By midweek, the "symptoms" weren't slowing down. They were multiplying.
I could hear whispers two classrooms away. The cafeteria smelled like it was cooking inside my skull. The chalk squeak on the board felt like it was drilling my brain.
And then it hit me.
A migraine, sharp and sudden. My vision tilted, sound spiked, and instinct screamed MOVE.
I dropped just in time for a basketball to smash against the lockers behind me.
"Whoa, nice dodge!" Ned called, half impressed, half suspicious.
I clutched my temple, muttering, "Yeah…"
But then I noticed—I wasn't the only one.
Peter froze mid-step, hand pressed to his head. Gwen stiffened, scanning the hallway like she could sense danger before it happened. Miles twitched, sidestepping a pencil that should've nailed him. Even Harry—pale, sweaty, looking like he was about to hurl—moved sharper when someone brushed against him.
It wasn't just me.
We were all changing.
And deep down, I thought I knew what it was.
Spider-Sense. Has to be.
In my bag, the spider twitched violently, legs tapping against the glass like it was keeping rhythm with our pulses. Like it knew.
Freeze frame. Cue me holding a Spider-Man Funko Pop.
Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Spider-Sense Show™. Symptoms include:
Random migraines ✔️ Precog-level dodges ✔️ Everyone clutching their heads like they're in a headache commercial ✔️
Classic Marvel playbook. If you guessed Spider-Sense, ding ding ding—you win the no-prize.
…But since this isn't Peter Parker's origin story, you might want to hold onto that prize receipt. Just sayin'.