Chapter 159 - 1-3

Chapter 1: Awakening

June 6th, 2025

Is it normal to think about dying?

Not in a suicidal way—just… in general. Like, is it weird that death crosses my mind more often than I'd care to admit?

I get that it's not something you're supposed to dwell on, not unless something's wrong. But I'm not spiraling, and I'm not planning anything. It's more of a what if than a when.

What happens after? Does anything happen?

I know how that probably sounds, but no—I'm not religious. Parts of my family are, though… the hardcore kind. Christians who bring up the afterlife like it's a weather forecast. Heaven, hell, angels, fire, and brimstone. Wash, rinse, repeat.

Look, I'm not against believing in a higher power. If it gives someone peace, great. But when a person builds their entire personality around what comes after death, it makes you wonder if they're even paying attention to the life they're actually living.

Then, on the complete opposite end of the spectrum, you've got my alcoholic relatives—the ones who wish they would die. Because they've pushed everyone else away and would rather blame the world than take a long, sober look in the mirror.

I get the whole "have a beer after work to relax" thing. I do. But when it turns into double shots of Fireball and screaming threats at your spouse every night—there's gotta be a point where even you realize you're the problem. Right?

Right?

Anyway…

I think about death. More than most people, probably. Curiosity, mostly. Is it like a video game where we respawn? Is that why we get déjà vu—leftover save files from a past life? Or is it more like falling asleep—one blink, and then nothing but the dark?

Maybe it's just the way my brain's wired. I've always had an imagination. Since the moment I could hold a pencil, I've been telling stories. It's how I deal—with stress, with life, with everything. Some people meditate. I build worlds.

And maybe, deep down, I always wondered what would happen if I suddenly woke up in one of them.

I didn't grow up like most kids. I was poor, and I was fragile. I don't remember the full name of what I had—juvenile osteo-something. All I know is that I could fall down a single step and break a foot. I was three when it first happened. One stair. Crack. Tiny cast. Congratulations, kid—you're breakable.

So, no sports. No roughhousing. No tag, no football, no wrestling on the trampoline with cousins. I sat on the sidelines with my Game Boy while everyone else played. It's why I fell into stories—video games, books, comic books. Worlds where I could be more than what my bones would let me be.

I was the odd kid. The weird one. Hell, go ahead and call me the quiet kid. It's not like it'd be the first time. I've literally had a false gun threat made against me before. Yeah. That kind of "quiet."

When I hit a growth spurt, my body didn't mess around. Thirty pounds. Every time. Boom—new stretch marks, new t-shirts that didn't fit. I'm not ashamed of my weight, not really, but I do wish I would've moved more as a kid. Maybe it would've softened the bullying. Maybe not. Either way, I would've killed to just walk into a store and find a 2X shirt that fit right.

Do you have any idea how hard it is to find a shirt in my size most days?

I shouldn't have to go to Amazon just to find a damn shirt.

My point is—I spent most of my life leaning away from the world I was in, and burying myself in ones that weren't real. Alternate worlds. Safer worlds. And now I'm twenty-four, and most days I can barely hold a life together outside of work.

I want to write. I want to spend time with my family. But I'm always tired. Doesn't matter if I'm clocked in or on the couch—I never really feel rested.

Mom says I should take a break from my hobbies and just... relax. But it's hard to break old habits, especially the ones that helped keep you sane. Harder still when the thing that exhausts you most is the part you can't walk away from.

Case in point: the drive to work.

I'm crossing the bridge on the interstate. Just another ten-hour shift. Just another round of dealing with an asshole manager who probably couldn't run a toaster without supervision. Compared to that, going home sounds like a vacation in Bali.

The radio's on, but nothing sounds good. 103.7's blaring country music again, and of course it's that one song. "We're all in the same boat," or whatever the hell it's called. Too chipper. Too fake. I hate every damn second of it.

I flip between 99.7 and 101.3, hoping for something—anything—but it's just more recycled noise. Olivia Rodrigo again. The fifth time this week. I swear the next teenage heartbreak anthem I hear might be the one that breaks me.

Finally, I give up and open Spotify. The second 'Afterlife' by Evanescence kicks in, my brain hits autopilot. Amy Lee's voice drowns the rest of the world out, and for a moment, the weight eases off my shoulders.

The road curves ahead. I lean into it without thinking.

And then the sun disappears—just for a split second—as something massive pulls into the lane ahead.

A semi-truck. Close. Closer than it should be.

I react—foot slamming toward the brake, hands jerking the wheel—but it's like trying to move underwater. I'm too slow. The trailer clips the front of my car, and suddenly I'm not driving anymore—I'm spinning.

The world goes sideways. Colors smear. For a heartbeat, I'm weightless, floating in a tilt-a-whirl of sound and steel.

Then everything hits.

Pain erupts across my chest as the seatbelt tightens like a fist. Tires shriek against asphalt. Metal groans and screams and folds. I'm dimly aware of my own voice, raw and rising in a sound I didn't know I could make.

The car lurches, twists—once, twice—and then something gives.

And then it stops.

I hang there, still strapped in, the world sideways. Blood's in my mouth. The radio's still playing, softly now, as if nothing just happened.

I'm dangling from my seat like a marionette with its strings half-cut.

I can't breathe.

Each inhale feels like trying to pull air through broken glass—sharp, shallow, and wrong. My chest tightens, ribs screaming with every twitch. There's a catch, deep and jagged, like something inside me shifted out of place.

Panic kicks in before logic can. I try again—short breath, sharper pain. Again—worse. My fingers scrabble at the seatbelt like that'll help, like I can claw the pressure off my chest. The strap's digging into my shoulder, holding me like a vise.

Why can't I breathe?

The windshield's a spider web of cracks. Sunlight filters through fractured beams. There's smoke—or maybe steam—rising from somewhere. It smells like metal and engine oil and something burnt.

I think I hear voices. Or maybe it's the ringing in my ears.

Everything's fuzzy. Distant. Like my brain's buffering.

I blink. Once. Twice. But the world stays sideways.

"J-Jonny…" I barely gasp out my brother's name. I promised to take him to a movie this weekend. Another superhero movie that probably wouldn't live up to the hype, but it didn't matter for him. He enjoyed those, and I liked seeing him happy.

I was supposed to take him…

But I can't hear anything now. Not the road. Not the sirens I hope are coming. There's just this high, static hum in my ears, like the world is muting itself.

My hands won't move. My legs feel like they're somewhere else.

And my eyes—God, my eyes—everything's getting dim. Like someone's pulling the curtain down, inch by inch. The light's there, but it's fading, fuzzed at the edges.

It's cold, no… I'm cold.

Shit, am—am I dying?

No, no, no… I don't want to die, not like this.

The dark was coming, and I didn't know how to stop it.

By the time I saw anyone coming down the hill toward me, it was too late. Everything went black.

I should be dead.

That's my first thought—slow and heavy, like my brain's still booting up and fumbling for a keyboard that isn't there. I should be dead. I felt it.

I shouldn't be able to hear anything… but I do.

It's… beeping. A steady, rhythmic blip somewhere close by—just there, like a metronome refusing to stop, oblivious to the fact that time should have. The sound is practically pounding in my eardrums now, sharp and mechanical—utterly maddening in its steadiness.

I can't open my eyes. It hurts to even try. My eyelids feel like they've been sewn shut with wire, stitched down tight by someone in a hurry who didn't care about pain.

So, I focus on what I can hear. That damn beeping, the slow insistent ticking of a clock, and a fluorescent hum buzzing over my head, droning like a fly trapped in a light fixture for days.

None of this makes sense.

I remember the crash. I remember the glass shattering, the seatbelt tightening around my ribs like a fist made of steel. The airbag exploding with a deafening thump I felt in my teeth. I remember the sound of my own voice clawing its way out of my throat. I remember not being able to breathe, my chest caving in, my lungs folding like paper. Most of all, I remember everything going dark.

That should have been it.

But this… this isn't the end.

There's chemicals in the air, sharp and synthetic, the kind that cling to your throat. It stings if I breathe too deep. Like the aftermath of a deep clean on a Saturday morning.

Perfume. Way too much perfume. The kind of overpowering floral cloud that older women weaponize on a daily basis, thick and sweet enough to choke a horse. It cuts through the antiseptic air like it owns the place.

Someone's here.

I force my eyes open. It's slow. They feel crusted over, like I slept for a week with sand packed under my eyelids. The light hits hard—too sharp and white, and for a second I regret it. As much as I'd like to close them again, the perfume is too much to ignore.

The ceiling, as I blink everything into focus, is plain tiles and flickering fluorescent lights. There's a hairline crack running through the plaster like a half-finished thought, and I let out a dry half-laugh. It kind of looks how I feel.

I'm in a hospital.

So, I guess I'm not dead. If I am, the afterlife's got budget issues.

There's movement out of the corner of my eye, just to my left. I barely turn my head and see someone sitting there. Hunched over, elbows on knees, like they've been camping out for days, waiting.

It's a woman. She's staring down at a tablet on her lap, eyes flicking between the monitors around me.

I try to speak. My throat fights me on it. Feels like I swallowed a fistful of gravel. I get one sound out—more of a croak than a word.

That's all it takes.

She jerks up, looking at me. Her voice is softer than I expected. She's in her late thirties, maybe? I haven't been good at telling people's ages in a few years—not since twelve year olds suddenly started looking like twenty-four year olds.

"Peter?"

She sounds relieved, but my eyes narrow at the name.

Who the hell is Peter?

I don't say that. I can't. My mouth still isn't playing ball, and my head's spinning too fast to catch up.

She leans in, and I catch a better look. From the white coat, she's definitely a doctor. I've never seen her before, but she's looking at me like she knows me. Poor lady looks wiped. Dark circles, tired eyes, that kind of worry that comes from running on empty. And here I am, taking up her time. Even lying in a hospital bed, half-dead, I still feel bad for being an inconvenience. I fucking hate being the center of attention.

I don't like the look she's giving me. It's too warm, too familiar.

My chest tightens. My heart starts to race, and sure enough, the monitor beside me starts beeping faster, like it's snitching.

Everything just feels off.

"Wh-who are you?" I ask.

The words scrape out rough, like they had to claw their way up from the bottom of my lungs. My voice doesn't sound right. Too light. Too young.

The woman blinks. Whatever she expected me to say, it wasn't that.

Her lips part, then press into a thin line like she's choosing her next words with tweezers.

"I'm Dr. Halperin," she says finally. "You're in Queens Medical. Peter, do you remember what happened?"

I open my mouth to answer, but nothing comes out. At least, not at first.

Because yeah, I remember the crash, but Queens Medical? That doesn't make sense… I wasn't even in New York. I was just entering…

Oh god, my head.

My heart's still hammering and the monitor's ratting me out with every beat.

She leans in a little closer.

"Peter… it's okay. You're safe."

There it is again.

Peter.

I swallow hard.

Something's wrong. Really, really wrong.

"C-can I…" I start, then stop. My mouth feels like it's full of cotton and static. "Can I use the bathr—bathroom?"

The words scrape out, brittle and too high-pitched. I sound like I'm trying to sneak out of class, not figure out if I've lost my damn mind.

Dr. Halperin tilts her head, that same sad-eyed concern still plastered across her face like she's trying to keep me calm without showing just how worried she actually is.

"I'm not sure that's a good idea," she says gently. "You've been out of it for a while."

"A while?"

My voice is thinner now. My chest's tightening up like a vise, like someone's pouring cement into my lungs.

"H-how long?"

She hesitates. I catch the flick of her eyes toward the machines—maybe hoping one of them will answer for her. Then she sighs, like the truth tastes bitter in her mouth.

"Three weeks, kiddo."

Three weeks?

That can't be right. That doesn't make any sense.

My head spins again. The hospital room's suddenly colder. Too cold. I glance down at the blanket over me like I just now remembered I have a body. My hands—smaller than they should be. Narrower wrists. Arms that don't feel like mine.

I flex my fingers under the sheet. Slowly. Like I'm checking if they'll obey.

They do. But they still don't look right.

She's watching me, not like I'm crazy—more like she's waiting. Like there's some answer I'm supposed to give her. Some reaction she already has a script for.

I don't give it.

Instead, I whisper, "You're sure?"

Her expression softens, but it's not reassuring. It's more like pity dressed in scrubs.

"I wouldn't lie to you, Peter."

I flinch… actually flinch, because there it is again.

Peter.

Whoever that is… it's not me.

I don't mean to move, it just… happens. Somewhere between the buzzing in my ears and the pressure in my chest, my legs twitch under the blanket, and then I'm shifting, swinging one over the edge of the bed like it's the most natural thing in the world—even though nothing about this feels natural.

Dr. Halperin is up in a flash, fast enough to make the chair behind her rattle against the wall.

"Peter—wait. Stop," she says, but I'm not listening. "You shouldn't—"

I don't stop. I can't. I don't even know if my legs will hold me, but I've got to try. I can't just lie here and pretend this is fine. I don't know why she's calling me Peter, but I need to move.

The floor tilts the second my foot touches down, like stepping onto a boat that's already sinking. My knees buckle, and everything aches in a way that's somehow deep and shallow at the same time. Like my muscles have forgotten everything.

She reaches for me, hands gentle but firm, trying not to spook me. It's not working.

"Hey—hey," she looks into my eyes, bending down enough to block my path. "You've been in a coma. You can't just—"

"I need to," I whisper.

It comes out cracked and desperate. It hurts my throat. I don't know if it was loud enough that she heard me.

But I look at her—really look—and hope that something in my face tells her what my voice can't. I just… I can't lay down anymore.

For a second, she just holds my arm.

Then her grip softens. Her lips press into that same thin line from earlier—calculating, weighing something behind her eyes.

"Okay," she says quietly. "We'll go slow."

I grip the side of the bed like a lifeline as the room spins just enough to make my stomach threaten mutiny. The whole place tilts lazily to the left, and my insides weren't invited to brace for it.

I breathe through it—short, shaky pulls of air—jaw clenched, blinking hard to clear the static fuzzing around the edges of my vision.

My hand finds hers—Dr. Halperin's—mostly for balance, partly because letting go of anything feels like a bad idea right now. She tenses under my grip, probably worried I'll eat pavement right here in front of her, but she doesn't pull away.

I reach out with my other hand and grab the IV cart I'm still tethered to. The whole thing wobbles under my weight with a nervous squeak. Tubes tug gently at my arm like they'd rather I just laid down and behaved.

Not today. One step, that's all I need.

I shift my foot forward. The tile's cold under my toes, real in a way nothing else has been since I woke up. My knees shake like they're made of wet cardboard, but I don't drop.

Just one step.

It lands shakily, but solid enough. I want to laugh — it feels like a newborn deer who swears they've got it under control. Every muscle answering late, like they forgot the assignment.

Dr. Halperin slips her arm under mine and takes some of the weight without a word, like she knows better than to argue with someone dangling off the edge of what the hell is happening. I don't thank her. I don't have the breath for it. But I don't shake her off either. Fair trade.

We shuffle forward together, the IV cart clicking over the tile in nervous little bursts beside us.

My head feels like it's underwater. Every step makes the pressure tighten — like there's a balloon inflating behind my eyes, just itching to pop. The hallway tilts. I blink, trying to get my bearings, but the walls feel farther away than they should be.

The pain's got nothing to do with moving — it's that heavy, sleep-deprived, bone-deep ache when everything's too loud and too bright and my brain's starting to sound like radio static in a fish tank.

Don't tell me I'm getting a migraine.

Seriously.

That's the last damn thing I need.

I grip the IV pole white-knuckled, breathing through my teeth—slow, trying not to let her know just how close I am to going limp in her arms.

"You're doing okay," she murmurs, and it's just one more thing for my brain to process, like asking a busted computer to run Photoshop on dial-up.

I don't respond. I can't.

But my feet keep moving. Somehow.

We make it to the bathroom. She pushes the door open with her hip, guiding me inside like I'm some glass figurine she's terrified of dropping. The tiles in here are somehow colder than the hallway, and the lighting? Too damn white. Everything's buzzing, humming, pressing in like the walls are one inch too close to my shoulders.

I stop just inside, gripping the sink to keep from slumping down the wall.

"I'll be right outside," she says softly, letting go of my arm.

I nod. Maybe. Or at least I think I do.

The door clicks shut, and for the first time since I woke up, I'm alone.

I grip the sink like it's gonna anchor me to something real. Cold porcelain, metal edges, the faint stink of disinfectant and too many panicked hands.

I finally look down at myself. Really look.

My arms are… slender. That's the only word I can think of.

My hands are thinner. Fingers a little longer than I remember.

My sight's still fuzzy, like I've got sleep stuck in the corners of my eyes. I blink a few times, hard, trying to will it away. Nothing clears.

I'm hallucinating. I have to be.

Three weeks in a hospital bed and my arms got this skinny? No. That's not how this works. That's not how any of this works.

My heart's thumping hard against my ribs like it's looking for an exit.

The hospital gown's hanging on me like it was made for someone else. Someone smaller.

The softness I carried around like a second skin — gone. No stretch marks folding in on themselves. No leftover proof of three hundred pounds.

And my legs. Jesus. My legs are the kind of skinny I used to give Griffin shit for. Even on leg day, the man had NBA player legs—wiry and unfairly functional. There was a reason I called him chicken legs.

I look down at the little plastic ID bracelet, and my stomach clenches like a fist as I read it:

Parker, Peter B.

No. No, no, no. That's not my name.

I whip my head up toward the mirror, and my heart drops out of my throat and swan dives into my stomach, taking every last ounce of oxygen with it.

It's not my face staring back.

Brown hair, tousled and messy but somehow looks good. Big eyes. High cheekbones. A jawline that could make razors jealous.

Holy shit.

Like Andrew Garfield's face, but not quite — more like a comic book come to life.

I am literally standing in the bathroom of a real-life hospital inside the goddamn body of Peter freaking Parker.

I grab the sink harder. My fingers dig into the ceramic like maybe I can squeeze sanity out of it if I just hold tight enough. I don't know if I'm about to pass out or scream or laugh until I puke all over the tile.

Then it creeps in, the darkness.

I blink hard. Once. Twice. Shake my head. It doesn't help. The buzzing's back — high-pitched and buried somewhere deep in my ears, like tinnitus from a concert I don't remember going to.

"C'mon," I whisper to myself, like I've got any say in the matter.

I brace harder into the sink. Try to breathe. But my chest's too tight, and the room won't stop tilting like I'm on a ferry and the sea hates me.

I squeeze my eyes shut and open them again. The mirror's already swimming.

My knees buckle. My hands slip. The last thing I feel is the floor rushing up to meet me.

Chapter 2: Welcome to the New World

When I finally come to, I'm back in the hospital bed—but this time, the world isn't spinning like a roulette wheel. My head still feels like it's swimming. I have to double-check the wristband again, just to make sure I'm not dreaming. It still says Peter Parker on the tag.

It wasn't a dream. I'm really in the body of my favorite superhero. I've dreamt about being Spider-Man so many nights, but I never thought I'd wake up as him one day. For all the times I joked about trading lives, I was actually good with mine. Flawed? Yeah. But it was mine. I was tired, occasionally got angry. But it was mine.

This… this body, being so light in comparison to the me I'm used to, it's weird. I don't even know how to describe it other than I feel weightless. I move easier. I can actually lie on my back without my spine yelling at me. That alone is throwing me. In school, I used to hunch over my desk like a turtle, like maybe shrinking myself would make me disappear. All that did was give me a hunchback and extra back problems. I'd almost gotten that sorted out by the time I hit twenty-four, but this is surreal. No pain, no knots… nothing.

Yes, I feel stiff, but I imagine anyone would after what, a three week coma? That's what Dr…. ugh, what's her name? Halperin? That sounds right. Dr. Halperin said I was out for three weeks, or rather Peter was.

My left hand was bandaged, and based on what I knew about Spider-Man meant only one thing…

The spider bite…

It happened.

And that's the weirdest part. I've seen every version of Peter getting his powers—movies, comics, fan art, you name it. Sometimes he passes out overnight and wakes up shredded. Sometimes it hits instantly, like flipping a switch. Sometimes it creeps in over a couple days. But a three-week coma? That's new.

And now a darker thought creeps in. One I really don't want to think about.

What if this isn't regular Spider-Man? What if this is one of the horror versions? You know the ones—Peter starts off fine, but the powers warp him. Turn him into something monstrous…

Man-Spider.

In the version of that scenario I've seen, he kills Aunt May and Uncle Ben.

Please tell me that's not where this is going.

Please.

I don't think I've had a good experience in hospitals. I doubt anyone really has, unless there was a birth involved.

Because of how fragile I was as a kid, I was in and out of the ER more than I'd care to admit. Broken foot, ankle, wrist… ankle again… it was a vicious cycle that lasted up until I was about fourteen.

I even wrinkled a bone in my wrist once. Yeah—wrinkled. The doctor looked at the x-ray and said I'd basically turned the bone into an accordion. Still not sure how that's medically possible, but given my track record, it felt on-brand.

My bones were basically Play-Doh with a grudge.

Only difference? Play-Doh doesn't scream when you move it.

On top of that, I lost my grandma to lung cancer the day before my ninth birthday.

There's nothing to make light of there.

When you watch someone fade away in real time—tubes down her throat just so she can eat, no strength left to even write you a note—it changes something in you. She couldn't talk. She couldn't even smile near the end.

And when you're that young, you don't fully understand what's happening. But you feel it. You feel the silence. The helplessness. The way grief swallows the room before anyone even says the word.

I absorbed whatever media I could get my hands on — death came up a lot, even at that age. I'd lost a couple of dogs before, so I knew what it was like to lose someone you cared about. Despite what anyone might say, they were family.

Losing Grandma, though? It hit different.

I don't remember her voice, and that haunts me every day. There's not a day I didn't want her back. When she was there, things were easier. Not financially—we still struggled—but emotionally? She made the hard stuff feel survivable. Nothing seemed impossible when she was there.

So, maybe that's why I hate hospitals. Because the last memory I have of my grandma is her fading away in one.

If I really am in some version of the Marvel Universe, then please—please—let it be one with all the players on the field. I don't want to be stuck in one of those Sony-brand hellscapes where Spidey's the only guy in tights and the biggest threat is a goo monster with emotional issues.

Give me Avengers. Give me X-Men. Give me options.

Because if I'm in a real Marvel world…

Maybe—maybe—there's a way back. If I'm not officially dead, maybe I can find some universe-hopping wizard, tech genius, or multiversal GPS to get me home. Even if I can't go back… I just want to make sure everyone is okay.

I used to read those stories to escape the feeling of being stuck. Now I'm in one, and somehow, I still feel it. Right now, despite all the darker possibilities running through my head, I'm in a world of superheroes. Superpowers are real… and if I really am Peter Parker now, I should be getting some of my own.

By the time I finally come out of my thoughts, Dr. Halperin is back and knocking on the door. I feel bad for making her help me to the bathroom earlier — I shouldn't have been up so quickly, not right after coming out of a coma.

She's got two people with her. An older man with salt and pepper hair — Uncle Ben, I assume — and an older woman with faded reddish-brown hair wearing glasses — Aunt May.

They're Peter's relatives. Mine now, I guess. It's going to be weird, thinking of them as family.

I can't just treat them like NPCs in a well-scripted cutscene. I can't pull up a codex and see their biographies.

They look tired. The kind of tired where sleep doesn't help, because it's not a physical thing.

"Hey Peter," Dr. Halperin smiles softly, stepping aside so I can properly see them. "Your aunt and uncle are here."

Uncle Ben gives a cautious smile, walking around to my right. He places a hand on my shoulder, squeezing softly. Even through the hospital gown fabric, I can feel the calluses on his hand as it wraps around my shoulder. I can't help but see my grandfather in him. I always have.

"You gave us quite the scare, Pete." Ben says, and despite the fact he's trying to put on a brave face, I can hear the shake in his voice. This terrified him…

From the moment I watched the first Spider-Man with Tobey Maguire, Uncle Ben always reminded me of my grandpa. I didn't have my dad around — the closest thing I had was my grandpa, and Ben filled that same space for Peter. Despite knowing this wasn't him, I felt a little better with Ben here.

"I-I'm sorry," I croak out, my voice straining as I try to answer. It's an awful combination of cottonmouth and this scratchy, burning sensation that even bothers me when I try to swallow. "I didn't mean to sc-scare you."

Ben's hand gives my shoulder one more reassuring squeeze before pulling back. There's something quiet about the way he moves—like he doesn't want to risk startling me, or worse, hurting me.

It's the way you approach someone fragile.

"I know you didn't, kiddo," he says, smile softening just a little. "But when the hospital calls and says your nephew collapsed during a school trip… and he doesn't wake up for weeks, it comes with the territory."

Aunt May steps forward next. She doesn't say anything at first. She just looks at me, like she's trying to memorize every line of my face before I can disappear again. Her eyes are puffy, like she's cried more than once recently, and her lips tremble just a bit before she bites them together.

I'm so busy taking in her appearance that I didn't realize she was leaning down to hug me.

It's awkward with the wires and the IV in my hand and the god-awful stiffness in my back, but I don't move. I just let her hug me, because something about the way she was holding me—tight, but cautiously as though I might crack—hit me way harder than I expected.

Her voice is muffled in my shoulder, but I can hear her clearly.

"Don't ever do that again, Peter. Please."

I don't know what to say.

I'm not him, but… I am.

So I do the only thing I can: I hug her back.

It's a shaky gesture. Weak. But it's enough.

"I'll try," I whisper, because anything more would be a lie.

May pulls back slowly, brushing at her eyes like she's blaming the hospital lights for the tears. She forces a small laugh, and it's brittle around the edges.

"You must be starving. Dr. Halperin said you might be able to start on solid food today. Should I run and grab you something? Or do you still hate hospital pudding?"

The question catches me off-guard.

Does Peter hate hospital pudding? What if I say the wrong thing?

I stall with a smile.

"I think I could eat just about anything right now. Even the pudding."

She laughs again—genuinely this time, though still fragile.

"Well, we'll take that as a sign you're on the mend."

Ben chuckles too, but I catch that flicker in his eyes again. The worry hasn't left, and I don't think it will for a long time.

I nod, playing along like I'm just another kid trying to reassure his family. Inside though, I'm spinning. If I'm going to stay in this world… if I'm going to be Peter now… I have to do more than remember my own past.

I'm going to have to learn his.

Dr. Halperin checks her tablet again but doesn't interrupt, giving us a moment. Her eyes flick from me to May, then to Ben, like she's silently measuring something less clinical than vitals—grief levels, maybe. Shock. Emotional strain.

"Well," she finally says, "if you're up for food, we'll start slow. Pudding first, then real solids if that sits okay. I'll go put in the request."

May looks like she's about to offer to grab something from the cafeteria anyway, but Ben gently tugs at her sleeve.

"Let them do their job, hon. Why don't we take a second to breathe?"

May hesitates, then nods, pressing her lips into a tight line. She brushes her fingers through my hair—just a little—before turning toward the door with Dr. Halperin.

And just like that, it's just me and Ben.

The silence stretches for a beat. Not uncomfortable, exactly. Just… heavy.

Ben stays by my side, but his hand drifts from my shoulder to the rail of the hospital bed. He runs his thumb along it absentmindedly. Like he needs to keep touching something—maybe just to prove to both of us that I'm still here.

"How are you feeling?" he asks after a moment, voice low but steady.

"Tired." I reply, managing a dry chuckle that sounds more like sandpaper on cement. "I k-know I shouldn't, but…"

I trail off, because honestly? I don't even know how to finish that sentence. I shouldn't feel tired after three weeks of unconsciousness? I shouldn't still feel like a stranger in this skin? I shouldn't be here?

I bite back the spiral. I can't say any of that out loud without sounding insane.

From Peter's perspective, he's been asleep for weeks. But from mine? It feels like I just got here. Like I blinked and the world changed—like dying hit pause on my life and someone else's hit play.

And yet… all things considered, I feel good for a dead man. Not great advertising for reincarnation, but hey—no flaming pits of torment, so I'll take that as a win.

"It's to be expected." Ben says with that calm reassurance that he seems to carry in his back pocket. Even as he offers the words, I can tell he doesn't believe them, not fully. "Lord knows hospitals'll do that to you."

He smiles, soft and crooked, like he's trying to sell the idea that all of this is just a really bad nap in a really uncomfortable bed. I almost want to believe him. It's easier than trying to unpack the existential hell I've fallen into.

I look at him—really look at him—and see the lines around his eyes, the gray creeping into his beard, the tired kindness he wears like armor. I remember this version of Uncle Ben. From movies. Comics. Stories. But this one's different, somehow. Realer. He breathes. He worries. His hand's still resting on the bed rail like it might anchor both of us.

"I'm glad you're okay," he says quietly, like he's afraid to jinx it.

And I almost tell him the truth—that I'm not okay, not really. That I don't even know what "okay" means anymore. But instead, I just nod. Because sometimes, pretending is all you've got.

And right now? I need the pretend to hold a little longer.

"Me too," I chuff lowly, unsure whether he can hear me.

When May and Dr. Halperin returned with the pudding, I learned something very quickly. I don't like hospital pudding.

In fact, I might fucking hate it.

The first spoonful hits my tongue with all the appeal of chalk paste pretending to be chocolate. There's this weird, slimy texture that clings to my mouth like it's trying to stake a claim, and the taste? Somehow both bland and bitter, like someone tried to simulate flavor using only despair and expired cocoa powder.

But I already committed. So I swallow it.

Barely.

My face twists immediately. Eyebrows pulling together, nose scrunching like I just licked a tire iron, and my jaw sort of seizes like it's staging a protest. I look like someone just told me Jar Jar Binks is canonically a Sith Lord and I have to accept it.

May doesn't say anything at first. Just watches. Her lips twitch. Then she lets out this breathy little laugh—not quite surprised, not quite smug. Just quietly delighted.

"So… I'm taking that as a no?"

I blink at her, still trying to scrape the taste out of my mouth with nothing but willpower and betrayal.

"It tastes like sadness," I croak, reaching for the little plastic cup of water like it's holy. "Was this supposed to be chocolate? Because I think chocolate should sue."

I haven't been this disturbed since I drank that one "space" flavored Coca-Cola. I shiver at the memory, but the worst part is I can't decide which tasted worse.

May grins, trying—and failing—to look sympathetic.

"I'm sorry," she giggles, and I don't hide my displeasure.

Dr. Halperin hides a smile behind her tablet, clearly enjoying the show.

"You're not the first patient to say that. Unfortunately, the pudding stays until we're sure your stomach can handle more than IV fluids and sarcasm."

"I'd rather eat the sarcasm," I mutter, swishing the water around like it might exorcise the taste.

Ben chuckles softly from his corner.

"He hasn't lost his sense of humor."

May pats my arm gently, trying not to laugh harder.

"Alright, smartmouth. I'll see what I can do about sneaking in something edible."

"If you smuggle in a Cherry Pop-Tart, I'll love you forever," I say without hesitation.

May raises an eyebrow like she's filing that away.

"Noted."

I lean back against the pillow, relieved the taste is fading and hoping I won't end up dying again from the pudding. I swear, if this is how Peter went out, I'm gonna be pissed.

I need to get a decent meal in me. Something real. Something with weight and grease and seasoning that doesn't taste like it was filtered through medical-grade regret. I'm a fat kid at heart. Always have been. I don't care what this new body looks like—I can feel the craving in my soul. I need a good home-cooked meal. Or hell, just a halfway decent burger. Something sloppy. Messy. Dripping with cheese and bad decisions.

Maybe it's the stress. Maybe it's the trauma. Or maybe dying really does reset your metabolism. But right now? Right now I'd punch God in the throat for a Five Guys double with bacon and Cajun fries.

Dr. Halperin's still tapping something into her tablet, probably noting that I'm lucid enough to complain but not lucid enough to avoid swearing at pudding. "We'll keep it light for now," she says. "Maybe broth later, and if that sits okay, we'll try something more substantial tomorrow."

Broth.

Because nothing says "welcome back to life" like hot, salty water pretending it used to be food.

I close my eyes, breathing out through my nose, trying not to get cranky about it. I know they're just doing their jobs. But it's hard to focus on recovery when your taste buds are filing a class-action lawsuit.

Still, May's watching me with that warm, tired smile that moms have when they're trying to be strong for you, and Ben hasn't moved from his spot—still resting a hand on the rail like he's afraid if he lets go, I'll vanish.

So I bite back the snark. Just for a second. I give them the smile they need to see.

Even if all I'm thinking is: Please, someone get me a burger before I lose my damn mind.

"Peter, I'd like to ask you some questions." Dr. Halperin says, breaking me out of my thoughts. May and Ben take seats, their expressions shifting to something more serious.

Dr. Halperin says it like she's asking if I've got a minute to talk about my car's extended warranty—calm, rehearsed, but not entirely without compassion. It's the tone doctors use when they're about to gently unpack the part where your life stopped making sense.

May straightens in her chair. Ben shifts forward, fingers lacing together between his knees. Both of them suddenly look like they're bracing for turbulence.

I nod slowly, propping myself up a little higher against the pillows, the cheap plastic rustling like it's protesting the movement.

"Shoot."

Dr. Halperin glances at her tablet, then looks me in the eye.

"What's your name?"

I almost say my real name, but catch myself at the last second. This is going to be a problem, I can already tell.

"Peter… Peter Parker."

"What's your middle name?"

"Benjamin." I say, looking at Ben.

"Good," Dr. Halperin smiles. "How old are you?"

I hadn't considered that. If it was like most of Spidey's origins, I'd probably be fourteen, fifteen at most. My voice is light enough that I'm willing to bet fourteen.

"F-fourteen?" The hesitation in my voice is more apparent than I intended. Doc looks at me with a raised brow, scanning over me like I gave the wrong answer. My heart's pounding in my ears. Hell, I half expect to catch on fire based off of how warm my face just became.

"Where do you live?" she continues, not telling me whether I was right or wrong. That's concerning…

"Queens."

Easy enough — especially since she told me I'm in Queens Medical.

Dr. Halperin nods, jotting something down with a practiced flick of her stylus. The tap-tap against the tablet screen feels way too official for a question that simple. My palms are sweating again.

Ben shifts beside the bed like he wants to say something, but doesn't. May's watching me like I might float away if she blinks too long.

"What's your street address?"

My heart drops into my stomach. FUCK. I don't know Peter's home address.

I freeze.

"What's your street address?" Dr. Halperin repeats, like it's just another checkbox on her clipboard and not the exact question that could blow everything up.

My brain goes into full DEFCON 1 panic. C'mon, man, THINK. You've read Spider-Man comics since you were a kid. You've seen the movies. The cartoons. The memes. Just remember—what street does Aunt May live on? Come on, come on, COME ON—

Nothing.

Blank slate.

The only address floating to the top of my brain is my old one. The one with the bad paint job and the creaky AC unit that sounded like a dying goat every summer.

My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth.

"Uh…"

"I'm sorry, I don't remember."

"Peter?" May asks, her voice swimming with worry.

"That's okay, how about this… what's your phone number?"

Someone just asked me to recite the periodic table backwards in Swahili. That's what this feels like. My brain is spinning its wheels in wet cement, and Dr. Halperin is just watching. Calm, collected, and ruthless in a way that's probably my own imagination.

She asks again, gentle but unwavering.

"Your phone number?"

May leans forward a little, her hand brushing my arm.

"Sweetheart, it's okay. Just try."

I want to scream. Because I can't. I have no idea what Peter Parker's phone number is. I never needed to know. What kind of nerd memorizes the fictional cell number of a comic book character?

Okay, actually, probably a few of my friends. But not me.

"I—I don't remember that either," I mutter, and this time, I don't even bother trying to fake a headache. I just look at the ceiling like it might give me divine intervention and a data plan.

Dr. Halperin nods slowly, jotting something down again. That stylus sounds louder than it should. Every tap feels like a judgment.

"Memory loss is common in trauma cases," she says calmly, but her eyes flick toward May and Ben like she's already doing mental calculus. "Especially with a head injury. We'll run some additional scans, just to be safe."

May's face crumples slightly. That quiet, aching sort of worry that moms wear when they're trying to be a wall but feel like a window.

Ben rubs the back of his neck.

"He's been through hell, Doc. Isn't this kind of thing… normal?"

"It can be," Dr. Halperin says. She offers a smile, but it doesn't quite reach her eyes. "But the inconsistencies are something I want to keep an eye on."

My stomach twists. Inconsistencies. That's a word that sounds way too close to liar for comfort.

She rises from her seat.

"I'm going to give you a little more time to rest. We'll talk again soon."

She walks out, her steps annoyingly soft.

May doesn't say anything right away. Neither does Ben. The silence stretches long enough that I feel like I need to say something before the air pressure in the room crushes me.

"Sorry," I mumble.

May shakes her head gently.

"You don't need to be sorry for being hurt."

I'm an intruder in Peter Parker's life, trying to wear it like a hand-me-down hoodie that's two sizes too tight and smells like someone else's detergent.

Ben finally speaks, voice low.

"We'll figure it out, kiddo. Just rest for now."

I let my head fall back against the pillow and try not to pass out from stress. But there's one thing I have to know, even if it makes them more uncomfortable.

"Hey May…" her eyes meet mine. "Was I right? Am I fourteen?"

She laughs so softly it's barely noticeable.

"Yes, dear… you were right."

"Sweet," I chuckle. "I'm disappointed in myself, though… fifty percent on a test?"

Ben pats my shoulder, and I close my eyes, the dark taking me once more.

The next time I come to, the light slanting through the blinds looks different—sharper, more golden. Afternoon, maybe. My body feels a little less like it's been scraped off a New York sidewalk and a little more like… well, like I might survive this mess.

That illusion dies the second Dr. Halperin walks back in with a clipboard and a face that says she's about to serve up another helping of bad news.

More scans. More questions. A memory test where I forget which president is current and answer with Obama.

Spoiler: It wasn't Obama.

By the time she wraps it up, I feel like someone's shaken my brain like a Magic 8-Ball and the only thing floating to the top is try again later.

Dr. Halperin sits down beside my bed.

"Peter… based on the results, I believe you're suffering from retrograde amnesia. That means your brain is having trouble accessing memories from before the accident."

"Great," I mutter, "so I've got Swiss cheese for a brain."

Ben, sitting nearby with a book he hasn't turned a page in for the last twenty minutes, leans forward.

"How long does that kind of thing last?"

"It varies," she says gently. "Some patients regain everything within days. For others, it's a slower process. Sometimes memories return in pieces. Other times… not at all."

May's gone still again. That same statue-stillness from earlier — the kind where you know she's screaming inside but refuses to let it show on her face.

Dr. Halperin offers a reassuring smile, but I can see the caution in it. Hopeful, not confident.

"I'll monitor you closely. For now, just focus on healing. Stress won't help your memory, but rest might."

"So… until further notice, I'm just a soft-reboot Peter Parker."

May finally lets out a breath, like she'd been holding it for hours.

"You're still you, sweetheart."

"Let's just focus on the bright side. You remember your name, your town, and your age. You recognize your aunt and uncle… that's a good sign."

Dr. Halperin stands.

"I'll let the two of you stay a bit longer. Just don't wear him out too much."

As she leaves, I exhale and stare up at the ceiling tiles like they might hold the answers. They don't give me any. All they provide is dust, fluorescent buzz, and the faint feeling I'm in the worst game of charades ever, and the clue is my entire life.

This retrograde amnesia thing might be the best-case scenario. May looks like she's aged a decade in a day, and Ben's pretending that book's got more going on than a blank journal. For me, it works in my favor.

If they think the scrambled mess in my head is just trauma? Then every time I screw up a memory, hesitate on a name, don't know Peter's locker combo or favorite cereal—it all gets swept under the rug. I don't need to pretend to be Peter, I just have to try and remember all the versions of him I grew up with. There's no pressure to suddenly become Midtown High's golden science boy overnight. I get to be a kid with a blank slate.

Which—if I'm being honest—is still better than waking up in a ditch, or y'know… dead.

I let my eyes drift back toward May and Ben. She's smoothing the wrinkles out of her purse strap like she's trying to iron out the chaos. Ben's watching me with this quiet, grounding calm, like he's ready to catch me if I fall again.

They're strangers, technically. But they don't look at me like one. They look at me like they'd carry the weight of the whole damn city if it meant I'd be okay.

So yeah, I might not remember Peter's street address or favorite pizza toppings. But I know this much already: I'm not alone.

The dreams don't come all at once. They drift in like fog—soft and shapeless, full of voices I should know but can't quite place. There's warmth there. Laughter. The scent of something homemade wafting through a kitchen I'll never see again. But when I wake up, it's gone. And in its place is that hollowness. That quiet ache in my chest like someone pressed a thumb into my sternum and never took it away.

I sit up slowly. The room is quiet—too quiet—and empty. May and Ben are gone, probably grabbing coffee or trying not to hover too much. Good. I need a minute to myself.

My eyes land on the bandage wrapped around my left hand. It doesn't itch, but I need to see what the damage is. It'd just be nice to know what the hell to expect. Halperin would probably chastise me for removing the bandages, but I don't really care.

Once I get it removed, I pause.

Three weeks. Plenty of time for bruises and a spider bite to vanish. And sure enough — there's nothing dramatic beneath it. No glowing veins or alien mandibles sprouting from my palm. Just skin—smooth, clean, maybe a little pale. A faint, barely-there mark, like a freckle that lost its way.

"...Huh," I click my tongue.

My gut doesn't buy it.

Do I even have powers? Peter should've felt them in the first few days. The wall-crawling, the strength, the danger-sense. That was the lore. What if I'm just… some guy in Peter's skin, minus the package deal?

I'm still in a hospital bed. Still in someone else's life. Whether or not I can stick to walls or bench-press a Buick doesn't matter if I can't even walk out the front door yet.

I sigh, shake my head, and start wrapping the hand again. Looser this time, uneven—definitely not up to medical standards. But unless someone's grading my gauze technique, it'll do.

I lean back into the pillows, closing my eyes, trying to let go of the weight in my chest.

I didn't sleep well in my old life. If it's just one time, I'd like that to change.

It takes a few more days before they finally clear me for release, and I honestly can't tell if that's good news or just the universe flipping a coin and shrugging. You'd think I'd be excited—getting out of the hospital, moving forward, being able to see something other than bland walls and over-enthusiastic motivational posters. But instead, there's this weird pit in my stomach, like I'm stepping off the edge of something I can't see the bottom of.

The hospital bed sucked—too firm, too sterile, like it was designed to punish spines—but it gave me this illusion that I was just visiting someone else's life. That I could just wake up, watch the story unfold, and pretend I was behind the glass instead of in the frame. Just some weird little interactive drama where I could poke the glass and watch the plot thicken.

But now? Now I'm being fitted back into Peter Parker's life like a replacement bulb. Slipping into a loose gray sweatshirt that still smells faintly of a detergent I don't remember buying, followed by a polo shirt that's seen better, brighter days—probably back when mall kiosks were still selling "Keep Calm" merch unironically. May insisted I stay warm. She kept handing me layers like I was made of glass and this walk to the car was the Iditarod. I didn't argue. Partly because I'm not dumb, and partly because I think it comforts her to fuss.

I want to joke. Say it's all just a bad dream. That I'll wake up any second and find out I'm still in my apartment, still behind on bills, still arguing with my reflection. I'm walking out of this hospital not as me, but as Peter Parker.

And I can't tell if that's a blessing, a curse… or just the start of something I'm not ready for.

Maybe all of the above.

There's a knock on the door as I pick up the glasses. I don't turn—I'm too busy debating whether I should put them on. Peter Parker wore glasses before the bite, and afterward, he didn't need them anymore.

I wore glasses too — mostly reading glasses for an astigmatism, but I could see fine without them. There were days I needed them to stave off a migraine, but hopefully that's not something I'll need to worry about anymore.

Still, this version of Peter wore glasses. So I put them on. A little costume piece to keep the illusion going.

I blink once. The room doesn't change. I do, a little. Or maybe I just look more like him.

My vision doesn't warp, sharpen, or suddenly become HD.

Nothing about the spider has been as I expected it to be. No powers, no dramatic awakening, not even a proper scar to brood over. Just silence. Like the universe forgot to finish the job. The doctors said I was lucky — the spider that bit me was poisonous. They're attributing the amnesia to a combination of the venom and hitting my head on the way down. Peter was thrown into a seizure, foaming at the mouth, the full nine yards.

I feel bad for his classmates. That kind of thing sticks with you. One second a kid's sitting beside you, the next he's foaming at the mouth like something out of a horror flick. Hard to forget. Harder to explain.

"Hey, Peter… are you okay?" May's voice pulls me back, and I turn to face her.

"Y-yeah." The smile comes easier than it should. "Where's Uncle Ben?"

"He's grabbing the car. Are you ready to go home?"

I didn't answer immediately.

Go home. That's a loaded question, May. I want to go home — to my life. But the only home I've got now belongs to someone else. Someone I used to look up to. Which, yeah… sounds cool on paper. So what am I even complaining about?

Who gets to say that they got a second chance at life as their favorite superhero?

So, am I ready to go home?

Fuck it.

"Yeah, I am."

Chapter 3: Casa de Parker

The ride from the hospital to what was apparently "home" held my attention more than you'd expect.

Before the accident—before all this—I'd only ever been to two states. Never made it to New York. Never saw the skyline in person or felt the weight of the city pressing in from every direction. My life wasn't tragic or anything — growing up broke meant vacations were never part of the plan. We lived comfortably enough to survive. Not explore.

Now here I was, riding through Queens like a tourist trapped in someone else's skin.

May was talking. I caught the cadence of her voice more than the words—soft, warm, the kind of tone people use when they're trying to make someone feel safe. I think she said something about picking up soup, or maybe stopping by the pharmacy. Possibly both. I wasn't really listening.

It was hard to focus on anything but the city outside the window. Brick buildings, tangled fire escapes, rows of parked cars lined up like metallic dominoes. I'd seen Queens before—in movies, in games—but this was different. This was real. And it was my hometown now, apparently.

Whether I wanted it or not.

"You alright, Pete? You're awfully quiet back there," Ben called out, his voice cutting through the silence. It jolted me a little — like being pulled up from underwater.

"Hmm?" I blinked, dragging my eyes away from a row of corner shops we'd just passed. For a second, I wasn't even sure I'd heard him right.

May glanced over her shoulder with a warmth I wasn't sure I deserved.

"You're quiet, dear."

"Yeah—sorry. Just… tired," I said, defaulting to the universal excuse for emotional weirdness. It came out easy enough. And it wasn't exactly a lie, either.

Ben gave a small nod in the rearview mirror, eyes flicking back to the road.

"That's fair. You've certainly earned the right to be."

That was one way to put it.

The name buzzed through my nerves like static — familiar, but wrong. It fit like a jacket left behind on a hook — your size, maybe even your color, but someone else wore it first. Someone who had a life. Friends. Memories. A future… and now it was mine.

Ben noticed how stiff I'd gone. After a pause, he cleared his throat gently and said, "We'll be home shortly. Then you can get some rest in your own bed."

Your own bed.

Right. That somehow made it weirder.

From the little interaction I'd had so far with Ben, May, and even Dr. Halperin, one thing was already crystal clear:

Peter still had the Parker luck. Cosmic, stubborn, universe-on-hard-mode.

He'd been in and out of hospitals more times than anyone could probably count. Scrapes, broken bones, sickness—maybe worse. I didn't have the full picture, but it didn't take much to start connecting dots. The way May's voice had trembled just a bit when she mentioned rest. The way Ben kept glancing at me like he was checking to make sure I was still breathing.

And then there was Dr. Halperin — Peter's family doctor, apparently. That explained the familiarity in her voice, the concern that felt a little too practiced. The kind of worry that only came from watching a kid get hurt too often.

What concerned me most was the conversation I'd accidentally eavesdropped on between Ben and May.

Even in a different body, my uncanny ability to overhear stuff I was never supposed to hear had apparently made the jump with me. Which is hilarious, considering half the time if I'm trying to pay attention, I can't tell what the hell people are saying.

But that night in the hospital, their voices carried. Quiet, but clear. May had mentioned an illness Peter had when he was younger — something serious enough that it still haunted her. And now she was worried the coma might be connected to it.

That's the part that's been gnawing at me.

Dr. Halperin brought up the spider's venom as a possible factor in my amnesia — how the hell they came up with that, I don't know, but I'm not complaining — but they keep talking like it hadn't happened.

I sigh under my breath, looking back to the street. Ben and May are just worried about their nephew, and I'm playing catch up. Right now I just need to get my bearings and settle in until I can figure out what the hell is going on.

I've got a plan.

Step One: Learn more about Peter. If I'm taking over his life, I need to know more about him. Ben thinks I'm going to get rest when I go to my room, but I'm going to be digging into Peter's — my — past.

Step Two: Figure out who Peter's friend group is. From the versions of Peter Parker I'm familiar with, I'm looking at about four or five names: Harry Osborn, Mary Jane Watson, Gwen Stacy, Ned Leeds, and Flash Thompson.

Step Three: Figure out what kind of Marvel universe I'm in. That's going to tell me how bad things could potentially get. Is this a grounded one, or do the Celestials show up on Tuesdays? The stakes depend entirely on what kind of cosmic circus I've landed in.

Step Four — arguably the most important if I want to survive whatever's coming: figure out how to make web shooters. I'm willing to bet I don't have organic webbing in the cards, so if I do start developing powers, I'll need gear. That means figuring out the web fluid formula and building the shooters from scratch.

Peter might be a science nerd, but I'm not. I wasn't a great student, so unless I'm lucky enough to inherit his brains, I've got some catching up to do. Thankfully, when something actually catches my attention, I'm a quick learner.

And figuring out how to swing between buildings like a human bungee cord? Yeah. That's got my full attention.

The car slowed as we turned off the main road, slipping into a quiet, tree-lined neighborhood that looked like it hadn't changed since the seventies — maybe even earlier. Every house had its own flavor of wear and tear, like they were aging gracefully into the background of someone else's story.

And then we pulled up to the house.

It was a two-story place with faded yellow siding and white trim that had long since surrendered to a kind of soft gray grime. The front porch sagged ever so slightly at the left corner, like it had a bum knee, and the roof tiles looked like they'd seen one too many Northeastern winters. But the big bay window out front still had a charm to it, framed with old lace curtains that swayed gently in the breeze coming off the street.

The front yard was modest but kept — patchy grass that had clearly been fought for and won, a narrow path of cracked concrete leading up to the steps. A weather-worn bike leaned against the porch railing, rust nipping at the frame. A wind chime made from old silverware clinked quietly near the screen door, dancing lazily in the breeze. That detail stuck with me. It felt like something May made.

It wasn't the kind of house you'd stop to admire. But looking at it from the backseat, heart still weirdly rattling in my chest, it felt like a place someone could heal in.

"Home sweet home," Ben said as he put the car in park, the engine ticking gently as it cooled.

May turned back to me, offering a soft smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.

"You remember it, Peter?" she asked carefully, like the answer might either make her day or break her heart.

I swallowed, glancing back at the house.

Lie or truth?

"…It looks familiar," I said, and technically that wasn't false. I'd seen versions of it in comics, movies — hell, I knew what this was supposed to be. But standing here, seeing it with a real sky above and the scent of cut grass in the air?

That was new.

May's smile softened, and Ben opened his door with a grunt. The moment shattered as the cool air outside rushed in, and I climbed out onto the cement.

I'm looking up at the house a bit too long when Ben places a hand on my shoulder, smiling brightly.

"Come on, slugger. I bet you're hungry."

Right on cue, my stomach let out a low, gurgling betrayal that echoed just enough in the quiet street to be embarrassing.

"…Traitor," I muttered under my breath.

May, ever the MVP, had managed to sneak me a Pop-Tart in her purse — bless her — but that was more emotional support than nutritional sustenance.

Ben chuckled and gave my shoulder a squeeze.

"We've got leftovers inside, or I can whip something up. Nothing fancy, but better than hospital food."

He started up the walkway, and I followed, my legs suddenly aware of just how not okay today had been. My joints ached like I'd run a marathon, everything running on fumes and adrenaline.

Still… stepping up toward that weathered porch made something click. The creak of the boards underfoot, the way the house seemed to exhale in the breeze — it grounded me. Like a glitch in the simulation finally corrected itself. For the first time since I woke up as Peter, I felt like myself again.

"Can you cook a couple burgers?" I asked, my voice scratchy but hopeful.

Ben looked over his shoulder with an easy grin.

"I'll start the grill."

The front door shut behind us with a soft click, and I caught the low rustle of Ben slipping off his jacket. He tossed it casually over the back of a kitchen chair like it belonged there. The air inside was warm with a coziness you couldn't fake with scented candles and throw pillows. It smelled faintly like lemon cleaner and something sweet from earlier — maybe a pie May had made, or cookies from a neighbor. Either way, it was nice.

May's hand gently touched my elbow.

"Let's get you upstairs, sweetheart."

I nodded, but I was barely paying attention. My eyes were already drifting around the space as she started to lead me toward the stairs.

The living room was sunlit and soft, the furniture worn but in good condition. There was a quilt tossed over the arm of the couch, and an old lamp beside it with a crack in the base that someone had carefully glued back together.

Then there were the photos.

They were everywhere. Lining the hallway, clustered on the wall of the staircase — each one a snapshot of a life I was supposed to remember.

One frame caught my eye — a young Peter, probably five or six, cheeks puffed out as he blew into a birthday cake, frosting smeared at the corner of his mouth. Ben was leaned in over his shoulder in the background, caught mid-laugh, eyes crinkled with joy. His hair was darker then, no sign of gray.

Next to it, a picture of Peter riding a bicycle, arms wobbling, teeth clenched in determination. The background was slightly blurred, but I could make out May cheering from the porch. He must've just learned to ride. Something hitched in my chest. I never learned — too fragile, no center of balance, and one skinned knee away from a cast. Peter was luckier than me in that regard.

I glanced toward the kitchen, where Ben was rustling through a drawer, probably looking for a long lighter to fire up the grill.

May was already halfway up the stairs, motioning for me to follow.

"Come on, honey. I want to make sure your room's just the way you remember."

As I followed, more pictures met me on the way up. A younger May and Ben stood together on a bridge — arms looped around each other, faces glowing with the kind of love you don't see much anymore. I paused in front of it. It reminded me of the photo of my grandparents when they went to New York one summer. They'd stopped in front of a waterfall and taken a photo. The one I got etched onto a necklace. Always and forever…

Ben and May reminded me of them so much that it physically hurt.

Further up, a larger frame hung above the landing. A family portrait — Peter, May, and Ben in matching sweaters, the kind people wear just for the photo and regret immediately afterward. Peter was maybe ten or eleven, skinny with a big smile. He looked… happy.

What I notice is what wasn't on the walls. No photos of Richard and Mary Parker. No baby pictures with them. No framed vacations or goofy Christmas cards. The people who brought him into the world were never the ones who raised him.

I knew that feeling.

Ben and May were there when it mattered. They were there when Peter cried himself to sleep at five years old, confused about why his parents weren't coming back. It hits me as I reach the door to Peter's room. Why do I know Peter was only five when they left? I shouldn't know that.

Not unless I was there. But I wasn't.

So why do I remember it like I was?

I can feel the weight of the silence in that bedroom. The way the nightlight cast soft shadows on the ceiling. The muffled sobs he tried to bury in his pillow, too young to understand why the world was falling apart.

I remember the pajama pants with dinosaurs on them. The way he hugged that worn-out teddy bear, missing half an ear. The way May's hand smoothed over his hair, slow and calming. The way Ben stood in the doorway, helpless, one hand clutching the frame like it was the only thing keeping him from falling in, too.

I shouldn't remember any of that.

That scares the hell out of me.

It's not imagination or educated guesses. It's an actual piece of Peter's life.

As May opened the door, I stepped inside like I was crossing a line I wasn't sure I had the right to cross. The space felt private in a way that made me instinctively tread lighter.

It was small. Not cramped, but definitely modest. A single window faced the street, half-covered by blinds tilted just enough to let in the overcast morning light.

A desk sat under it, cluttered with notebooks and paperbacks and a mess of pens — some with caps, some chewed down at the ends. A laptop rested in the middle, lid closed, the corners dinged up from years of use. There were a few stickers on the casing, most of them curling at the edges: NASA, a faded Mets logo, a couple of scuffed science puns only a high schooler would think were clever.

The bed was unmade in the way that only a teenager's bed can be — blanket half-pulled up, pillow pushed against the wall like it had been used to prop up a back during a long night of reading or scrolling or thinking too hard. The sheets were plain — pale blue and softened by time, with a frayed edge visible near the foot. No cartoon characters, no brand names. Just fabric that looked like it had been through a lot of nights both good and bad.

A tall, leaning bookshelf took up the opposite wall, stuffed tight with paperbacks that ran the gamut from science fiction to nonfiction to the occasional weathered classic. A copy of Fahrenheit 451 had clearly been read more than once — its spine was warped and its corners curled like old toast. Right beside it, The Martian leaned on a thick high school chemistry textbook, bookmarked with a train ticket. On the bottom shelf, a stack of yellowing National Geographics towered over a binder full of loose-leaf notes, corners sticking out at odd angles.

Above the shelf, taped with peeling Scotch tape, were a few small drawings — nothing polished, just scraps of printer paper with sketches in graphite and pen. A rocketship, messy and a little lopsided. A doodle of the New York skyline with tiny stick figures and arrows labeled things like "bagel cart" and "rush hour."

The closet door was cracked open, and inside I spotted a few stacked shoeboxes — one labeled School Stuff in Sharpie, another Wires & Junk, and one with just a smiley face drawn on the lid. A pair of beat-up Converse sat askew next to them — one untied, one without a lace. Nearby, a dark green hoodie was slumped over a rolling chair, the fabric bunched and sleeves tangled like it had been shrugged off mid-thought.

No trophies, no ribbons, no posters of bands or celebrities or sports stars. No selfies taped to mirrors. No lights strung up to make it aesthetic.

It felt like my room, believe it or not. Minus the comic and anime posters, the photos of my cousins, me and my mom, my childhood dog, and the collection of Funko Pops I'd accumulated over four years.

On the nightstand, a small alarm clock blinked the wrong time. A copy of Of Mice and Men rested beneath it, dog-eared halfway through. Beside that, a photo frame faced the bed — Peter with Ben and May, Peter still young, maybe eight, grinning with a missing front tooth while Ben stood behind him with one hand on his shoulder and the other holding up two ice cream cones. May leaned in from the side, her hair windblown, her eyes half-closed from laughing. Someone had snapped it while they were in motion, and that made it better somehow.

I looked around again, slower this time. The books read and re-read. The frayed sleeves of the hoodie. The crooked stack of school notebooks with bent covers. It scared me how quickly I wanted this to feel like mine. Like maybe if I stayed quiet long enough, the room would forget Peter and just become mine instead.

May had been standing in the doorway, watching me intently. By the time I turned around, I could tell she knew I didn't remember any of it. I gave her a soft smile, barely enough to curl the corners of my lips.

"Dr. Halperin said it might take a while for everything to start coming back…" She said it softly, like someone whispering to a ghost they weren't sure was still listening.

"May…" She raised her eyes to mine, and I hesitated. That memory of Peter reeling from his parents leaving — it was itching at the back of my head. "Are my parents alive?"

She didn't answer right away. The silence stretched — thick, uncomfortable, like we were both waiting for the same elevator that just refused to show up. May's eyes flicked to a photo on the dresser — Peter on Ben's shoulders at Coney Island, cotton candy in hand, wind in his hair. She didn't cry, but her throat bobbed once like she was swallowing a wave. Her gaze dropped to the floor, thumb rubbing slowly at her palm.

"They…" She finally replied, her voice uneven. "They died. A long time ago. Plane crash, down in South America. Your dad was on assignment for Oscorp. Your mom went with him."

She said it gently, like she was trying not to crush something fragile.

I felt something — a ripple in the back of my skull. A sensation that shouldn't be mine, but clings anyway. A boy reeling from abandonment. A door closing. A pair of silhouettes walking away and never coming back. It's not a memory I own… but it still stings like one.

"I don't remember them," I said before I could stop myself. I mean, I remember that feeling — Peter's — but not their faces. Not their voices. Not the way they laughed or fought or how it felt to be their kid.

May's eyes softened like she gets it. Like she's seen that fog in someone else before.

"They loved you. I want you to know that." Her voice wavers, but she powers through. "They were good people. Brilliant. Brave. They would've been so proud."

I nodded, but it felt like nodding for someone else. A trespasser at a funeral, mourning ghosts I never got to meet.

"Thanks," I smiled. "Can you let me know when the food's ready? I want to get into something more comfortable."

May hesitated at the doorway, eyes flicking once more around the room before settling back on me. Whatever she saw on my face, she didn't try to explain it away. Just gave a small, gentle nod and stepped back.

"I'll call you when it's ready," she said. "Take your time, sweetheart."

The door clicked shut behind her, and I was alone.

For the first time since waking up in that hospital bed, I didn't feel like someone was watching. No nurse with a clipboard. No kind-eyed doctor prodding gently at the edges of my identity. No Ben trying to act casual while clearly watching me like a hawk for signs of recognition. No May tiptoeing around my confusion like she might scare it into hiding.

Just me.

I walked over to the desk and slipped off the glasses. The world didn't blur so much as soften — like the lens I'd been looking through had vanished, leaving everything just slightly less sharp, less clinical. I set them down beside the laptop, next to a pen with its cap long gone and a sticky note that read Chem Quiz Thursday — ugh.

Then I peeled off the clothes. Too stiff, too clean, like a costume for a role I hadn't auditioned for. I dropped them into the hamper tucked between the closet and the desk, then turned to the wardrobe.

The doors creaked as I opened them. Inside was a modest row of clothes: T-shirts in every shade of faded; button-downs for school presentations, probably; a couple of hoodies worn thin at the cuffs. Pants, mostly jeans, some with knees blown out. Peter's clothes were never fancy — a lot of hand-me-downs and Goodwill purchases. Not my personal taste, but the moment I get a chance and some money, I'll sort that out. Nothing dark and edgy, just more me.

I dug around until I found a pair of sweatpants — dark gray, soft, drawstring frayed at the end. A T-shirt to go with it — heather blue with a slightly stretched collar and the word "PHYSICS" printed in cracked white lettering across the chest. A little loose, like Peter had either outgrown it or liked the oversized feel. Either way, it draped over my frame with a weird comfort I didn't expect.

Though I would have opted for a tank top.

I shut the wardrobe and caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror above the dresser.

Peter's face. His angles. His messy hair that needed a cut but somehow made sense the way it was. Without the glasses, in the casual clothes, barefoot on the wooden floor — he looked more like a blank slate.

A pause in the story. A kid caught mid-sentence.

I stepped away from the mirror and wandered to the bookshelf. Ran my fingers across the dog-eared spines. The Fahrenheit 451 paperback leaned against its neighbor like it needed the support, and I muttered under my breath, "We burn books, then ask why the world is dark."

Peter had highlighted that line. I don't know how I know that. I just… do.

My hand hovered over the train ticket stuck in The Martian. I traced the edge without pulling it out. For a second I wanted to open it, flip through the pages and see where Peter had stopped, what notes he might've scribbled in the margins. But I held back. It felt too intimate. Like reading someone's diary.

I moved back to the bed and sat down. The mattress gave beneath me with a soft sigh, springs adjusting to a familiar weight they didn't realize wasn't here anymore.

I leaned back until my spine met the mattress in full, legs still hanging off the edge. It didn't hurt. No strain across my lower back, no pressure point between my shoulders, no fidgeting to find the right angle just to breathe easy.

Mostly it just felt off. Comfortable in a way my old body never was, and that comfort carried a kind of grief in it. Like the ache I didn't have anymore was still echoing in my memory, waiting to remind me who I wasn't.

But I could get used to this. The thought came quieter than expected, like it didn't want to draw too much attention to itself.

I used to carry myself like a truck in a narrow lane, always a little too much for the space I was in. Beds creaked, plastic chairs tested their limits, my spine was a daily complaint after a long shift. Now? I could lie flat and breathe easily. The springs beneath me didn't groan — they adapted.

Yeah, not bad at all.

"Peter!" May's voice floated up from downstairs. "Food's ready."

"Be down in a second!" I called back, climbing to my feet. I could already smell the burgers.

Finally.

I grabbed my glasses and was out the door.

That evening, I sat cross-legged on Peter's bedroom floor, back propped against the foot of the bed, laptop perched on the comforter beside me. The screen glowed dim in the low light, its fan humming softly, the only real sound in the room apart from the faint traffic buzz outside the window.

The folders were…dense. "School Projects," "Ideas," "Blueprints," "Chem Notes," "Photography," "Personal," "Scrap." Each one packed with subfolders nested like Russian dolls. I picked one at random — "Photography" — and opened a folder labeled "People."

What I found wasn't filtered or curated. No posed Instagram shots or group photos angled to suggest a more exciting life. These were raw. Street-level, almost. Black-and-white candids of students on school steps. A girl with a skateboard laughing with her head thrown back. A guy crouched by his locker, tying his shoes. Half of them probably didn't even know they'd been captured.

It took me about three minutes of skimming to realize there weren't a lot of selfies. Hardly any photos of Peter himself, except ones taken by accident — his reflection in a window, a mirrored surface catching him while he was adjusting the shot. A ghost boy with soft eyes and a tired hoodie, always slightly out of frame.

My fingers started flipping faster, searching for someone else — anyone else — who appeared more than once. Familiar faces. Patterns.

And then I saw him. Curled up in a booth at a greasy diner, head tilted back mid-laugh, Peter across from him. A tall kid, well-dressed. Too polished to be from Midtown's usual crowd. I clicked deeper.

Harry.

Harry Osborn.

Rooftop hangouts with textbooks splayed open and soda cans kicked to the side. A blurry photo of the two of them on a subway platform, Peter catching Harry mid-ramble with an expression that screamed are-you-seriously-taking-a-picture-right-now?

And then Halloween. Harry in a black cape and cheap plastic fangs, clearly phoning it in. And Peter next to him in a…

Oh my god, he didn't.

White wig, oversized lab coat, taped-on mustache cut out of notebook paper. Albert Einstein. Of course it was. That's fantastically on brand for Pete.

I actually laughed. A real, sudden, sharp laugh.

And then it caught in my throat.

Because even in the goofy getup, Peter didn't take up much space. He stood slightly off-center in the shot, like he wasn't sure he was supposed to be in it at all. The smile on his face was real, yeah — but shy. Like joy that had to ask for permission to exist.

I know that feeling.

Better than I'd like to admit.

I used to be the tagalong. The friend with the busted wallet, too broke to cover even my own slice of pizza. My friends never made me feel bad about it — at least not out loud. They'd just pay, shrug it off, tell me they were happy I came. That it didn't matter. But it mattered to me. Every time.

Because when you grow up worrying you take up too much space, even kindness can feel like pity.

And how many times had Peter left his own name out of the frame, because maybe he thought the photo was better that way.

I cleared my throat. My fingers drifted back to the photos, flipping through them with the slow, careful rhythm of someone trying not to disturb a sleeping secret. Harry's face began to fade — less and less in each snapshot, until it was like he was slowly vanishing from the story altogether.

I paused.

Was Harry no longer in Pete's life? Did he move? Did they have a falling out? I could go ask Ben or May, but they're probably lying down and I don't want to disturb them.

Something new caught my eye. Where Harry had faded out, someone else had started to appear. In photo after photo, he was there — always with Peter. Arm wrapped around his neck in that big-brother way, tugging him in with a grin like nah, man, you're part of this too.

He wore a classic Midtown letterman jacket — lime green body, white sleeves, a big "M" stitched proudly on the chest. Hair shaved close on the sides with a sharp fade, the top kept longer, slicked back just enough to look effortlessly cool without trying too hard. The guy looked too friendly to be Flash Thompson.

Who is this guy?

I squinted at the name tag clipped to one folder.

Lonnie Lincoln.

Wait—Lonnie? THE Lonnie Lincoln?

As in… Lonnie Lincoln, the guy who grows up to become Tombstone? The ashen-skinned enforcer with a voice like crushed gravel and a rap sheet that reads like a Bond villain's resume?

My eyes darted back to the photos. He didn't look like a future crime boss. No dead-eyed stare. No pale skin like weathered stone. Just a dude. Big, sure. Broad shoulders. But his grin lit up the whole photo. There was kindness in it. He was laughing in most of them. And Peter — Peter was smiling back.

Genuinely.

Like maybe, just maybe, someone had finally refused to let him shrink.

What the hell was Peter doing hanging out with Lonnie Lincoln? Or maybe the better question was…

What kind of Lonnie Lincoln was this?

I had to stop looking at the photos. Jumping straight to "future supervillain" was a fast track to making bad assumptions. People change. People aren't their worst-case scenario waiting to happen. At least, not always.

If I was going to understand this world, I had to start looking at the big players. The ones who shaped New York from the top down.

First name on the list?

Easy.

Wilson Fisk.

I typed the name into the search bar, hit enter.

The results made my chest tighten.

He wasn't just active.

He was the Mayor.

The actual Mayor of New York.

Fuck me.

No, like seriously... why the fuck is he the Mayor? I stared at the search results, hoping I'd misread something.

Nope.

There it was, bold as sin and twice as smug:

WILSON FISK SWORN IN FOR SECOND TERM AS MAYOR.

FISK ADMINISTRATION ANNOUNCES NEW CRIME INITIATIVE.

COMMUNITY LEADERS PRAISE FISK'S "CLEAN STREETS" CAMPAIGN.

Clean streets?

Are you kidding me?

Don't tell me he's playing the dutiful New Yorker now — shaking hands at ribbon cuttings, posing next to playground renovations, flashing that thousand-pound smile while reporters eat out of his palm. All while gutting the city from the inside like a damn butcher in a $10,000 suit.

Okay, I just chastised myself over assuming Lonnie would be a villain, but this is Wilson Fisk. I don't think he's capable of being a good guy in any continuity. Because if he's still Kingpin behind the scenes — and let's be honest, of course he is — then he's got the whole machine at his fingertips. Cops, courts, contracts, media… all of it. Everything Peter might one day have to fight against? This guy already owns it. Wrapped up in a nice, legally-sanctioned bow.

Okay, okay, okay… calm down.

One thing at a time. Just get your bearings, remember?

You're not swinging through Manhattan rooftops yet. You don't have spider-sense, webs, or a tragic backstory involving someone whispering "great power" on their deathbed.

No need to assume you're going to be fist-fighting a sumo wrestler's natural predator.

Deep breath.

So. Wilson Fisk is the Mayor. Not great. But technically not my problem... yet.

Let's move down the list.

Norman Osborn.

I typed the name in and winced, like the words might bite me.

And what do you know? They kinda did.

Norman Osborn: billionaire industrialist, CEO of Oscorp—former CEO, apparently. The headline reads:

OSBORN STEPS BACK FROM OSCORP AMID ILLNESS – SMYTHE TO SERVE AS COMPANY SPOKESPERSON

My stomach dipped.

Norman was sick. That actually tracked. This was more Amazing Spider-Man than Raimi-verse — Norman's not blowing up scientists or threatening Thanksgiving dinner. He's busy dying. Slowly. Probably painfully. Which should've made me feel a little sympathy.

Instead it set off alarms in the back of my brain. Something about this felt like the first note of a much darker song.

Because if Norman's out, that means someone else is holding the leash at Oscorp.

Alistair Smythe.

The name alone gave me goosebumps. I clicked deeper. Photos. Press conferences. Him, standing stiff at a podium in that weirdly symmetrical suit, like he was generated by an AI trained exclusively on images of "respectable corporate villains."

Oscorp to Lead Tech Initiative in Collaboration with Mayor Fisk's Clean City Plan.

And there it was. My two least favorite puzzle pieces, shaking hands.

Alistair freaking Smythe. The man behind the Spider Slayers. In some versions he's just a creepy robotics genius. In others he's a sociopathic zealot with a bug up his ass about vigilantes.

I'd be fine with creepy robotics genius, honestly. But if he builds the Slayers here, and they're anything like the ones I remember? Sleek, silent, city-patrolling arachnid death machines?

Bad application.

Especially if they want me dead.

Nope. Not loving that future.

I sat back, rubbing my face with both hands. Somewhere between the Kingpin in a mayor's sash and Spider Terminators on the skyline, my whole body had started buzzing with that quiet, rising dread.

But there was still one name I had to check.

The Black Cat.

Out of everyone Peter had ever crossed paths with—friend, foe, flirt—she was the one I couldn't stop thinking about. There was something about their dynamic I'd always loved. That tension. That teasing chaos. The fact that she never tiptoed around him. She didn't ask Peter Parker to be smaller. She flirted with the idea that he could be bigger.

I was a sucker for girls like Felicia, but I'm not aiming for her to be my better half or even a person to add to a harem. She pushes Peter, and I could use someone who does that.

So, I typed it: The Black Cat.

The search results were...dusty.

Not in the usual "scrubbed from the net" kind of way. More like the digital version of a forgotten case file in the back of a locked cabinet.

Most of the entries were old. Really old.

Mentions in crime blogs. Buried police reports. Whispers on conspiracy forums.

"High-end jewel theft in Tribeca. Police say it bears resemblance to the 'Black Cat' string of robberies from the late 90s…"

"Copycat burglaries dismissed by NYPD—no confirmed sightings since the Black Cat's last known heist, seventeen years ago."

"Some say he retired. Others think he vanished for good."

He?

I blinked and scrolled back. Most of the reports didn't even reference the Black Cat as a woman. One line stood out in a crime blog from 2008. The Black Cat was never caught, disappearing without a trace seventeen years ago.

Hopefully that meant Felicia wasn't active yet. Maybe she hadn't put on the suit yet. Maybe she didn't even know what she was meant to become…

I can live with that.

I could deep dive into all my potential enemies for weeks, but there's a more tantalizing, exciting concept creeping into my mind now. What about the heroes?

I mean, yeah, doomscrolling my way through a villain lineup straight out of Nightmare Starter Pack Monthly is fun—if your definition of "fun" includes quiet existential dread and a strong desire to live under your bed, but seeing a hero feels more appropriate at the moment.

And that's when a new name slipped into my brain like a song you haven't heard in years but somehow still know every word to.

Tony Stark.

I typed it slowly, like I was expecting the internet to wink back at me.

STARK INDUSTRIES STOCK HITS NEW HIGH FOLLOWING CEO'S RETURN TO U.S.

"GENIUS, BILLIONAIRE, WEAPONEER": THE UNSTOPPABLE RISE OF TONY STARK.

He's in the public eye. Loudly. Flamboyantly. The human equivalent of leaving caps lock on while drunk-texting the universe. But nothing — nothing — about Iron Man. Not a whisper. Not a "mysterious armored figure seen at weapons test site" or "shiny robot guy punches tank, film at eleven." Nada.

I clicked deeper, chasing the digital paper trail through articles, interviews, and press releases. His face was everywhere — magazine covers, startup keynotes, gala events where he looked like he was born in a tux and dared the concept of sobriety to a duel. Just Tony. Young, rich, obnoxiously brilliant, and aggressively unbothered by anything except his own headlines.

If he'd been kidnapped recently — and the timeline kind of lined up — there was no record of it. No mention of the cave. No murmurs of shrapnel, no arc reactors glowing faintly beneath designer suits. Just more photos of him winking beside missiles the size of school buses, or field-testing drones that made DARPA look like Fisher-Price.

And man, that ego. One article—an actual profile piece in GQ—quoted him saying:

"I'm not saying I'm the smartest guy in the room. I'm just saying it's statistically improbable that I'm not."

Gross. Accurate. But gross.

Still, I couldn't help wondering… had he already built the suit? Was it in a hidden lab somewhere, collecting dust and disdain? Or was he still pretending not to care about what his weapons were doing to the world?

Because that's the thing with Tony. He's not born a hero—he builds his own salvation. With scraps. In a cave. Powered by guilt and sheer manic brilliance.

And if that hasn't happened yet, if he's still just a walking TED Talk with war profiteering on speed dial… then I'm looking at a man who might become one of the greatest heroes of our time—but hasn't even started to walk that road.

It was weird. Seeing him before the burden and sacrifice. Just a young guy with too much money, too little accountability, and no idea that one day, the world would need him.

Captain America didn't pop up with any more promising results.

Well—unless you count conspiracy threads on grainy forums with usernames like "truth4liberty1776" and profile pictures that were either bald eagles or shirtless Rambo edits. The kind of sites that argue fluoride is a mind-control agent and insist Steve Rogers was real, buried somewhere in an iceberg next to Elvis and the Ark of the Covenant.

Spoiler: no Steve.

Some old World War II articles on the SSR, vague mentions of Project Rebirth being "decommissioned due to unethical practices," but nothing concrete. No glowing blue serum. No super-soldier program that actually worked. Some historians still argued Rogers was just propaganda — a mascot stitched together from a dozen real soldiers and a thousand wartime fantasies. Even the photos were fuzzy, almost too perfect, like someone had touched them up one too many times.

If I didn't know better, I'd say it was fake.

I close my laptop, and place it beside me. So… Captain America and Iron Man aren't active. If I had to guess, Bruce either hasn't become the Hulk or is lying low.

Norman Osborn is dying, Smythe is the face of Oscorp, Fisk is the Mayor, and Felicia isn't active. Norman's sickness and May's offhand mention of Richard at Oscorp paint a picture that feels oddly familiar—Peter's side of this mess leans way more TASM than MCU.

It gives me a few more names I should look into, but if some of these guys are criminals, looking them up might not be a wise idea.

It's getting late, and I've officially burned myself out from my 'research.' I put everything away and flopped down onto the bed.