Harry didn't look good.
By lunch, he was sweating bullets, skin pale and clammy. His usual cocky grin had gone MIA, replaced with a tight-lipped grimace. I sat across from him in the cafeteria, trying not to stare at the angry red bite mark on his shoulder.
"You alright, man?" I asked carefully.
"Yeah," Harry muttered, pushing food around his tray. "Just… tired."
Liar, I thought. He looked like he'd been run over by the same damn truck that killed me. And I should know.
Peter kept glancing at him, clearly worried but too nervous to say anything. Gwen leaned in close to whisper something to Miles, both of them side-eyeing Harry like he was about to sprout a tail. Which, honestly, wasn't impossible.
I tried to play it cool, but my stomach was tying itself into knots. Harry Osborn with spider powers? That wasn't canon in any universe I knew, and if it was starting here, then things were already way off-script.
My hoodie pocket wriggled. The spider inside skittered against the fabric, as if mocking me.
"Don't even start," I muttered under my breath.
Camera pans to me, narrator style.
So here's the scorecard: Peter's been bitten, Gwen's been bitten, Miles, Cindy, Lyn… oh, and now Harry. That's right—Harry freakin' Osborn. The guy who usually gets goblin juice is now rocking spider venom.
What could possibly go wrong? (Spoiler alert: everything or nothing.)
And Jake? He's babysitting a radioactive hoodie pet. Somebody get this guy a Poké Ball before he starts a goddamn spider farm.