By the time I got home, my head was pounding. I locked my bedroom door, tossed my bag aside, and pulled the spider out of my hoodie pocket.
It crawled across my hand like it owned me. Its legs prickled against my skin, leaving faint tingles that weren't entirely unpleasant. But I knew better. This wasn't a pet. This was a bomb.
I dropped it into an old glass jar, screwed the lid on tight, and shoved it into the drawer of my desk.
"Stay in there," I muttered, as if it could understand me. "You're trouble."
Dinner was a blur. My mom chatted about school, my dad (still not used to saying that word) grumbled about work, and I nodded like a good son. But my mind was miles away, replaying every spider bite from the trip, every wince, every scratch.
Later that night, I collapsed into bed—only to bolt awake an hour later, drenched in sweat. My muscles ached. My veins burned. I stumbled to the mirror.
For a second, I swore my eyes glowed faintly silver.
"Nope," I whispered, gripping the sink. "Not happening. You're not biting me. I'm not one of them. I caught you first."
But deep down, I wasn't so sure.
Zoom-in, narrator voice with jazz hands.
And here we are, folks—the part where Jake starts sweating like he just ran a marathon in a sauna. Wanna know why? Because keeping a spider in your hoodie pocket doesn't come with a "No Side Effects" warranty.
He's telling himself he's safe. That he's special. That he dodged the bite.
…Except this is Marvel, baby. And in Marvel, irony bites harder than the radioactive spider.