shoulders brushing, knees nudging, hands briefly overlapping when we reached for the same pen. It was subtle at first, just enough to make the air feel charged.

Then, without really planning it, our eyes met—really met. I caught every glint of light, every flicker of emotion in hers. Her gaze held mine, steady and intense, and for a heartbeat, the world seemed to fall away.

"Peter…" she whispered, her voice barely audible, though it made my chest tighten like a vice.

I leaned closer. She leaned closer. Everything slowed. The laughter, the sketches, the gadgets, the insane plan to take over a city's crime scene—it all melted away.

And then she moved.

Cindy launched herself toward me, fierce and sudden, and kissed me hard. No hesitation, no pause, just a rush of heat and electricity that knocked the air out of me. Her hands pressed against my chest, my fingers tangled in her hair, and the world ignited in sparks behind my eyelids.

For a moment, nothing else existed. The sketches crumpled, the tools clattered, the city outside didn't matter. There was only this—this kiss, this connection, this… feeling.

And then she pulled back, wide-eyed, breathing hard. "Oh my God! I… I'm so sorry, Peter!"

Before I could even process it, she scrambled off the bed, knocking her sketchbook to the floor, and darted toward the door. "I didn't mean—sorry, sorry, sorry!" she yelled over her shoulder as she bolted down the hall and out of the house.

I sat there, stunned, heart hammering, fingers still brushing the spot where her hands had been. My mind raced. "…What the hell just happened?"

Chapter Text

The nights in New York never lost their edge. Each rooftop leap sent the wind slashing past my face, city lights beating below like a million frenzied stars—it was intoxicating. My homemade suit hugged tight, black and red panels flexing with every move, reinforced for protection, streamlined for speed. The white spider emblem on my chest caught the streetlights, a bold reminder of my calling. My boots landed on fire escapes with almost no sound; my gloves locked onto brick and metal with engineered accuracy.

The organic webbing felt alive in my grip, responsive in ways no synthetic line ever matched. I shot it on instinct—vaulting gaps, swinging from lampposts, catching moving cars to slow them or grab tumbling debris. Every strand carried my strength, intent, and creativity. Messy, chaotic sometimes, but always effective. Most importantly… It was mine.

Summer vacation had just begun, but it wasn't lazy park days or endless gaming. This summer belonged to the city. My calendar overflowed: rooftops at dusk, alleys at midnight, patrols mapped by Arachne for maximum coverage. I moved with a rhythm—a system. One notification from my AI, and I predicted trouble before the cops. Bank heists, muggings, fires, accidents—whatever the threat, I arrived quickly.

Some nights were simple, almost mundane. A cat stranded on a fire escape, a kid locked out of their apartment, a purse snatched in a crowded subway station—routine. I swooped in, webs flying, heart racing, adrenaline surging. Yet my mind stayed clear. Each rescue was a practice. Each encounter is a rehearsal for the bigger stakes.

Other nights demanded every ounce of skill I'd developed in my past life. Every lesson learned in stealth, combat, and strategy mattered. A car dangling from a bridge? I calculated angles, tension, and velocity. At the same time, I kept a terrified driver calm. A fire in a high-rise apartment? I plotted a route to reach trapped families while avoiding smoke inhalation, collapsing floors, and panicked neighbors. I learned to trust my instincts. And I learned to trust Arachne.

The NYPD had been, predictably, skeptical at first. Most cops are—until you prove you aren't a menace. But Captain Stacy and the others quickly realized Spider-Man wasn't just another wannabe vigilante. I had a direct line to Arachne. That linked me to live city data, street cameras, and crime alerts. I could respond in seconds. Sergeant Davis and Officer Ramos called it "the most coordinated backup they'd ever seen." I smiled at the praise. But really, it was just preparation, planning, and a lifetime of past mistakes distilled into action.

And yet, even with all this power, life still had its little moments. Swinging past rooftops, feeling the wind whip through my hair, watching the sunset over the East River, texting Cindy in between patrols to check if she'd finished adjusting her latest suit prototype. Sometimes, I'd stop mid-swing to snag a rooftop pigeon or break a gang fight that hadn't escalated yet, just to see if my reflexes were sharp.

I had learned quickly that being Spider-Man wasn't just about the fights, the flashy rescues, or the thrill. It was about responsibility—watching, thinking, predicting. Protecting people who didn't even know they needed protection yet. And summer was the perfect time to master it all: long nights, endless opportunities, and no school to interrupt my experiments with webs, suit modifications, or patrol strategies.

The city was alive in a way that matched the rhythm in my veins. Every honking horn, every shout, and every distant siren was part of a living organism. I was learning to navigate it—and protect it. As I perched on a gargoyle overlooking Queens, the wind tugged at my boots. I couldn't help but grin beneath my mask.

This was my city now. And I wasn't planning on letting anyone—or anything—take it from me.

It was during one of my routine patrols that the idea first occurred to me. I'd just chased off a would-be mugger and untangled a bike messenger's wheel from his own chain. Right after that, I saved a college kid from being flattened by a runaway delivery truck. She stood trembling, clutching her phone like a lifeline.

"Thank you—oh my God, thank you!" she gasped. "Wait! Can I take a picture?!"

I hesitated, crouched on the fire escape, one hand braced on the railing. "Uh… sure?"

She snapped a photo, her grin bright even though she was still shaking. "You should totally have an Instagram or something. That way people can see you're real—not just some rumor."

I blinked. An Instagram. Out of all the ideas—"That's… actually not bad."

The next night, after patrol, I sat cross‑legged on my bed, still in my suit, mask off, scrolling through my phone. "Arachne," I muttered, "think of a name."

"Parameters, sir?" the AI asked softly through my earpiece.

"Something catchy. Something that's me without being me. Not 'Spider-Man.' Something less obvious."

"Processing…"

I chewed the inside of my cheek, tossing out ideas under my breath. "WebWatcher? SpiderCam? No. Too weird."

Then Arachne chimed in through my earpiece. "Sir. May I suggest 'TheSpiderman_NYC'? It's both location-specific and evocative without directly using your moniker."

I grinned. "TheSpiderman_NYC… I like it. Keeping it simple, alright, please create an account for me."

Within minutes, Arachne had spun up the account. I uploaded my first picture: me silhouetted against the Empire State Building, one hand mid-swing, the other flashing a peace sign. Caption: "Keeping New York safe, one swing at a time. #StaySilkyNYC."

It blew up faster than I expected. Within an hour, hundreds of likes turned into thousands. Comments poured in, some heart-melting—thank yous from people I'd saved. Others were frantic, with tips, rumors, and people tagging me in every imaginable crime headline. And some were just kids, asking if I could web‑sling at their school or do a backflip on TikTok.

At first, I tried replying to a few. Then ten. Then a hundred. By day three, my phone buzzed nonstop.

"Sir," Arachne said politely, "you're receiving an average of three thousand direct messages per hour. Would you like me to handle the bulk of them?"

I rubbed my temples. "Yeah. But even then… this isn't working. Half of these are pranks, fake tips, or spam."

"Agreed," Arachne replied. "A more streamlined interface would optimize your response capabilities."

I froze mid‑scroll, then slowly lowered my phone. "You're right. We need something else. Arachne—what if we build an app?"

The AI's interface pulsed on my laptop screen. "Specify parameters, sir."

I leaned forward, ideas spilling out faster than my hands could type. "Okay. We make an app—a direct line to me, but smarter. People can report emergencies in real time. It sorts them by severity, verifies them, and alerts me instantly. No spam. No prank calls. Full GPS integration. Optional photo or video evidence. It has to be dead-simple to use."

"Understood," Arachne said. "Initiating design protocol. Cross‑platform compatibility, encryption for anonymity, and real‑time verification. I recommend deploying a secondary AI: Spiderling. It will screen and triage reports. Spiderling will handle verification and notify you of legitimate, high-priority events."

I smirked. "Spiderling, huh? I like it. Make it happen."

Three nights later, the app was live. The Emergency Web : The App. Simple interface, bold colors, a giant "Report Trouble" button. Within hours of announcing it on Instagram, thousands of New Yorkers had downloaded it. Verified emergencies appeared on my HUD mid-swing, like mini-maps, complete with routes and live updates from Spiderling.

I even showed it to Captain Stacy during a rooftop meetup. He stood there in his windbreaker, hands stuffed into his pockets, looking like a dad who'd just been shown how to stream Netflix.

He whistled low. "You're telling me this little app filters emergencies before they even hit 911?"

"Yup," I said, perched on a ledge. "It's faster and way harder to abuse than a regular phone tip line. Think of it like… a digital neighborhood watch."

He shook his head, a grin tugging at his lips. "Kid, this is—this is actually good. I might even download it myself. Maybe it'll tell me where my detectives keep disappearing to."

I chuckled. "Should download it, never know when you will need a rescue."

Stacy laughed at that, then gestured to my patched-up suit. "Now if only you'd fix that before your next public appearance…"

"Yeah, yeah, I know," I said, glancing down at my fraying gloves. "Working on it."

"Good," he said, turning to leave. "Because at this rate, you're gonna be more famous than the cops. Try not to make us look bad, Spider-Man."

As the Captain disappeared down the stairwell, my phone buzzed—Spiderling alert. Another emergency. I smirked under my mask, fired a web, and launched into the night.

This was the new normal. And for the first time, it felt like I was finally ahead of the game.

Over the next few days, Cindy and I threw ourselves into the project. Well… mostly I did. Cindy had been… distant lately. She'd been busy with school, and I understood that. But it gnawed at me every time I realized she hadn't stopped by in a while. The pheromones weren't a problem when she was absent, but there was this lingering thought: the tension wasn't gone. I shoved it aside, focusing on the app.

By the end of the first week, we had a working prototype. Spiderling would receive reports from civilians, verify them through live camera feeds or geolocation data, and then prioritize them based on threat level. I could see everything in real-time on my custom laptop, with holographic overlays of the city streets, traffic patterns, and potential escape routes. Arachne had even established a secure link to the NYPD, allowing verified crimes to be communicated immediately without compromising identities or locations.

I tested it one night while swinging through the East Side. A report popped up: "Building fire, 5th Ave, 22nd Street. Potential trapped residents." Spiderling verified the report, highlighting the building in red on my holographic map. I altered my course mid-swing and arrived at the scene in under thirty seconds. Residents were panicking, a few people waving from the windows. I webbed ropes to the fire escape and windows, guiding everyone to safety. No civilians were hurt, and no firefighters were impeded. Another successful night logged in my mind.

And yet, the app brought in more than just emergencies. Messages popped up, asking for minor favors, reporting strange sightings, and even heartfelt confessions from people inspired by Spider-Man's heroics. Some were annoying, sure. Others, like a terrified kid reporting bullies, reminded me why this role mattered. My city was messy, chaotic, but it was alive—and I was here for it.

I started running small patrols every night, refining my movements, testing new webs, and learning the optimal angles for swinging between skyscrapers. My strength and agility allowed me to push further, faster, and higher than I ever thought possible. I experimented with different web patterns, testing the tensile strength and elasticity, even trying variations that would allow me to block bullets or restrain multiple criminals at once.

I found myself thinking more strategically about crime. A mugger in an alley? Easy. But patterns… patterns were important. I began to notice areas with higher crime rates, streets where more fires occurred, and intersections where accidents happened regularly. My app could log all this. With Arachne analyzing the data, Spiderling could suggest patrols, hotspot monitoring, and early intervention strategies. I felt like a combination of hero, detective, and strategist all at once.

And then, there were the people. I began to see the impact Spider-Man had on the city—not just on crime statistics, but on the city's morale. A bus driver waved from the corner. Kids pointed and cheered. Even adults, initially skeptical, began to nod, smile, and wave. They knew I wasn't just a vigilante; I was their protector, a symbol of hope. And every time someone recognized me or mentioned me online, my heart swelled with that same strange pride I'd always read about in comics. This—this connection, it was different from the movies, from the comics I'd memorized. This was real.

The NYPD grew more accustomed to working with me. Officer Ramos texted Spiderling, "Two people trapped on the roof of the building at 43rd Street, potential gas leak. Recommend immediate intervention." I swung into action, thinking about the safest entry points, avoiding civilians, securing the roof, and diffusing the hazard. It was exhilarating. They trusted me. I trusted Spiderling. I trusted myself.

Some nights, when I returned home, I stared at Cindy's empty seat at my desk. She hadn't stopped by, hadn't come over to check on the suit modifications, the app, or the patrols. I knew she was busy with school, but a small pang hit me. I couldn't let it affect my focus, not now. My mission was bigger than that. My city, my responsibility.

I did my best to keep my mind off her—the kiss, the pheromones, the confusion. I reminded myself constantly that her actions weren't… real, not in the emotional sense. The spider-bite complications. My brain tried to rationalize it, but part of me… part of me just wanted it to mean something. I shoved it down, turned my attention to the streets.

Over the weeks, my popularity surged. Reports from Spiderling, data from the app, and my patrol logs showed a clear trend: Spider-Man was becoming a household name. I helped stranded commuters, stopped thefts, rescued animals, defused minor explosions, and even coordinated with fire departments during emergency drills. Every action, no matter how small, contributed to the growing mythos of Spider-Man. I was careful, deliberate, making sure no one got hurt while still impressing onlookers.

One evening, while swinging across Manhattan, Spiderling pinged with a more unusual alert: "Potential civil disturbance reported at 5th Avenue and 50th Street. Verified by three separate civilian sources. Low-level threat, high crowd density." I adjusted my trajectory and arrived just in time to see a large street protest that had gotten slightly out of hand. No violence yet, just tense pushing and yelling. I dropped down silently, webbed a barricade to redirect the crowd, and started talking to key organizers to calm tensions. The crowd parted slowly, and I left them in the hands of the local authorities.

Through it all, the FNSM app became a sensation. Kids, adults, and elderly people relied on it for help, updates, and even reassurance. Spiderling filtered reports, flagged potential threats, and provided a constant stream of situational awareness. The AI wasn't just an assistant—it was my eyes and ears across the city. And me? I was more confident, more capable, more connected than ever before.

At night, back in my room, I'd sometimes just sit at the window, looking out over the city, the glow of neon reflecting off glass skyscrapers. I thought about how much had changed in just a few weeks. I was stronger, faster, smarter. I had Cindy, even if she was absent. I had Arachne and Spiderling running logistics, keeping me informed. I had a city that was slowly learning to trust me. And somehow… I felt ready.

But the thought of Cindy lingered. A faint reminder that this wasn't just about saving people or building an empire of good deeds. There were complications, distractions, and… feelings. Things I couldn't entirely ignore, no matter how much I rationalized the pheromones or tried to shove the memory of that kiss into the back of my mind.

I sighed, adjusting the mask. The city was alive below me, and I had a job to do. Whether she showed up tonight, tomorrow, or not at all… Spider-Man had work to do. And I wasn't going to let anything—no threat, no distraction—stop me.

The nights blurred together, a montage of webs, rooftops, and adrenaline. Reports came in, emergencies were handled, and every day, the city began to recognize the name Spider-Man not just as a myth, but as a protector, a constant presence. And through it all, Spiderling hummed in the background, filtering chaos into manageable tasks, and Arachne's voice reminded me that I had not just power, but resources—more than I ever could have imagined.

I smiled beneath my mask. The first step was done. I had established myself. But the city… It was only the beginning. And somewhere, out there, Cindy was also part of this story, whether she realized it or not.

Chapter Text

I dragged myself through my apartment door like a zombie just off the night shift. My mask was still clutched in one hand, crumpled like a used rag. The weight of the day pressed into my shoulders the moment I shut the door. Aching ribs reminded me of every close call; web-slinging left my wrists raw. Legs? Overcooked spaghetti. Another long night as New York's unpaid intern: cleaning up messes and smiling through it all, like some kind of lunatic in spandex.

I kicked off my shoes, tossed my hoodie over the back of a chair, and collapsed face-first onto the couch. For a minute, I didn't even want to move. My body screamed for sleep. My mind, though? My mind refused to stop running through the dozens of little moments from patrol—pulling a kid out of the way of a speeding cab, webbing up some idiot who thought it was smart to rob a bodega, calming down a panicked old lady whose dog had bolted into traffic. Things that didn't make the news, but mattered to the people I helped.

I sighed into the couch cushion, voice muffled. "Friendly neighborhood Spider-Man, huh? More like a friendly neighborhood babysitter."

The knock came soft, almost hesitant, but enough to break through the fog of exhaustion in my skull. For a second, I thought I imagined it—just the city tugging me back outside again. But then it came again. Three times. Real. Someone is actually at my door.

Groaning, I peeled myself off the couch. Every muscle ached, as if I'd been through ten rounds with Rhino. I shuffled to the door, already bracing myself to tell whoever it was that I wasn't interested in buying whatever they were selling.

But when I opened it—

"Cindy?"

She stood in the hallway, frozen as if for hours. Her dark hair was pulled into a loose braid. She wore jeans and a sweater instead of her suit. Still, the look in her eyes was anything but casual: determination, fear, and longing tangled tightly enough to make my chest ache.

"Hey," she whispered. Her voice cracked, just a little. "We need to talk."

That tone pulled me upright in an instant. I stepped aside without a word. She slipped past me, close enough that I could still feel the warmth of her arm lingering on my skin. As she sat on the couch, she folded her hands tightly together, as if bracing herself against a tremor that might surface if she let go.

I lowered myself into the chair across from her, heart thudding way too fast for how quiet the room was. "What's going on?"

Her eyes lifted, steady but fragile. "I've been thinking. About us. About what happened… that kiss." She paused and bit her lip. "It's been over a month, but I can't stop replaying it. I keep wondering—was it too soon? Was it the pheromones? Or… was it me?"

The memory hit me like a sucker punch. We both stopped mid-swing, faces inches apart, and kissed before we could second-guess it. I told myself it was the pheromones. It was safer, easier. But the way she was looking at me now…

"Cindy…"

She shook her head quickly, eyes bright and unblinking. "Peter, I need you to listen. I've watched you these last few weeks. You've thrown yourself into the city and built something lasting. That app—The Emergency Web—is genius. People already rely on it. I saw you on patrol and wanted to talk, but…" She looked down, a humorless laugh slipping out. "I didn't have the courage. Not until now."

Her words twisted in me: warmth and ache together. She'd been fighting her battles and still thought of me.

"I want to try," she said finally, her voice cracking on the last word. "Dating. Us. Not just teammates. Not just two messed-up kids thrown together by fate. But… something real."

For a long time, I couldn't speak. My mind raced through pros and cons, pulling me between fear and longing as I weighed the risks of letting someone close. It was too soon. Reckless. We both carried scars we scarcely understood. And yet…

"Are you sure this isn't—" I began.

"No." She leaned forward sharply, cutting me off. "Look at me. Really look."

So I did. For the first time, there was no haze. No chemical pull. Just her—raw, earnest, and vulnerable in a way that hurt to see.

"You feel it?" she asked softly.

I swallowed. "Yeah. I feel… just you."

Her eyes glistened. She let out a shaky laugh. "Then don't make this harder than it has to be."

I laughed weakly and rubbed the back of my neck. "You always know how to make me feel like an idiot."

"Peter," she said gently, "not everything has to be complicated."

Maybe she was right. For once, maybe it didn't have to be complicated.

"…Okay," I breathed, my chest tight. "Let's try."

The smile that broke across her face was worth more than a hundred victories. She leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to my cheek. For a moment, I forgot how to breathe.

"I've missed this," she whispered. "Missed… you."

"I missed you too," I admitted, surprising myself with how easily the words came.

But then her expression shifted; her brows knit and lips pressed together in hesitation. "There's something else. Something bigger."

That cold knot of dread twisted in my stomach. "Bigger how?"

"I told my parents about me. About my powers."

My eyebrows shot up. "Wow. That's huge. How did they—"

"They were… supportive. But they weren't alone. They introduced me to someone. Someone who knows about what we are. Someone who claims to be able to help me. Protect me."

And just like that, the air grew heavy. I already knew where this was going.

"Cindy," I said carefully, "who is this guy?"

The voice came from behind me before she could answer. Deep, calm, almost soothing:

"No need to ask her."

I turned, heart hammering against my ribs.

A tall man stood in my living room, as if he'd always been there. His tailored suit fit snugly across his broad shoulders. Silver hair was neatly combed back. His body looked strong despite the years carved into his face. His eyes carried a strange weight—wisdom mixed with sorrow. He leaned on a cane, but it didn't hide the power coiled inside him.

"I'm Ezekiel Sims," he said evenly. "And whether either of you realizes it yet… you've stepped into something far larger than yourselves."

My jaw went slack as confusion and apprehension washed over me. Cindy shifted uncomfortably, her posture tense—caught between awe and overwhelm as the room seemed to shrink around us.

Ezekiel stepped closer, his cane tapping once against the hardwood floor, the sound unnervingly sharp in the stillness of my apartment. His eyes—gray, sharp, ancient in a way that no ordinary man's should be—settled on me.

"Here's the big question, Peter," he said, voice low and deliberate. "Did the radiation enable the spider to give you those powers? Or was the spider trying to give you its powers before the radiation killed it? Which came first—the radiation or the power? The chicken or the egg?"

The words hit me sideways. My brain tried to sprint in six directions. "Uh… damn. I always thought the radiation was responsible. Radioactive spider, bite, boom—powers. That math made sense."

Ezekiel chuckled, but it wasn't kind. It was the laugh of someone who knew more than you ever would. He shook his head slowly.

"Oh, Peter. There's so much you don't know."

And then he began to unravel it.

He told us about the Web of Life and Destiny—a cosmic tapestry binding every spider-powered being across every universe. A divine lattice, woven by Neith the goddess and weaver, who sent her emissaries—spiders, sacred and eternal—down to Earth to choose the worthy.

"Each chosen," Ezekiel said, pacing slowly, "becomes a totem. A living embodiment of the spider. Protector. Predator. Prey. That choice connects you to the Web forever."

Cindy's hand gripped the couch cushion so tightly I thought the fabric might tear. My own chest tightened as he continued, his voice carrying the weight of old secrets.

"And as totems… You are hunted."

He stopped, eyes darkening. "By them."

"By who?" Cindy whispered.

Ezekiel's mouth curled in something that wasn't quite a smile. "The Inheritors. A family of vampiric beings who live across the multiverse. They hunt spider-totems. They feed on you. On the essence that makes you what you are. It's not food. It's not even survival. To them… It's a sport. A game. You are prey. And their most relentless predator?"

He let the silence hang before speaking the name.

"Morlun."

The room seemed to drop ten degrees.

He is the one you must fear most. I've seen him drain spider after spider—universes away, worlds apart. Distance doesn't matter. Once he catches your scent, he will hunt you until there's nothing left but ash and silence. There's no bargaining, no outrunning. When he arrives, there will be no mercy.

Cindy's breath hitched audibly. I clenched my fists, a shiver running through me. It sounded insane—but in the marrow of my bones, it felt true.

"So what," I managed, forcing my voice steady, "you want us to go underground? Hide in a bunker while the city burns?"

"Yes," Ezekiel said simply, leaning on his cane. "I can mask your scent. Cloak you. Keep you safe. The Inheritors will never find you."

Cindy glanced at me, torn, her lips pressed tight. "I thought about it. I almost agreed. But I wanted to hear what you thought first."

I exhaled and dragged a hand down my face. Hiding forever? That wasn't me. That wasn't Spider-Man. I shook my head.

Look, I believe you. The Web, the totems, Morlun. It fits. But hiding in a hole? That's not a life. And it sure as hell isn't me.

Ezekiel arched an eyebrow. "So you'd rather gamble with extinction?"

"No," I said, leaning forward. "I'd rather fight smart. If the problem is the scent, then maybe there's a solution that doesn't involve becoming a ghost. You said the longer we're active, the stronger it gets, right?"

"Yes."

"Then we need something to mask it. Block it. If Morlun and his family hunt by scent, then we cut off the scent at its source. Simple as that, allowing us to train and get stronger so that if they ever step foot here, they will find themselves taken care of."

I tapped the earpiece in my ear—a habit I'd picked up over the last few weeks. "Arachne, start combing through my blueprints. Cross-reference any information on biosignatures, frequency jammers, and scent masking. Prioritize adaptability. Alert me if you find something workable."

Arachne's voice buzzed in my ear instantly. "Acknowledged, Sir. Reviewing files now. I shall send all blueprints to your tablet and laptop."

I let out a breath. "Good. Keep me posted."

Ezekiel had been silent through the exchange, his expression unreadable. Finally, he gave a low chuckle. "You really are stubborn. Clever. But stubborn." He pointed the tip of his cane at me. "Most would run from the Inheritors. Few would dare to face them head-on."

"Yeah, well," I muttered, "running's never really been my style."

Something like approval flickered in his eyes, though it was weighed down with pity.

"Very well," he said at last. "If it is training and preparation you want… then I will see what can be arranged. But not tonight."

He straightened, every inch of him radiating quiet authority. "There are things I must prepare. Allies, I must consult. You will hear from me again soon."

"Wait—" Cindy started, but before she could finish, he was already gone. One blink, and he simply wasn't there anymore. No flash, no sound. Just vanished, like a ghost stepping back into the shadows.

The room fell into a heavy silence. Cindy's hand brushed mine, seeking warmth.

I stared at the empty space where Ezekiel had stood, his words echoing like a storm.

The Web. The Totems. The Inheritors. Morlun.

For the first time in a long time, I felt small.

And I hated it.

Chapter Text

Breakfast in our household was usually a calm, quiet affair. Aunt May believed in the sanctity of mornings, which meant the kitchen smelled like fresh coffee and toast before the sun had properly climbed over the horizon. Uncle Ben believed in the sanctity of bacon, which meant the sound of sizzling grease accompanied the smell of coffee like a loyal duet. Me? I believed in sleep, which meant I dragged myself to the table with my hair sticking up in every possible direction and my eyes half-shut, still clinging to the dream that maybe, just maybe, New York would grant me one day off.

Not happening, of course.

But this morning was different. For one thing, Cindy Moon—my girlfriend, which still sounded surreal every time I thought it—was seated at the table across from me, sipping orange juice like she belonged here. Which, after last night, she sort of did.

Aunt May bustled around the stove, humming to herself, while Uncle Ben flipped pancakes with the kind of quiet satisfaction only a man who had perfected the art of Saturday breakfasts could manage. And there I was, trying very hard to act like this was normal, like I hadn't just woken up with Cindy's head on my shoulder.

Uncle Ben set down a plate. "So, how's Spider-Man doing these days?"

I nearly choked on my coffee. "Uncle Ben!"

He winked. "Relax. Walls have ears, but they're our walls. Just making sure you're still kicking."

Cindy smirked over her glass. "He's kicking. Sleep, maybe less so."

Aunt May shot her a look that was equal parts curious and concerned. "Don't encourage him, Cindy. He already runs himself ragged."

"I'm fine," I said, cutting into my pancakes. "See? Eating a balanced breakfast. Practically a vacation."

Cindy nudged me. "Balanced breakfast today, concussion tomorrow."

"Wow," I muttered. "You sound like the system notifications in my head."

She tilted her head. "Maybe I'm the upgrade you didn't know you needed."

Uncle Ben chuckled, and Aunt May gave us both that small, knowing smile of hers that could either mean she was charmed or mentally preparing The Talk. I wasn't about to risk finding out.

"Anyway," I said quickly, "I helped Cindy download the Emergency Web App last night. Got her set up with a 'Hero' status."

Aunt May blinked. "Emergency Web App?"

"Yeah," I explained. "It's basically a network for emergencies. If something significant happens, the app alerts anyone nearby who's registered. Heroes, first responders, civilians—it keeps communication flowing. I gave Cindy her own account. Hero name: Silk."

Aunt May raised an eyebrow. "Silk, huh? I like it. Has a ring to it."

Cindy only grinned.

"But," I continued, "her profile's set to offline until she's ready to reveal herself. Still, people noticed. There's already hype building about some new mystery hero called Silk."

"Already?" Aunt May asked, setting down a bowl of fruit.

"Yep," I said. "This city has the attention span of a toddler hopped up on sugar. One whiff of something new and suddenly it's trending."

Cindy shrugged. "Could be worse. At least they're excited instead of panicking."

I grinned and went back to my pancakes. For a moment, everything felt… normal. Almost painfully so. Cindy beside me, Aunt May bustling in the kitchen, Uncle Ben making dumb dad comments about superheroes like it was the weather. I wanted to freeze-frame the whole morning and keep it forever.

Then Cindy spoke up. "Hey, speaking of programs and apps and whatnot—did you hear about Dr. Curtis Connors? He's running this summer's biology program at Oscorp. Students can sign up, shadow him, and get a hands-on intro to his work. Thought it might be something you'd be interested in."

My fork hovered midair. "Wait—Connors? As in the Connors? The guy with the limb regeneration research?"

"That's the one."

Uncle Ben lowered his paper, brows furrowing. "Speaking of Oscorp, Peter… have you heard anything from that Harry boy?"

The question blindsided me. I froze, pancake halfway chewed. "Harry who?"

"Harry Osborn," Ben said, like it was obvious. "Your friend. You haven't seen him lately?"

I blinked. Friend? I racked my brain, flipping through memories like a filing cabinet, and came up with exactly nothing. But apparently, in this world, I was supposed to be friends with him.

Before I could fumble an answer, Cindy piped up. "He's been posting photos from that overseas program he joined. Europe, I think? Some science exchange thing. He only just started using social media."

Oh. That explained it. No wonder I hadn't seen or heard from him.

"Any word on when he's back?" I asked.

Cindy sipped her juice, scrolling on her phone. "Hype says this year. Probably before school starts up again."

Ben nodded approvingly. "Good. You two should reconnect. Never hurts to have good friends."

I mumbled something noncommittal, avoiding everyone's gaze, and went back to eating, filing the name Harry Osborn in the mental "Figure This Out Later" drawer.

The conversation drifted again until Aunt May cleared her throat, clearly building up to something. "Peter, I was talking to one of my friends the other day, and she gave me the contact info for her son. He's studying fashion design in college. His name's Luke Jacobson. I thought maybe he could help you with… your other clothes."

I blinked. "You mean my—"

"Your hero costumes," she said bluntly, pouring herself tea.

I nearly dropped my fork. "Aunt May, you can't just—"

She waved me off. "I didn't tell the whole neighborhood. Just a close friend I trust. Luke's talented. He could make you something safer, more durable. You can't keep patching up that homemade thing forever."

Cindy raised her brows, pressing her lips together to stifle a laugh, clearly amused by Aunt May's suggestion.

My brain scrambled. Luke Jacobson. Wait… wasn't he that guy from the She-Hulk series? God, that show was awful. But if this Luke was half as good as his rep suggested, maybe it was worth considering.

"He might be able to help with your hero costumes. You can't keep patching those suits yourself forever."

"Uh…" I rubbed the back of my neck. "Yeah, maybe. I mean… Jacobson's legit, right? Like, he can actually make costumes that, you know, don't rip after one swing?"

Aunt May gave me a look. "Peter."

"Do you have any of his work?" I asked cautiously.

May beamed like she'd been waiting for that question. She pulled out her new phone—one of the ones I'd gotten for her and Uncle Ben—and swiped through her gallery. She held up a series of photos that made my jaw slacken.

These weren't beginner projects. These were masterpieces. Crisp lines, bold designs, fabrics that practically breathed luxury. From streetwear to formal gowns, the guy's range was insane.

Cindy leaned in, her eyes wide. We exchanged a look. This guy wasn't just good. He was too good.

I cleared my throat. "Okay, yeah. Maybe set up a meeting. But make sure he knows exactly what he's signing up for. Spidey suits aren't exactly… normal commissions."

"I'll make sure he understands," she said with a nod.

A couple of hours later, I found myself walking through Manhattan, the peaceful morning at home now a memory as I shifted into my next role.

A couple of hours later, I was walking through Manhattan, dressed in the nicest clothes I owned. Which, thanks to some careful budgeting and a little extra help from Cindy, actually made me look like I belonged somewhere fancier than a comic book store.

Black slim-fit dress pants. A crisp white button-down with the top button undone. A tailored charcoal vest under a long, dark trench coat that swished behind me with every step. Polished black shoes that pinched slightly because I hadn't broken them in yet. A messenger bag slung across my chest—inside, my trusty homemade suit. Just in case. Always just in case.

Cindy had signed me up for Connors' program, but she had plans with her friends today, so I was flying solo. I couldn't decide if that was a blessing or a curse.

Oscorp Tower loomed ahead, sleek and intimidating, its glass panels gleaming in the afternoon sun. The receptionist gave me a visitor badge and pointed me toward the waiting area.

I followed the signs and stepped into a room already buzzing with nervous energy. A couple of dozen teens and young college students sat scattered across rows of chairs, clutching notebooks, phones, or just their own knees. The future of science, gathered in one place.

Inside the waiting area, I scanned the crowd for familiar faces. That's when I saw her.

Sitting near the back, flipping through a notebook, hair catching the light in that annoyingly perfect way.

And, of course, sitting right next to her was Flash Thompson.

Because apparently the universe just loved throwing me curveballs today.

MJ spotted me almost instantly, her red hair catching the light as she waved. Flash sat beside her, arms crossed, looking like someone had just told him football was canceled forever.

Determined to avoid awkward reunions, I made a beeline for an empty seat, pulled out my phone, and tried to disappear into Instagram.

@official.peterparker. My new account. Cindy had bullied me into making it, insisting that normal teenagers had social media, and I couldn't keep living like a ghost. So now I had a feed full of my photography, some awkward selfies, pictures of me with May and Ben, and, more recently, shots of Cindy and me together. My girlfriend. Still felt weird to think about. Weird in a good way.

I found Harry Osborn's account, followed him, and within seconds got a DM.

Harry: "???"

Harry: "omg dude you finally got social media!!"

I chuckled, typing back. We traded messages, swapped numbers, and started texting. He was floored that I had a girlfriend. I explained that the landline was down and that contractors were working on it. He sent me a barrage of laughing emojis and promised we'd hang out soon.

Then someone cleared their throat.

I looked up, and there they were. MJ and Flash, standing right in front of me.

"Uh," I said, sliding my phone down. "Hey."

Flash shifted awkwardly, hands shoved deep in his hoodie pockets. His usual smirk was missing, replaced with something halfway between guilt and discomfort. MJ nudged him pointedly.

Flash grumbled something under his breath.

I frowned. "What?"

He sighed, staring at the floor. "I said… I'm glad you didn't die from the spider bite."

I blinked. "Uh. Thanks?"

He shrugged stiffly, clearly hating every second of this.

"What are you even doing here?" I asked.

"MJ wanted to check out Connors' program," Flash muttered. "She's planning to take his class next year. I just… tagged along."

MJ gave me a sheepish smile. "Ignore him. He's trying."

"Trying what?" I asked.

"To be nice," she said plainly.

I squinted at Flash. "Since when?"

He shifted again, clearly uncomfortable. "You wouldn't get it."

"Try me."

He groaned, rubbing the back of his neck. "Fine. It's Spider-Man, okay? He's—he's awesome. The best. Guy saves people, cracks jokes, and makes it look easy. He's everything I want to be. So yeah, I'm… working on myself. Trying not to be a total jerk anymore. Don't make it weird."

I stared. MJ smirked. Flash glared at me like daring me to laugh.

I didn't. I just raised my brows and said, "Huh. Never thought I'd see the day."

"Shut up," he muttered.

Before I could push it further, the door opened and a man strode in.

Dr. Curtis Connors.

His presence filled the room immediately. Tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a crisp lab coat over a dress shirt and slacks. His voice was warm and animated as he greeted us, but my eyes snagged instantly on his right sleeve—rolled and pinned just below the elbow, revealing the stump where his arm ended.

He strode in, smiling warmly. "Welcome, everyone. I'm thrilled to see so many bright young minds here today."

He launched into his introduction, his passion clear as he spoke. "Human healing is limited. We scar. We lose limbs. We live with those limitations. But nature has other answers. Lizards regrow tails. Certain amphibians regenerate limbs entirely. Imagine what humanity could achieve if we unlocked those secrets."

His gaze flicked briefly to his stump before sweeping over us again.

"That is the work we're doing here at Oscorp. That is the future we're chasing."

And just like that, a chill crawled down my spine.

As I sat there, listening to Dr. Connors, I realized something.

With how things were going, there was a 70% chance that I had just officially met my first supervillain.

Chapter Text

Connors leaned against the long metal counter at the front of the lab. Harsh fluorescent light reflected off the lenses of his glasses. His empty sleeve, neatly pinned against his side, was impossible not to notice. When he gestured with his remaining hand for emphasis, it stood out even more. His voice carried a gravity that silenced idle chatter almost immediately.

"You all know the limitations of human biology," Connors began. His tone was steady and commanding. "A fractured tibia? Six to eight weeks in a cast, minimum. A ruptured Achilles tendon? Months—sometimes years—of therapy. And a lost limb…" He lifted his pinned sleeve slightly, letting the pause linger, heavy in the air. "Gone. Irretrievable. Human beings are extraordinary, yes—but in terms of regeneration, we are pathetically fragile."

A slide flickered on behind him. Images of axolotls, salamanders, and lizards filled the screen, their severed limbs in various stages of regrowth.

"Now look here. Ambystoma mexicanum, the axolotl. A single specimen can regenerate limbs, portions of the heart, spinal cord segments, and even parts of the brain. Not scar tissue—fully functional structures. This is possible due to what are known as blastema cells—a kind of pluripotent mass that forms at the site of injury and reactivates developmental pathways. Effectively, the body rolls itself back to an embryonic blueprint to rebuild what was lost."

A young man, maybe in his early twenties, raised a hand. "So… are you saying they basically trigger stem cell behavior at will?"

"Exactly," Connors replied, his eyes glinting as if pleased. "A salamander doesn't wait for a laboratory to extract stem cells and coax them in a dish. It is the laboratory. Every cell carries the instruction manual. Evolution gifted them the tools to read it."

He changed the slide again. This time, a starfish regenerated arms, and a planarian flatworm divided into two.

"Consider this: a planarian can be cut into hundreds of fragments. Nearly every one will grow into a complete organism. Imagine losing an arm and simply growing another. Imagine a spinal cord injury reversed in weeks, not decades. Imagine the blind seeing again, the paralyzed walking, amputees... whole again."

There was a murmur through the room. Awe radiated from some faces, but shadows of discomfort flickered in the eyes of others—a hush edged with wonder and dread.

Connors paced. His voice grew more intense. "And yet, humans—apex predators, dominant species—heal with the sophistication of an earthworm. You scar, you limp, you adapt, but you do not regenerate. Ask yourself why."

A hand shot up from the back—this time, a woman in her thirties. "Evolutionary trade-offs?" she guessed. "Humans developed advanced cognition, but at the expense of certain cellular pathways?"

Connors nodded sharply, a thin smile tugging at his mouth. "Precisely. Regeneration and cancer suppression are often inversely related. Salamanders regenerate because their cells proliferate with fewer restrictions. Humans have evolved stronger tumor-suppressor mechanisms, which limit runaway cell growth. In short, our ability to resist cancer costs us the ability to regrow."

The projector switched again. Crocodiles now filled the screen—jaws wide, scales gleaming.

Here is another fascinating case. Crocodiles, unlike their smaller lizard cousins, cannot regenerate entire limbs. Yet they exhibit another miracle: immune systems built to thrive in septic, microbe-rich places. Wounds that should fester heal cleanly. Their blood holds unique antimicrobial peptides—so potent they kill bacteria and fungi that would ravage a human body. Scientists have found several molecules in crocodilian serum with potential pharmaceutical uses. Think: antibiotics, antivirals, wound-healing serums, all in plain sight.

Another student piped up—a nervous-looking kid, maybe sixteen. "So, uh… are you saying we could, like… copy that DNA? Use CRISPR to put those traits in people?"

Connors chuckled, but it wasn't warm. It was sharp, almost feverish. "That is one possibility. We could graft nature's solutions onto our own frail genome. We could splice into us what evolution denied." He tapped his empty sleeve against his chest. "This—this is why we study comparative regeneration biology. I refuse to believe the answer is no."

The air in the room felt denser, nearly electric. Some scribbled furiously in notebooks, hands trembling with excitement or anxiety. Others sat in stiff silence, caught between yearning and a rising sense of dread.

Connors finally dimmed the projector, plunging the room into a cooler, quieter light. He swept his gaze across the room, meeting eyes, demanding focus.

"You are here not just to watch me chase theories. You are here to work. Over the next several weeks, you will conduct DNA sequence analysis on reptilian samples. You will study gene expression. You will model protein pathways. And above all, you will ask the questions science has been too timid to ask. What if the limits of the human body are not limits at all, but barriers to be broken?"

He let the silence stretch. Then his tone softened, almost conspiratorial.

"Pair up. Get started. Today, we begin with genomic comparisons between reptilian fibroblast cultures and mammalian cells. Pay attention to transcription factors. They may hold the key."

The clamor of chairs scraping and pages flipping was mixed with nervous laughter and uneasy glances. Students paired up—some with relieved grins, others with damp palms and tense expressions. My hand moved over my notes, but my chest tightened, gaze flicking back to Connors, haunted by the look in his eyes.

"Parker. You wanna… partner up?"

I turned, stunned. Of all people, Flash Thompson stood there—no sneer, no taunt. His face, for once, was stripped of bravado, just… vulnerable. Just asking.

"You sure about that?" I asked, narrowing my eyes a little.

Flash shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah. Why not? You're good at this science stuff. I don't feel like wasting my time with someone who doesn't care. So… you in?"

I studied him for a second. It didn't sound like an insult. More like—begrudging honesty. Finally, I sighed. "Fine. But if we're partners, you put in the work. No dead weight."

He nodded, almost serious. "Deal."

He dropped into the seat next to mine, his navy polo stretched snug across his chest, his khakis crisp, and his sneakers so clean they probably never touched actual dirt. His hair was styled with military precision, like he'd spent more time on it than he ever would on lab work. He gave me that same familiar look—like I was gum stuck to his shoe—but behind it, I caught a flicker of something else.

For a moment, we worked in silence, both of us unpacking the supplies Connors had set out—microscopes, vials, slides. But Flash kept sneaking glances at me. Finally, he squinted like he was trying to figure out a math problem.

We settled at one of the lab benches, unpacking the slides and sample trays Connors had laid out. The bright labels read names like Anolis carolinensis, Crocodylus niloticus, and Iguana iguana. Not exactly beginner-level biology.

As I adjusted the microscope, I felt Flash staring at me.

"What?" I asked.

"You look… taller," he blurted.

I blinked. "Excuse me?"

"Taller. And… uh… bigger. Like, more muscle." His voice dropped into something almost defensive. "And where are your glasses? You blind without 'em?"

I smirked despite myself. "Hit the gym since I got out of the hospital. And… I don't need the glasses anymore."

Flash tilted his head, studying me. His usual sneer was gone, replaced by curiosity. Awkwardly, like he hated himself for asking, he said, "You think… You could give me your workout?"

That one made me pause. Flash Thompson—the guy who shoved me into lockers, taped "Kick Me" signs to my back, made my life hell—asking for fitness tips?

"Sure," I said. "But only if you actually put in the work. No shortcuts."

He gave the smallest nod. No sarcasm, no comeback. Just a nod. Then he went quiet again. For a strange, surreal moment, it felt like we were just classmates, not sworn enemies.

But reality never lets me have normal for long.

Connor clapped his remaining hand together at the front of the room. "Eyes forward. Let's begin."

His voice carried, pulling everyone in. On the screen behind him appeared an image of a salamander, limb in mid-regrowth. "You all know the fragility of human biology," he began. "A bone break takes months to mend. A torn tendon may never fully heal. And a lost limb…" His gaze swept the room as he lifted his pinned sleeve. "Gone. Forever."

A hush fell. Even Flash leaned in, uncharacteristically attentive.

Connors clicked to the next slide: axolotls, lizards, starfish. "But in nature, limitations vary. Axolotls regenerate limbs, spinal cord segments, and even sections of the brain. Certain lizards regrow tails. Starfish regrow entire arms. These organisms form a blastema—a mass of pluripotent cells at the wound site that resets development, as if rewinding time. Imagine if humans could do the same."

A man in his late twenties raised a hand. "So, like… their cells turn into stem cells?"

"Precisely," Connors said, eyes lighting up. "Where our cells scar, theirs rebuild. It's an elegant, efficient process—one humans lost on the evolutionary path."

He switched slides again. Crocodiles filled the screen, bloodied but alive. "Now consider crocodiles. They cannot regenerate limbs. But they possess something else remarkable: immune systems strong enough to heal grievous wounds in septic waters without infection. Their blood contains antimicrobial peptides that kill pathogens which would overwhelm a human. Soldiers in the field, accident victims—if we could harness this immunity, how many lives could be saved?"

Flash raised his hand before I could stop him. "Wait—you're saying… like, we could make people heal like that? Just splice it into us?"

Connor's smile tightened. "That is one possibility, yes. Through comparative genomics, CRISPR, and synthetic biology, we could copy these mechanisms. The question is not can we… but should we?"

The room buzzed with whispers. Even I had to admit, Connors was magnetic when he spoke.

He dimmed the screen. "You are here not merely to observe, but to participate. Today, you'll begin by analyzing DNA samples from various reptilian tissues. Note transcription factors, compare gene expression, and ask yourselves: where do humans fall short? And more importantly… how do we change it?"

Students began pairing up, dragging chairs, and opening notebooks. Flash and I exchanged a glance. He rolled his eyes, but for once, not at me—at the challenge itself.

"Guess we better not screw it up," he muttered.

"Guess not," I said, focusing on the microscope.

By the time Connors called for a lunch break, my stomach was grumbling. I slipped away with my packed sandwich, heading for a quiet corner table. I took out my notebook, jotting ideas for an upgrade for the Emergency Web, my FNSM App, while chewing. Arachne's voice buzzed faintly in my ear through the earpiece.

"Sir, you are multitasking again."

"Guilty as charged," I muttered.

But before I could lose myself in coding notes, a shadow fell over the table. Flash. He plopped down across from me with his tray, sulking like a kicked puppy.

"Relax, Parker. MJ ditched me for some other girls. Not like I had a choice."

I almost laughed at the idea of Flash Thompson abandoned at a lunch table, but I bit my tongue. We ate mostly in silence, and honestly, that was fine by me.

After lunch, Connors gathered us around a secure case at the front of the lab. Inside were several sealed vials, each glowing faintly under UV light.

"These," he said reverently, "are extracted DNA samples from various reptilian species. Sequenced, isolated, and preserved under sterile conditions. Among them is crocodilian DNA, which contains the extraordinary peptides and immune markers I mentioned earlier. With careful study, we can understand how to apply their secrets to human biology."

I leaned closer, fascinated. The vials shimmered faintly, like little universes in glass.

"Scientists are particularly interested in crocodiles' rapid wound healing," Connors went on, his voice low and intense. "Imagine a soldier injured in combat. Infections would be nonexistent. Healing would be swift. No antibiotics required. The potential applications…" His voice trailed into silence, as if he could see the future right there in the vial.

And then it happened.

A low hum rippled through the lab, followed by the sharp crackle of static. The overhead UV lamps flickered violently, buzzing like a swarm of hornets. One bulb flared white-hot, and then— pop! —it shattered. Glass rained down, sparks spitting across the counter.

The stray energy arced downward, jagged lightning snaking into a rack of vials.

The impact was explosive. Glass burst in a shower of shards. Chemicals hissed and foamed across the table, spilling in wild streaks of luminous green.

Dr. Connors reacted on instinct, throwing up his one arm to shield his face. But it wasn't enough. The liquid splashed over him, soaking his shirt, clinging to his skin. Under the residual radiation discharge, it pulsed faintly, like veins of living fire spreading across his body.

For a moment, the lab went silent. Then the screams began.

Connors staggered, choking, clutching at himself. His body convulsed violently, his back arcing as if he'd been wired into a generator. His breath came in jagged, animal gasps. His teeth ground together so hard it was audible, like bone splintering.

"Dr. Connors!" someone cried. But no one moved. No one dared.

My spider-sense went into overdrive. It wasn't just buzzing—it was screaming, every nerve shouting danger, danger, danger.

Connors dropped to his knees, clawing at his chest, his voice cracking between agony and denial."What is—!? No—oh God, no—!"

His lab coat tore open as his chest began to move. Not with breath—no, his muscles were writhing, bulging, shifting as though something inside was trying to force its way out.

The first scales erupted across his forearm. Wet, glistening patches of emerald that pushed through the skin like shards of broken glass. His veins blackened, thick fluid surging like poison through his bloodstream.

He let out a guttural howl as his spine arched. Bone ridges punched through his back with a sickening crack, each one tearing through flesh to form jagged scutes. His tailbone swelled grotesquely, bursting through fabric with a sharp rip before unfurling into a long, muscular tail that whipped across the floor. The impact rattled tables, sending beakers crashing.

His jaw convulsed, bones splintering and stretching forward. Teeth sprouted, serrated and uneven, transforming into the jagged maw of a predator. His one good arm swelled, muscles ballooning until the seams of his shirt shredded. Fingers elongated, splitting as claws erupted where nails had been, each one glistening and sharp.

The smell hit next—fetid and suffocating. Swamp water mixed with rot and coppery blood.

By the time it was over, Dr. Curtis Connors was gone.

What stood in his place was a nightmare: a hulking reptilian beast, nearly nine feet tall, scales glistening under the shattered lights. Crocodilian jaw, ridged back, claws like hooked blades, and a tail that thrashed with brutal weight.

The Lizard.

His roar shook the lab, a sound so deep and primal it reverberated through my ribcage.

Students screamed. Chaos erupted. Chairs toppled, glass shattered, people shoved toward the exits in a frenzy.

I was about to shout for everyone to run when Flash—of all people—beat me to it.

"Everyone OUT!" he bellowed, his voice carrying like a drill sergeant on a battlefield. He moved fast, shoving tables aside, clearing paths, grabbing stragglers, and hurling them toward the door. His face was calm—too calm—like he'd done this before. Like a soldier. "Move, move, MOVE! Spider-Man'll deal with it when he gets here!"

Nobody questioned him. They listened. They ran.

And me? My hand was already reaching for my bag. My chance. My responsibility.

While the chaos swallowed the room, I slipped to the side, heart hammering. Flash's voice thundered commands behind me, covering the sound of my zipper as I dug for the mask.

This was it. No more hesitation.

It was time to suit up.

Chapter Text

The wreckage of Oscorp's lab resembled a battlefield—shattered glass littered the floor, tables upended, and the acrid reek of burning chemicals seared my throat. Sparks sputtered from a crushed console. Everyone else had fled. Students, guards, even the janitor.

All that was left was me and the monster.

Connors—no, not Connors anymore. The thing in front of me wasn't human. Huge. Scales gleamed like wet armor plates under the dim lights. Claws dragged deep grooves into the concrete. His yellow eyes locked on me with a hunger that froze my blood.

And that's when I moved.

I dove for my backpack in the corner, yanking it open with frantic fingers. The homemade mask slid on first—black fabric snug against my face. Tactical pants—on. Gloves—tight. Combat boots—laced, slammed down. The bomber jacket zipped over the padded shirt. Piece by piece, Peter Parker burned away until only the other me remained—the one who could stand here.

Spider-Man.

I jumped back as his tail smashed down, the shockwave rattling through my boots. Before I could think, my wrists snapped forward and—

THWIP-THWIP-THWIP!

Organic silk burst from the spinnerets in my arms, white streams sticking to Connors' scaled forearm and yanking it hard to the ground. He roared and spun with reptilian fury, but I darted sideways, circling him and spraying more lines in rapid-fire bursts.

"Stay… down!" I growled, teeth clenched, as I wound him tighter and tighter.

The webs poured out in a flood, coating his chest, legs, throat—every inch I could pin. The sound was constant. The straining rip of my body forcing out silk faster than it was meant to. My wrists ached. Tendons screamed. Spinnerets burned raw. I could feel it in my gut, too—like my body was chewing through every stored ounce of protein, stripping me down to nothing just to keep up with the demand.

Layer after layer sealed him in. The Lizard writhed, but the silk pinned him, a prehistoric fossil under glass. My webs made a gleaming cocoon across the flickering lab lights.

By the time I was done, my entire body was shaking. My arms burned like I'd done a thousand push-ups back-to-back. Sweat ran down my temple under the mask.

Inside the dome, Connors slammed and clawed, each hit making the webbing tremble like an earthquake in slow motion. The sound of his roar shook me to my core.

I staggered, clutching my side, my stomach twisting with a hollow ache. Reality hit hard: I was running on empty. Protein and sugars—gone.

If I didn't end this fast—or find a sandwich the size of a Buick—I was going to collapse before Connors did.

And the silk was already tearing under his claws. He wouldn't stay down for long.

Inside the cocoon, the Lizard went berserk. Each slam rattled the foundation of the lab, the walls trembling like they might collapse. The steel cables of my webbing stretched, strained, and vibrated under the assault. His claws raked and shredded, gouging deep trenches into the sticky white layers. His tail hammered from inside like a wrecking ball, the dome buckling outward with every strike.

Then came the sound—like metal being ripped apart by sheer force.

RRRRRIIIIIPPP!

The web prison exploded. Strands snapped like gunshots, whipping across the lab. White silk fluttered down through the smoke and dust. The Lizard tore himself free, roaring so loud the glass in the overhead lights shattered.

He was even bigger than he'd looked before. Muscles rippled beneath scaled armor. Veins bulged. His massive chest heaved with rage. His yellow eyes burned as they locked onto me.

"Alright, Connors…" I muttered through the mask, fists curling tight. "Round two."

He lunged.

The sheer speed caught me off guard—something that massive shouldn't move like that. One second, he was across the room, the next, his claws were slashing where my head had been. I twisted, spider-sense shrieking, and his talons carved into the floor, slicing through tile and concrete like butter.

I aimed and fired a web at the ceiling, then swung upward, lifting myself clear of the floor.

CRACK!

His tail whipped up, obliterating a workstation. Sparks cascaded as monitors erupted, circuits exploding into fire and smoke.

"Ever heard of OSHA safety standards?" I quipped, perched on a steel beam overhead.

The only response was a roar that rattled my ribs. Then, he jumped.

His claws slammed into the beam. The whole structure groaned. One swipe nearly gutted me. I threw myself into a roll, sprawling to the floor. The beam collapsed behind me with a shriek of metal.

I hit the ground, and before I could regain balance, he was there.

The Lizard's maw gaped, jagged teeth ready to shear bone. He lunged. Jaws snapped inches from my face. The force popped the air. I shoved my forearm up. Only the thick jacket fabric saved me. His bite clamped down—crushing pressure threatened to snap bone. Pain shot through my arm.

"Bad idea—bad idea—bad idea!" I grunted, firing a web into his eye. The silk splattered, buying me the second I needed. He roared and thrashed, tearing at the sticky mess, and I wrenched myself free.

But the damage was done. My arm was numb, tingling, maybe worse. He was stronger than anything I'd ever fought—stronger than anything I'd even imagined.

And he wasn't done.

The Lizard slammed forward, claws out, his roar echoing through the ruined lab.

He charged, claws raking across the floor. I dove under his swipe and slashed out with my own claws. They tore across the scales of his chest, leaving long gashes. He shrieked, rearing back. Even as I watched, the wounds began to close and bubble.

"Great. Healing factor. Because why not?"

The wail of sirens cut through the chaos, followed by the blinding strobe of red and blue lights spilling through the shattered windows. NYPD had arrived. Normally, that'd be a relief. Tonight? It was a death sentence if they came in here.

I shot a web across the mangled doors, yanking them shut and sealing them with layer after layer of silk. "Hold it!" I shouted over the din, flipping sideways as the Lizard's tail carved a crater in the concrete where I'd been standing a second earlier.

Heavy boots thundered up outside, and a voice barked, "Open up! NYPD!"

"Not this time!" I yelled back. My chest heaved with adrenaline, but I forced my voice steady. "It's me—Spider-Man! And if you value your lives, you need to stay the hell out of here!"

There was a pause, a muffled exchange of voices. Then another officer called out, more hesitantly: "Spider-Man? You're telling us to stand down?"

"Yes! Listen to me!" I dodged as the Lizard ripped through a workbench, metal shrieking. "This isn't some mugger with a gun—this thing will tear through you like paper! The best help you can give me right now is keeping civilians back and sealing this block off."

The cops went quiet for a beat, then one muttered, "He's got point, this is his wheelhouse."

The Lizard bellowed, slamming into chemical tanks. Metal shrieked. One ruptured, hissing green vapor into the air. The lab was becoming a death trap.

I gritted my teeth, launching another webline to pull myself up into the rafters. "Trust me on this one, NYPD! If you come through those doors, you're just giving him more targets. Let me handle this before half the precinct ends up on a slab!"

Behind the barricade, I heard the commanding officer shout: "Alright, pull back! Block off the perimeter. No one goes in till Spider-Man says so!"

For once, the system actually worked in my favor. Good. Because one wrong move in here, and it wouldn't matter how many badges walked in—none of them would walk out.

I leapt and drove both feet into his chest. He crashed through a wall, concrete chunks raining down. He got up, tail lashing fast—caught me in the ribs, sent me flying.

Pain exploded through my side. I tumbled through the wreckage of a workstation. Sparks danced over me. For a second, everything blurred. My vision swam. He was too strong. Stronger than anything I'd ever faced.

But this was my job now, wasn't it? Heroes don't get to tap out when things get ugly.

I dug claws into the floor, pulled up. Blood trickled down my chin. He lunged, jaws wide, saliva dripping. I dove low, slashed at his leg—he stumbled, bellowing, crashing into a support column.

The ceiling groaned ominously. The whole building was seconds from coming down.

"Alright, big guy," I muttered. "Time to take this outside."

I hurled a line of webbing at his chest and yanked with everything I had, trying to pull him toward the hole in the wall. He fought, clawing the ground, tail thrashing wildly, resisting every step. I kept dragging, bracing myself for a final push. If this place were to collapse, it would be deadly for everyone nearby.

With a last desperate heave, I leapt onto his back, arm around his neck, and crashed us both through the wall. Suddenly, we were outside, tumbling across Oscorp's courtyard.

The cops screamed, weapons drawn, as the Lizard roared and thrashed. He threw me off, sending me skidding across the asphalt, and then charged through a line of squad cars like they were made of cardboard. Officers dove for cover as vehicles flipped and alarms blared.

I lunged at him again, claws out. We collided in a tangle of scales and fists, smashing into the hood of a cruiser. Metal crumpled beneath us. He swung at me, but this time I caught his arm, twisting hard until I heard the joint crack. He screamed, and I drove my claws into his side.

His tail whipped around again, faster than a wrecking ball—but this time, I was ready. I planted my feet, grabbed hold, and pulled with everything I had.

The sound that followed was sickening. A wet, tearing snap echoed through the lab as the Lizard shrieked in pain. In my hands, I was left clutching a severed, twitching tail. Green blood sprayed across the floor, sizzling where it mixed with spilled chemicals.

Connor staggered back, his roars rattling the walls. For the briefest heartbeat, his eyes locked on me—and there was something there. Not rage. Not hunger. Something deeper. Something raw.

Fear.

"Connors…" I whispered, the word tasting heavier than any quip.

And then he was gone. He spun, leaping through the breach in the wall, smashing through the Oscorp fence, vanishing into the shadows of the city with a final roar that faded into the night.

I was left standing there, the tail still writhing in my hands. My stomach turned, but my mind raced faster than my nerves could keep up. A reptile's biology. Regenerative tissue. The same serum he used to regrow what he'd lost… mutating him into what I just fought.

Which meant this—this tail—wasn't just grotesque. It was a blueprint. A sample I could use. Maybe even the key to reversing whatever went wrong.

The cops edged closer, weapons still drawn but eyes wide with shock.

"What the hell was that thing?!" one officer barked.

I tightened my grip on the tail and shook my head. "Not a thing. A person. Dr. Curt Connors. He wasn't supposed to be like this." My voice wavered, but I forced it steady. "He's sick. And if you see him again, don't shoot. Don't chase. Just report it through the Emergency Web."

They exchanged glances, unsure, but no one argued. Maybe they saw I wasn't joking. Maybe they just didn't want to.

I stepped back into the wreckage, tucking the severed tail into a web cocoon, sealing it tight so I could carry it. My pulse thundered in my ears.

This wasn't just a fight. This wasn't just another criminal to stop. This was a cure waiting to be made.

If I could map the DNA structure, isolate the serum's effect, counteract the cross-species gene splicing that twisted Connors' cells… maybe I could give him back his humanity.