Chapter 160 - 4-5

Chapter 4: Best Friends

By the time I wake up, birds are chirping outside, and sunlight is cutting through the blinds like a spotlight aimed straight at my face. I groan, roll over, and squint at the clock. Seven.

I think about going back to sleep. My brain's still wired for third shift, not high school. Being up this early feels like a mistake.

Eventually, I sit up and rub at my scalp, fingers dragging across skin that feels too smooth, too healthy. My body's not sore, which still throws me. Old habits are slow to die, and this one—this new one—doesn't feel like mine yet.

The air smells like bacon. Of course it does. And immediately, there's that tug of something half-forgotten—the comfort, the craving. I know that smell. I know how easy it is to lean into it.

But I also know where that road leads.

I can't go back to who I was before.

I didn't hate that version of me, not really. Sure, I could've eaten better. Moved more. Been a little less guarded, maybe a little kinder. But I wasn't miserable. Just… stuck.

Still, if I want to break the cycle—if I want to earn this second shot—I've got to make different choices. That starts with my body.

I need to eat better. Work out. Actually follow through this time.

Back in my old life, I'd hit the gym when I was in the right headspace. The trouble was, that headspace didn't visit often. Most days, I made excuses. Said I'd start Monday. Told myself one more cheat day wouldn't kill me.

And now here I am—new body, new life—and the smell of bacon is already whispering promises in the back of my skull.

Old habits die loud.

I head to the bathroom to get cleaned up. The tile's cold underfoot, the air thick with humidity from an earlier shower—May's, probably.

I splash water on my face, chasing away whatever sleep still clings to my eyes. The cold hits sharp, grounding me for a moment. I inhale slowly, trying to pretend it helps.

Then I look up.

And there he is.

The boy in the mirror stares back with Peter's face—almost.

It's familiar in the way a wax figure is familiar. The features are technically correct, mapped out just right. But something's off. It's like an AI took a dozen photos of Andrew Garfield, scrambled them for legal reasons, and fed them through a deepfake filter.

Uncanny. That's the word.

The hair, the bone structure, the slight curve of the mouth—it all should be right. But the longer I stare, the more it feels like I'm watching someone else wear a mask of someone I know.

Wiping my face with the hand towel, I catch it—just for a second.

My real face.

The one I left behind.

Bloodied. Bruised. The shirt torn, stained dark red. That high-vis orange vest hanging off me like melted plastic, shredded and soaked through.

It flickers in the glass like a jump scare—not loud, not sudden. Just… wrong.

And then it's gone.

But I saw it, and for one breathless moment, I feel like I'm haunting myself. Because I guess… in a way, I am.

I shake my head, placing the towel back on the rack and open the door. At the threshold, I pause.

One last look.

The mirror hasn't changed. It's still Peter staring back—head slightly tilted, expression caught somewhere between thoughtful and tired. I try to smile, just a little. Not for the reflection, but for me.

Like maybe if I fake it hard enough, Peter will smile back. Like he's saying Hey, we've got this.

It's stupid. Delusional, even. But for one small, silent second, it works. The knot in my chest eases, just a bit.

I step into the hall, shutting the bathroom door behind me.

Downstairs, the air smells like syrup and warm batter. Comfort food. The kind of smell that should be wrapped in flannel and played over a sitcom laugh track.

May's at the stove, flipping the last pancake onto a growing stack. The golden-brown tower lands on a plate in front of Ben, who's already seated at the table with a half-finished cup of coffee steaming quietly beside him.

He looks up and offers a small smile, soft around the eyes. May notices me a second later and lights up with the kind of warmth that makes you forget this is a house still weighed down by worry.

It's my first morning in the Parker household, and maybe it should feel strange—like I'm playing house in someone else's life.

But it doesn't.

Not as much as I thought it would.

There's an ease in the rhythm of it all. The clink of plates. The low hum of the radio playing something old and wordless. May wiping her hands on a towel, Ben buttering his pancakes like he's done it a thousand times.

It feels… normal.

And maybe that's the weirdest part.

"Morning, slugger." Ben greets me with a warm smile. "How'd you sleep?"

I don't answer right away. From what they know, I went to bed right after dinner—tired, recovering, still a little foggy from the coma.

What they don't know is that I spent a couple hours glued to Peter's laptop, combing through the digital breadcrumbs of his life—looking into some of Pete's most notable enemies and allies, trying to make sense of things.

Still, despite the late night mental gymnastics, I slept better than I have in… God, years. Even before the accident. No tossing. No panic dreams. Just… sleep.

"Pretty good," I say finally, sliding into the seat across from Ben. I glance toward May, then back to him. "I was kind of out of it when the doc was talking about school. Did she say when I'm going back?"

"After this weekend," May answers, setting down a plate in front of me like she's done it a hundred times before.

Her voice is light, but there's a trace of hesitation in it—like she's watching to see how I'll react. Like she's waiting for the real Peter to resurface, even in something as simple as how I handle breakfast and a Monday looming.

"Harry called," she says suddenly, earning my full attention. "He was hoping to stop by and see you now that you're home. I told him it depended on how you felt."

So, Harry was still friends with Peter then. Maybe they just didn't have the time to hang out as much as they were lately. I kind of want to see if I could ask Harry to help me out getting a new wardrobe, but the idea of asking for money has never been my forte. I like earning things myself.

As much as I wished I could lean on Peter's genius, I knew I didn't have his brain for that kind of tech wizardry. If I was going to pull off any of Peter's legendary feats—web shooters included—I'd have to put in the work and… I shudder at the thought, because God help me… I'm going to have to study.

"I'd like that," I replied. "D-did you tell him about my amnesia?"

"He's promised to take it easy around you so you're not pushed too hard."

That's a start.

I let my gaze drift to the window overlooking the street and stare at it a little too hard. Not because there's anything out there worth seeing—but because I don't know what else to do with myself. The silence from May and Ben stretches, soft but steady, and I lose track of time until the quiet scrape of ceramic on wood brings me back.

May's set a plate down in front of me. Pancakes covered in butter and syrup, with bacon and fried eggs on the side. It's practically your picture perfect meal.

"Everything alright, Peter?" she asks gently.

I nod, snapping back to the moment.

"Y-yeah, sorry. I was daydreaming."

There's a glint in her eye, but she doesn't say anything besides to eat up.

Ben takes a sip of his coffee and glances over at May, brow lifting.

"Anna called you already today?"

May doesn't look up from buttering her toast. "Yes. Is there a problem?"

Ben leans back a little, hands wrapping around his mug.

"No, it's just… it's not even eight yet. Seems like she's calling earlier every day."

"She was worried about Peter," May replies, arching a brow at him. "Wanted to see how he was doing."

"She couldn't call a couple hours later?" he mutters into his cup, like maybe the caffeine will shield him from further commentary.

I raise an eyebrow, chewing thoughtfully on a piece of bacon. Anna?

Wait—Anna Watson?

The name rings a faint bell. Aunt to Mary Jane, if I'm remembering right. I think I saw her name pop up in one of those old email threads Peter never deleted. Strict, maybe. Churchy. Definitely the kind of person who bakes things when she's worried and calls people before the sun's fully clocked in.

"Is she okay?" I ask, trying to keep my voice casual even as the bacon suddenly tastes a little more complicated.

"She's fine," May says with a small smile. "Just a worrier. She said her niece was asking about you too."

That stops me for a beat.

MJ.

Does she know Peter already? Or is it more like how it was with my grandpa—where he'd casually drop fifty names over the course of a single day, most of them strangers to me. But then one or two would stick, and somehow, without realizing it, I'd find myself asking about them like I'd known them forever.

Maybe it's something like that. Maybe MJ just knows May. Maybe she's never even met Peter, and her asking about me is more of a kindness than a connection.

Still… May didn't say her name outright. Just "her niece." That could mean I'm not supposed to know her yet. Or maybe I'm overthinking it, reading too much into a simple comment—seeing ghosts in throw pillows.

"Her niece?" I ask, and I see the twinkle in May's eyes as the words come out. Oh, she's already plotting isn't she? God, please let her just drop it. She's fourteen… fourteen. For fuck's sake I'm technically twenty-four. There's a ten year age gap even if I'm residing in a fourteen year old body.

My stomach lurches at the thought. Suddenly, the bacon doesn't taste as good as it should, and I have to put it down.

"She's a lovely girl. I think the two of you would get along." she replies sweetly. Too sweetly. I glance at Ben out of the corner of my eye. He's sipping his coffee like it's nothing, but his mouth twitches like he's trying not to laugh.

Oh boy… How much has May talked to Ben about this?

"Honey, give the kid a break…" Ben says, the corners of his mouth twitching as he sets his mug down.

"What?" May replies, all innocence, like she didn't just throw a grenade into my morning eggs. "Peter could use more friends."

Ben chuckles under his breath. "The kid's just trying to eat breakfast. He doesn't need to worry about meeting a girl before he's finished his bacon."

I sink a little lower in my seat, eyes flicking between them. This can't be a real conversation. This has to be a stress dream. A matchmaking breakfast stress dream.

"She's not—" I start, but my voice comes out thin. I clear my throat. "I'm not worried about meeting anyone. I just… I've got enough going on, y'know?"

Ben raises a brow like he's heard that exact same line before—probably something he'd said himself when he was around Peter's age.

May, meanwhile, is buttering toast with the serene patience of someone who's already picked out names for our hypothetical children.

"I mean…" I force down the last piece of bacon that's glued itself to the back of my throat. It goes down like a rock. "I can't remember anything. Meeting someone new like that probably isn't the best idea right now."

I say it as evenly as I can, but there's this tight coil just under my ribs, waiting for May to press anyway. God, please let that be the end of it. I'm barely managing my own name without sounding like I'm guessing on a pop quiz. The last thing I need is to add impressing a girl to the list.

"In my defense, dear—I never said anything about meeting her soon."

"You certainly weren't excluding the idea either," Ben retorts. "Give Peter some time to get back into the swing of things."

Heh. Back into the swing of things? That's a cosmic-level pun right there. I have to stifle the snort that nearly escapes.

"I really don't think now's the best time for me to be making friends," I say, half-hoping if I sound sheepish enough, May will take pity on me and change the subject.

May hums, unconvinced. She takes a slow bite of toast, eyes not leaving mine. I clear my throat and shift in my seat, trying not to look like I'm actively squirming.

Finally after a moment, she seemed to relent as she dabbed a napkin against her lips.

"Alright, alright. I won't push." Relief rushes in like a cool breeze. Thank God. "But I still think you two would hit it off," she adds casually.

Of course she does.

I open my mouth to protest—again—but then pivot like a quarterback bailing on a broken play.

"Speaking of people I actually remember," I say quickly, "Harry can stop by whenever. I'd like to see him."

That gets May to pause, toast halfway to her mouth. Her expression softens.

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah." I nod, grateful for the lifeline. "You said he already called, right? I'd rather catch up with someone I at least kind of remember than crash into some girl's life like I'm auditioning for a rom-com reboot."

Ben snorts.

May leans back a little, looking reassured. "Alright. I'll let him know he can come by."

"Thanks." I pick up my fork again.

Ben gives me a nod of approval, the kind that says good dodge, kid, and goes back to sipping his coffee.

And just like that, the grenade's been defused. For now.

Surprisingly, the rest of breakfast goes by pretty quick. May doesn't really say much else on the subject—thank God—and the bits of conversation I actually catch between her and Ben are about stuff way out of my depth. Something about helping Jerry down the street with his busted radiator. May wants to head over to Anna's for their weekly tea, just to catch up. Honestly, hearing that she wants to go out and spend time with someone kind of catches me off guard.

I don't know why, but I always had this image in my head of May just… staying home. Like she lived in a state of quiet domestic limbo, frozen at the kitchen table with a crossword puzzle or folding towels with some sentimental jazz humming in the background.

It's weird. I mean, I know she's active. In some versions of Peter's life, she works at F.E.A.S.T., runs food drives, organizes fundraisers. She's kind. Involved. Present. I know that.

But still, the thought crossed my mind that maybe she just… didn't do much outside of this house. And realizing that—really sitting with it—makes me feel like a complete dick. She's an actual person. With her own life, her own thoughts, her own autonomy. So why the hell did I assume she had nothing better to do than bake wheat cakes and wait for me to come home?

Maybe that's one of the bigger problems I'm facing here: not being able to separate fiction from reality. These people, for years, were just images—faces on paper, dialogue in word balloons. Characters in stories. Seeing them now, in flesh and breath and motion, it's hard to shake that reflex to treat them like pieces of a plot instead of people with histories and lives I don't control.

Trying to see them as real... it's harder than I expected.

It really does feel like a dream. Even now, as I carry my plate to the sink, rinsing it under the warm water, I still catch myself half-expecting the edges of this world to blur. But no fade to black comes. No loading screen. Just Ben finishing his coffee and May wrapping up the last of her toast, the two of them chatting softly in the background like this is the most normal morning in the world.

Being here, with them, in this kitchen… it feels surreal. Almost too gentle to be real.

Normally I'd be dodging two of my dogs begging underfoot, one pawing at my leg and the other whining like I haven't fed them in a week. The absence of that chaos—the lack of familiar weight brushing against my shin—makes everything feel hollow in places I didn't expect.

I let out a breath I didn't even realize I'd been holding.

Ben says something to May about checking the water heater before it gets too hot out, and she hums in agreement as she starts to clear the table. I mumble a quiet thank-you and slip away before I can be roped into anything.

I didn't notice it at first, but I finally realized how soft my footsteps were as I was walking up the stairs. I guess I was too focused on the pictures as I was walking in yesterday to even notice, but my feet don't cause the stairs to creak. There's no strain on the wood as I'm going up it. I suppose I shouldn't focus on the fact that I'm half the weight I used to be, but when you spend 90% of your life a certain amount of weight and you wake up the next day with only a fraction of it, it's hard not to think about it.

But here's the thing, one in my position would end up thinking about this—I don't care who you are. When you go from living one life to another, you're going to think about this shit. Body dysmorphia is a thing. Overthinking is a thing. Sadly, I fit both of those bills right now. I do over think about the littlest thing.

Does my weight fall into that factor? Yes, it does. That's something I'm going to have to work on.

Finally back in Peter's—my—room, I make a slow pass to the bookshelf. There's no real plan as I'm looking through these books. I've seen enough of these to know that they're not really to my taste. After all, I'm not a science geek like Peter was, and I don't plan to be. Sure, I'm going to have to learn some things if I'm going to do half of the stuff Peter did.

Web swinging, for example, will require me to learn how to do equations on the fly. It makes sense, swinging on a pendulum trying to avoid hitting buildings would need precision—but how the hell am I expected to do that? Why do I know that? It was something brought up in the Insomniac games. While I don't know how true that is to the experience, I might as well try to be thorough on the matter.

Though, I suppose it only matters if I have powers. I've been home now for 2 days, and I still have no sign of any powers.

I thought, maybe, it had to do with the fact that I was in the hospital not doing anything. But, I figured I would have felt something different. Maybe my senses were a little bit heightened, faster reflexes, or something… The fact is I don't feel different at all, not in the way I think I should.

Did Peter ever really feel that different from a bite? I suppose I never really thought about that. In any case, I still have to get used to all of this.

Like I said, there wasn't really a plan in my head as I'm looking at these books. There's just this vague itch to do something normal. My fingers land on a worn out science book tucked between two paperbacks. The spine's cracked, the cover slightly curled at the edges, like it's been used enough that it'll go to the exact page it was left on.

When I flip it open, a mess of sticky notes fans out like leaves.

I glance over a few.

The handwriting is young. Clumsy, sharp cornered letters that press too hard into the paper. It's a kid trying to figure things out in real time, half math, half stream of consciousness rambling about force, motion, and electrons. I skim through a few of the pages, piecing together the mindset of a boy who was just starting to really love this stuff. It makes me realize just how much I hated science when I was younger. I can never focus enough to even enjoy it that much. My sophomore year teacher, Mr. O'Brecht, made it easier—actually kind of fun—but even then, I couldn't hold on to it. Not the way Peter clearly did.

O'Brecht was a good teacher. I should've tried harder.

It's undoubtedly Peter's handwriting. Probably from when he first started learning science in greater detail—when it went from a subject in school to something that lit a fire in him.

I'll admit, I'm a bit envious. I can't say a subject ever called out to me like this—aside from writing, I guess. Even then, creative writing class never really sat well with me. Poetry definitely wasn't my forte. Wasn't for lack of trying, either.

The only part I vividly remember was a prompt where we had to write horror based around food. I ended up crafting this unhinged scene where Donald Trump murdered Chester Cheetah and rebranded Cheetos as Trump-O's. I even drew this freaky, Meat Canyon-style picture of him, with more wrinkles than a retirement home and eyes like melted wax.

My teacher seemed genuinely unsure whether she should've been proud or concerned. I was proud—if only because it made the entire class lose it laughing.

And yes, I absolutely read his lines in the voice.

Anyway—back to the point. Peter clearly loved science. I don't. That fire just isn't in me. Normally, if I needed something, I'd just go out and buy it. But now? I'm fourteen again. No money, no job, no Amazon Prime.

Not thrilled by the development. But hey—beggars can't be choosers. Might as well try to learn something before I haveto.

I close the book and tuck it into the crook of my arm, thumb still marking the page like I'm going to pretend I'll come back to it in five minutes. Maybe I will. Maybe I won't. Either way, I head out toward the porch, feeling the quiet itch in my legs that's been there since I woke up in the hospital. The kind of itch that says: move, or rot.

The air outside's already warming up, sun filtering through the clouds like it's got somewhere better to be. I drop down onto the porch steps with a low groan—not because it hurts, just because I miss being able to do it with weight behind it. Everything I do now feels like it should come with a squeaky toy sound effect.

The book's heavier than I expect in my hands. Physics: Principles and Problems, by Paul W. Zitzewitz. Glencoe edition. Big red brick of a textbook with a cover that looks like someone thought lens flares and inertia were sexy.

I crack it open, flip past Peter's scrawled name on the inside cover, and settle into the first chapter.

To my surprise, some of it makes sense. Not a lot, but enough. The basic stuff clicks—the kind of stuff that feels like it's always been floating in the back of my head, just never important enough to grab onto. Newton's laws, motion, momentum. Honestly, Peter's notes are doing most of the heavy lifting. They're everywhere—wedged into the margins, stuck between chapters, sometimes scribbled over entire problem sets. And they help. He's not just taking notes—he's breaking things down like he's tutoring himself. Translating Zitzewitz into something someone like me could understand.

Which… is kind of awesome. Kind of infuriating, too.

I make it about twenty pages in before the words start swimming a bit. It's helpful stuff, no doubt, but I'm going to need more than scribbles and good intentions if I want to actually retain this. Videos. Forums. CrashCourse or Khan Academy or whatever YouTube rabbit hole Peter probably already fell down five times over. If I'm going to start web-swinging—or doing anything that involves not dying at high speeds—I need more than just guesswork and the ghost of someone else's study habits.

I'm just about to close the book when a low whistle slices through the still air.

"How'd I know that after three weeks in a coma, you'd be jumping right back into the textbooks?"

I glance up.

Harry.

He's leaning against the porch rail like he's been there a while, arms crossed, half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

The photos in Peter's album don't do the kid justice. He's got that kind of effortless charm that looks curated but probably isn't—hair perfectly tousled in a way that screams casual, even though it probably took effort. He's dressed like someone who doesn't have to try, yet still looks like he walked out of a high-end ad campaign. Just the shirt, jeans, and jacket he's wearing probably cost more than my soul's worth on a good day.

And that smile—it's genuine. There's no smug edge or ulterior motive stitched into the corners.

If I didn't already know who Harry Osborn was, I'd think there wasn't a bad bone in his body. He's got the same soft look Peter had in those pre-bite, pre-tragedy days—except Harry's version comes with designer clothes and a trust fund.

I go to speak, but am unsure of what to say. May did say that Harry knew about my 'amnesia,' right? At the very least, I know Harry is meant to be Peter's best friend. Beyond that, I'm not exactly sure how to approach this.

"Y-ya got me." I chuckle, nervous and sheepish, setting the book down on the porch beside me. "How long have you been standing there?"

Harry shrugs and steps up onto the porch, boots soft against the wood. "Long enough to know you don't pay attention to your surroundings."

I force a crooked smile, trying to sell the role. "Yeah, well… guess I've been kind of in my own head lately."

He raises an eyebrow at that, but doesn't press. Instead, he flops down onto the porch swing like he's done it a hundred times before—probably has. The chains creak slightly under his weight as he leans back, stretching out like a cat in the sun.

"May told me you were different, but I thought maybe she was overthinking again." he said, more casual than I anticipated. "Don't get me wrong, you're clearly still nerdy enough to be reading physics for fun, but… I dunno. You seem quieter."

I nod slowly, pretending to chew on that. "Yeah. Still piecing things together. Some stuff feels familiar, but most of it's... static."

Harry watches me for a second. There's something thoughtful in his expression, like he's trying to read between the lines.

"I get it," he says finally. "After what happened, it makes sense. You don't just bounce back from something like that." He nudges the book with the toe of his shoe. "Still, I didn't expect to find you nose-deep in Zitzewitz again. You hated this thing when you first got it."

I snort at that—probably the right reaction. "Guess I got desperate."

"Desperate enough to start enjoying it?"

"Let's not get crazy."

He laughs.

"Fair enough," he replied. After a pause, he let out a sigh. "I'm glad you're okay, Pete. I was really worried about you."

"Me too. I don't remember what happened, exactly… but I know Ben and May were worried sick."

"What do you remember?"

I try to think of any details regarding the day Peter went into the coma that I would know about, but beyond the fact he fell in front of his entire class, I come up blank. So, I just decided to give him a half-truth.

"Pain," I answer, the sensation of the seat belt crushing my ribs haunting me. "Then the next thing I remember is waking up in the hospital."

Harry doesn't respond right away.

He just sits there, gaze shifting down the porch steps like he might find the right words carved into the wood. The wind threads through the trees beyond the fence, and for a second, the quiet feels loaded.

"Pain," I repeat, quieter this time, as if saying it again will make it more believable—or maybe just help me believe it.

Harry nods slowly. "Yeah… I guess that tracks. You collapsed so fast, it freaked everyone out. They said it was some kind of seizure at first. The paramedics didn't know what was going on. You just hit the floor in front of everyone and didn't get up."

He pauses again, jaw tightening. "It was like someone pulled the plug on you."

It's hard to explain how I'm feeling, trying to picture what happened. I don't know if I should be withdrawn or feeling something, but there's a bit of a fog there. I feel numb, and I don't like that.

"Lonnie was the one who caught you before you hit the ground," Harry continued. "I don't know how he even managed to see it first… you were trailing behind the group."

"I was?"

"Yeah. We were talking with Dr. Octavius. He took a liking to you, by the way."

Dr. Octavius.

That name sinks in weird—like tasting something sweet that's turned sour just under the surface. It's not the "mad scientist with metal arms" version my brain flashes to, but the context still sticks sideways in my ribs. Hearing it like that, casually dropped into conversation, makes the world tilt just a little.

Harry keeps talking. "You two were tossing around all this jargon, and I was just standing there pretending like I understood any of it. At one point I think you said something about neural relays and feedback latency and Doc just lit up. Like, full 'Eureka!' mode."

I blink. "That… sounds kind of awesome, actually."

"It was," Harry agrees with a grin. "I mean, you were nerding out so hard I thought your glasses were gonna fog up, but it was cool. You were actually passionate about it."

There's that word again—you.

It stings a little. Not because Harry means anything by it, but because I don't know how to live up to this ghost I'm wearing.

I offer him a crooked smile, trying to keep the mask from slipping. "Well… I'm glad I left a good impression. Even if I can't remember making it."

He softens. "It'll come back. Probably when you least expect it. That's how memory works, right? It's like… flashes. Smells. Sounds. Something'll trigger it eventually."

"Yeah," I say quietly. "Eventually."

"Anyway," he says, noticing the tension on my face as I said it. "By the time you two were wrapping things up, I went to go catch up with the group. Mr. Larson already doesn't like me as it is, so I didn't want to give him another reason."

Harry says it casually, but I catch the edge beneath his voice—a note of practiced indifference, like someone who's gotten too good at pretending other people's opinions don't bother him. Mr. Larson must be one of those teachers who smiles with their teeth and grades with a chainsaw.

I nod like I get it, because maybe Peter did.

"Is he always that bad?"

Harry snorts.

"Worse. He's had it out for me since the first day of the year. Thinks I'm just some spoiled rich kid coasting through science because I can afford a private tutor. Joke's on him—I don't have a tutor, I just cheat off you."

I laugh—genuine this time, caught off guard. That's going to change quickly. I was lucky to get above a C on my tests, and that was with the little bit of studying I could muster.

Harry grins, leaning back into the porch swing again with a creak of the chains.

"You haven't been caught yet?"

"Of course not! I know how to be discreet, Pete. I mean, I'm not like Flash, but I'm also not at your level either. I only really cheat on the hard questions."

"That doesn't fill me with confidence, Harry." I smile. It's weird. He's trying to make me feel at ease, and for the most part, it's working. But there's still that quiet undercurrent humming beneath everything—because I'm not Peter.

"That's alright, I've got enough for the both of us." He glances sideways at me, then shrugs. "Anyway… I doubled back to find you, and that's when everything went to hell. You were still talking to Doc, but then you went pale. Like—hospital-sheet white. Eyes rolling back. You stumbled back a step and just dropped. Scared the hell out of Octavius."

The image hits me out of nowhere. Not because I remember it—but because I don't. I try to picture what Harry saw. Try to imagine Peter's body suddenly folding in on itself, lights going out behind his eyes. A short-circuit. A reset.

Harry's voice drops, quieter now.

"You would have cracked your head on the tile if it wasn't for Lonnie. He caught you in time. That's our star quarterback for ya."

Lonnie's the quarterback? I figured Flash would have been. He was always the most popular jock in Pete's grade. Though, I suppose that doesn't translate into athleticism. It reminds me of my buddy Gavin and not being able to keep up with a sixty-year-old man in work boots. The old man said it himself, if Gavin was our best player, then it was no wonder our school's team barely won.

I unconsciously sigh. I miss Gavin, he'd enjoy being in my shoes right now.

"What about Flash? Isn't he on the team?"

"He's recovering from a broken wrist. Let me tell ya, he was not thrilled about missing the first few games of the year."

"I can only imagine…"

"So, you remember Flash then?"

"Vaguely," I say. "It's mostly just his name and a picture I saw on my computer." It's not a lie. When I was scanning through the photo albums, I came across a few photos of the football team and various other groups. Peter must have belonged to the yearbook club as their acting photographer.

Harry gives a short laugh at that, more amused than surprised. "Yeah, that sounds about right. Flash has never met a camera he didn't think was already in love with him."

I crack a grin. "I think he's got a permanent smirk in every photo."

"Exactly!" Harry leans forward, animated now. "It's like he's trying to seduce the yearbook. 'Hey there, future readers. Miss me?'"

The impression is surprisingly spot-on, and it pulls a chuckle out of me—one that lingers longer than I expect. I think I needed that.

Harry leans back again, content. "I'm telling you, the guy's an absolute tool half the time, but he's weirdly loyal once you're on his good side."

That honestly sounds about right for Flash during his high school years. Once he graduated, he became easier to deal with, but that's four years away.

Harry kicks at a leaf near his boot.

"Anyway, after you collapsed, the school freaked out. Ambulance came in, sirens and everything. They cleared the building. Larson was shaking like a leaf. I think he actually felt bad for once."

I glance up at that. "That serious?"

"You weren't breathing for a while," he says, voice softening. "Octavius was the one who started CPR. Larson couldn't even move."

"Otto Octavius gave me CPR." The words feel foreign in my mouth. Like hearing that Dracula volunteers at a blood drive.

That part makes my stomach twist. Not the idea of dying—I already did that once, kind of—but the image of a man like Otto Octavius, calm and brilliant and in a lab coat, kneeling down on cold tile to keep a kid alive. It feels… off. Like a villain playing hero out of order.

"He saved my life," I murmur.

Harry nods. "Yeah. He really did. I think that's part of why he keeps checking in. He's been emailing May, asking how you're doing. Said he'd still like to mentor you, if you're up for it."

I pause. It's tempting. Not just because of the opportunity—though, let's be real, having a scientific genius in your corner isn't exactly a bad thing—but because there's a thread there. A connection to the old Peter. Something solid I might be able to use to stitch this whole illusion together.

"I'll think about it," I say eventually, careful with the words.

Harry doesn't push. "Cool. No pressure."

We sit a while longer, talking about little things. He's catching me up with what's been going on at school, and for the most part it's nothing I'm too concerned about. A couple of tests that I'd have to make up, relationship drama, and talk about a new project in History. Speaking of history, I'm actually looking forward to that class seeing as there's a brand new world for me to learn. Seeing how things are different here actually feels tantalizing, and that's probably the weirdest part for me.

Like does Elon Musk exist here? Did 9/11 still happen? How were things different in WW2 with Captain America involved? Was Hydra still a threat that popped up in the headlines through the Cold War? Does Wakanda have an embassy in the US yet, or are they still a remote hidden country at this point?

Shit, mutant rights are another thing I'd love to know about. Is Magneto still a 'villain' or is he actually one of the legitimate good guys now? Hell, if I'm asking that, is Charles Xavier the leader of the Brotherhood now? That'd be a twist. Making a villainous telepath is too easy, though.

"Hey, are you able to leave the house or is May keeping you on lockdown for the time being?" he asked finally, rising to his feet.

"I think I can convince her to let me off the leash for a bit. Why, what's up?"

"I was thinking we could swing by my place. Dad's been wanting to see you." his voice drops, becoming almost melancholy.

I'm quiet for a beat longer than I wanted to be, but it was like getting hit with a flash grenade.

Norman Osborn wanted to see me.

Chapter 5: Norman Osborn

As it turned out, asking May to let me out of the house was a little like asking a dragon if you could borrow her gold. She gave me a look, the kind that managed to be worried, stern, and exhausted all at once, before quietly nodding, brushing her thumb across my cheek like she thought I might shatter on contact. I got to say it's still a bit weird seeing her look at me like I'm her kid.

I'm not one for public displays of affection, in any regard. I'm what you might call an introvert, but that doesn't really feel like the right word. Basically, unless I am really comfortable with somebody I cannot make contact with them. Hell, it was hard enough to be okay with my own mother hugging me let alone anyone else. About the only two people I could hug without discomfort was my brother and grandpa.

So, seeing her look at me like that was a bit uncomfortable to say the least. At the end of the day, I am her nephew now. I need to get used to that.

"You be careful, okay?" she asked. "Don't push yourself. If you feel tired, or dizzy, or anything—"

I stopped her.

"May, I'll call." I smile. "I promise."

I actually meant it too.

She hesitated for a beat longer than usual, then gave me a kiss on the temple and let me go. It felt like she was handing off a piece of glass she'd spent her whole life trying to keep from cracking. The kiss took every ounce of willpower I had to avoid scrunching my face in disapproval.

The screen door creaked a little louder than usual behind me as I stepped out onto the porch. Afternoon light was spilling across the street in long, lazy beams, the kind that make everything look warmer than it actually is.

Harry was waiting by the gate. The limo behind him looked comically out of place on our block, like someone had dropped a slice of Wall Street into the middle of a working-class postcard. One of the neighbors—Mrs. Reyes, as Ben had pointed out last night after dinner, was peeking through her blinds like we'd summoned a UFO.

Harry caught my eye and gave a small wave.

I gave a smaller one back.

I wasn't used to this. Not just the car, but the idea of having someone waiting for me at all. Where I came from, people didn't really do this kind of thing. If you wanted a ride, you waited out front and hoped the rust bucket didn't stall. You didn't get picked up like a visiting dignitary.

I jogged down the steps, feeling the familiar buzz of nerves in my stomach. It wasn't Harry. It wasn't even the thought of meeting Norman Osborn, not at the moment anyway. No, it was the idea of leaving the house. I always wanted a chance to explore the world, but I wasn't expecting it to hit this hard.

I was used to being in a small midwestern town with a reasonable amount of privacy to my name. I'm not even used to being in Queens, and I'm already about to move out into the Big Apple for the first time. It's a bit much, if I'm to be honest.

"You survive?" Harry asked as I approached.

"Barely," I said. "She almost made me bring a sweater."

"She did make you bring a phone, though, right?"

I pulled it out of my pocket, waved it in front of him like a magician's prop.

"Good," he grinned. "Because if you ghost me, Bernard will start putting up missing persons flyers."

I smirked, but didn't say anything. The truth was, I kind of liked the idea of someone noticing if I vanished. Beyond my immediate family, and maybe one or two friends—it wasn't something I was used to.

Harry opened the limo door for me like a gentleman, and I blinked as the tinted interior yawned open. It was… cleaner than I expected. I knew it'd be clean, but holy shit, I don't think I could spot a single flaw in the interior. And the quiet… I couldn't believe it. I could practically hear my heart beating in my ears. I hate to say it, but I'm so jealous right now.

I climbed in, trying not to look like a kid seeing a spaceship for the first time, and sank into leather that felt like it belonged in a museum. Harry followed, the door whispering shut behind him.

"I'm officially out of my element," I say mostly to myself, but Harry catches it and gets this big grin. "You like showing off, don't you?"

"I'd prefer to be in your shoes, Pete. But, your reactions make this worth it."

"Really? You'd rather be poor?"

"Well, not poor. I'd like to have more anonymity."

"True, I can't imagine going around with everybody knowing who you are."

Harry shrugged.

"It gets old. The cameras, the headlines, the pressure to smile like I've got stock in toothpaste." He turned his head slightly, looking out the window as buildings started to blur together. "Half the time, I'm not sure if someone's talking to me or my last name."

I could hear the undertone there. That subtle wear in his voice, like the words had been walked over a few too many times.

"Your dad is one of the richest men in New York. I'm sure if you asked him to, he'd move you somewhere where you could have a fresh start." I say, and even as the words come out of my mouth, I know it doesn't come out the way I wanted.

"I don't want to have a fresh start. I want things to be normal." Harry explained, his voice becoming soft and longing. "It's not that I don't enjoy the life I have, Pete. It's nothing like that. But, it'd be nice to be able to be my own person away from being the son of Norman Osborn."

He was quiet for a minute after that. He leaned back in the seat and tapped his thumb against the window like there was a rhythm only he could hear. I got the sense Harry wasn't used to silence, not when it lingered like this.

Outside, the view started to stretch. The narrow rows of houses and corner bodegas thinned out behind us, giving way to strips of rusting fences and wide concrete lots. It felt like we were leaving something smaller behind—something human-sized. Then the road lifted.

The bridge rose beneath us like the spine of some ancient thing, steel cables cutting the sky into slices. And then… I saw it.

Manhattan.

A jagged skyline of impossible structures, stabbing into the clouds like they were trying to puncture the sky. Skyscrapers stacked like teeth, windows flashing as they caught the sun. It was overwhelming. The kind of sight that made your breath catch—not because it was beautiful (though it was), but because you realized just how smallyou were in comparison.

The further we crossed, the more the traffic swelled, like the city was warning us not to enter without a fight. Horns bleated. Engines grumbled. The lanes narrowed in, forcing cars into a slow crawl. It felt suffocating, like the whole place was pressing inward, tightening its grip the closer we got.

And the buildings—God, the buildings—they weren't just tall. They were watching. Towering monoliths leaning over us like giants studying ants. Every glass surface reflected someone else's life, stacked a hundred stories above mine. I shrank into the seat a little without meaning to.

I was so out of my element.

Harry broke the silence, but his voice had dipped—quieter, less sure. The kind of quiet that feels deliberate.

"Hey… just so you're not blindsided or anything… when we get there, my dad's probably going to look a little rough."

I turned to him. Not suspicious—just curious.

"Rough like… he's run-down, hasn't slept well in days, or he should be in the hospital-rough?"

Harry gave this dry, uneven laugh that didn't bother trying to pass for genuine. "Somewhere in between. It's hard to explain."

That wasn't reassuring.

He shifted in his seat, rolled his shoulder like his shirt collar was starting to itch, then adjusted his sleeves like they were closing in on him. His arm settled on the window ledge, fingers curling in without him noticing. Knuckles pale, thumb twitching against his palm like he was grounding himself.

"They said he was sick, right?" he went on, not really waiting for confirmation. "Back when he stepped away from Oscorp. That part was true. What they didn't say is how bad it's gotten since."

I didn't say anything. Didn't need to. Harry wasn't looking for a response—he was just letting the words out, slow and uneven, like it physically hurt to talk about it.

"It's a blood thing. Genetic. He's had symptoms for years, but they didn't get aggressive until recently. Now it's like… everything's catching up to him all at once. His body's slowing down. Shaking, stiff joints, random episodes where he kind of… zones out."

His voice caught a little on that last part.

"And he hates people seeing it. Hates feeling like he's not in control."

That part carried more weight than the rest. Not just pity or concern. Shame. Fear. The kind of fear that doesn't show up in headlines—just in the quiet, invisible places sons carry for their fathers.

"He'll act like it's nothing," Harry added. "Like it's just a cold or a pulled muscle or whatever sounds best that day. But if you watch his hands? You'll get it."

I looked over. Harry wasn't just talking—he was bracing. Like saying it out loud made it more real, and he was trying to stay one step ahead of that realization.

"I've seen people go through worse," I said finally. My grandmother's face flickered through my mind—frail, hollow-eyed in that hospital bed, the way her fingers gripped mine even when she couldn't speak. "I'll be respectful."

Harry nodded. Not out of politeness. Like he needed to hear that.

"He'll appreciate that," he said. "Even if he pretends he doesn't."

We sat there in the quiet again. The city kept moving outside, but in here, everything felt suspended.

"Just let me know if I accidentally cross a line, okay?"

"Of course, buddy."

Harry smiled—but not in the way people normally smile. It was stretched thin at the edges, more habit than expression. I knew that look too well. It's the same one I've seen in the mirror more than I care to admit—the kind of smile that's just armor. The kind you wear because breaking down isn't an option right now.

"If he freaks out at any point, I'm sorry," he added. "Dad's complicated. Cold, sometimes, but not heartless. He's just… calculated, y'know? He needs things to be perfect. And I think this—" he gestured vaguely toward the front of the car, toward the skyline still rising beyond the tinted glass "—this is eating him alive."

"I get it."

I really do.

I'm not a perfectionist, but I like things to go a certain way. And when they don't? I fray. It's something I've been trying to fix, but—let's be honest—everything about my life is broken into jagged pieces now.

While Harry's out here trying to carry the weight of his father's name, I'm just trying not to scream. There's no real safety net for me anymore. No one I can go to if something goes wrong. Sure, I could text a friend, maybe even get a hold of Mand or Jax if I needed to—but that's a lifeline, not a solution. And family? My grandpa's too stubborn to lean on for anything emotional. My mom… God, I love her, but sometimes she could make me feel like a burden just for opening my mouth.

And this? This whole body-swap?

There is no one I can talk to about it. Not really. Not without sounding like a lunatic. So, yeah…

I get it.

Harry doesn't say much after that, and I don't try to push it. The rest of the ride is pretty quiet. Bernard cleared his throat after a few minutes of miserably awkward silence and turned on the radio.

Some classical station. String-heavy. The kind of music you'd hear in a fancy steakhouse or on hold with the IRS. It filled the car like a perfume—something you couldn't quite ignore but didn't want to comment on either. Harry didn't react. He just kept watching the skyline roll by like it was a movie he'd seen a hundred times but still wasn't sure how it ended.

The limo finally banked off the main road and took a turn through a private drive tucked between a high-end art gallery and some kind of boutique coffee place that looked too clean to exist in nature. We passed a small fountain—a ridiculous marble thing shaped like Poseidon throwing a tantrum—and then, there it was:

The Osborn Building.

It's not necessarily the Osborn building. It's a giant apartment building with too much ego wrapped into its foundation because Norman just happens to live there. I don't want to imagine what the price of this place costs for even their shittiest loft. It'd still cost more than what I ever made in a month.

I leaned forward in my seat like somehow that would help me understand the scale of it better.

It didn't.

Bernard eased the car to a slow, almost reverent stop at the front. The doors were tall and tinted, flanked by black marble columns and a valet in a perfectly pressed uniform who looked like he'd been sculpted in a lab.

It opened into a wide plaza tucked just behind a row of trimmed hedges and modest trees in stone planters. There were benches lining the walkways—real benches, not the metal half-seats you get in public parks to discourage napping. One guy was leaned back on one of them, earbuds in, scrolling through something on his phone while a girl beside him tried to wrangle her Pomeranian back into its designer sweater.

It was weird. For all the grandeur, it felt like people actually lived here. Like someone might come downstairs in pajama pants and complain to management about the laundry room again.

Inside, the lobby looked like a boutique hotel with a mild identity crisis. Warm lighting. Earth-tone accents. A low waterfall feature in the corner that babbled just loud enough to be soothing. The floor was polished enough to see your reflection in, and the air had that unnaturally pleasant scent that probably cost more per spray than my old shampoo bottle.

I counted six elevators. Three lined up along one wall, three mirrored on the opposite. Between them was a little sitting area with modern chairs, sleek tables, and a magazine rack stocked with back issues of Architectural Digest and Wired. A teenager sat curled into one of the chairs with a sketchpad and a half-eaten protein bar.

The receptionist glanced up from his desk, eyes lighting up the second he saw Harry.

"Mr. Osborn. Welcome back."

"Thanks, Benny," Harry said with a grin, like they were on familiar, first-name terms.

Then Benny turned to me, and I didn't expect what came next.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Parker. Been too long."

I blinked.

Not just at the words, but at the way he said them—warm, practiced, like this was something he'd said a dozen times before. My mouth twitched upward into a smile before my brain could catch up.

Harry spoke for both of us.

"How's the family, Benny?"

"Surviving," Benny replied with a shrug. "My daughter's graduating in two weeks, so I'm barely surviving, but yeah. You know how it is."

As we walked past the desk, I leaned toward Harry, keeping my voice low.

"I'm guessing I don't remember him?"

"Not really," Harry said, pressing the call button for the elevator. "But Benny remembers you. You used to bring him cookies every December. Your aunt's recipe."

"Oh."

That hit me weirdly hard.

The elevator dinged. Sleek doors parted like they were gliding on invisible air, and we stepped inside.

"Benny's a good guy," Harry added as he pressed the button for the penthouse. "A little nosy, but good. Just try not to say anything incriminating near him and you'll be fine."

I raised a brow.

"Ah. Your friendly neighborhood snitch."

Harry smirked.

"Exactly."

The doors eased shut, and the elevator began its silent ascent. The numbers above the door ticked upward with that sterile, digital beep. Floor after floor slipped past in silence.

Harry leaned back against the wall, thumbs brushing over the edge of his phone screen, not typing anything—just scrolling through some invisible thought. I stood across from him, arms loosely crossed, watching the floors blink by like we were headed somewhere higher than gravity was meant to forgive.

It took longer than expected. Not because the elevator was slow—but because this building was just that tall. By floor twenty-something, I gave a low whistle and tilted my head back.

"Jesus," I muttered. "You sure this isn't just a disguised space elevator?"

Harry gave me a sideways glance. "Dad likes the view."

Of course he does.

Finally, the elevator gave a soft ding that felt more ceremonial than anything else. The doors slid open onto a hallway that didn't even pretend to look like the rest of the building.

The carpet was so plush it made my sneakers feel like I was stepping on a forbidden cloud. Walls were paneled in dark wood—real wood, not that faux veneer crap that peels when you look at it wrong. There were paintings on the wall. Real ones, I think. One looked like it belonged in a museum. The other looked like it belonged in a haunted one.

Harry stepped out first, and I followed, resisting the urge to check if there was a second elevator just for the wine.

At the end of the hall: tall, polished bone-white double doors.

He paused in front of them—just for a second—like some old muscle memory made him stop. I cleared my throat, trying not to shift too much. The longer I stood here, the more I felt like I'd wandered into a furniture catalog I couldn't afford to breathe in. Like if I sneezed, I'd owe somebody thousands in damages.

"You good?" I asked.

He turned toward me, but whatever was on his face wasn't giving anything away.

"Hmm?" He raised a brow like he hadn't actually heard me. Something about it made my stomach twist. On the ride here, he'd been sharp—plugged in, reactive. This wasn't that.

"I asked if you're good?" I repeated, slower this time. His eyes flicked, like he finally caught up to the conversation. He patted his legs absently, tongue clicking against the roof of his mouth as he looked down. "Harry?"

"Yeah. I'm good. Sorry, I was just... thinking about something."

Before I could get a chance to push the matter any further, Harry turned back to the doors and pushed them open. We stepped into the penthouse, and I nearly had to catch my own jaw before it hit the floor.

I'd thought the lobby was excessive. The fountain, the elevator, the wood-paneled hallway—it felt like somebody was overcompensating. This? This was practically somebody throwing money in your face and asking if you were impressed yet.

Yeah, no, I almost laughed. Not because it was funny. Just... What else do you do when you realize your entire apartment could probably fit inside this entryway?

The air inside smelled faintly like some kind of fancy cologne and leather. Not overpowering, just... rich. Everything here smelled rich. The floor beneath my sneakers was cold and smooth—marble, I think—but not the kind you'd see in a hotel lobby or some overpriced mall. This had a texture to it, like it was carved, not poured. Polished to hell, too. I kept waiting for a butler to pop out and tell me to wipe my shoes.

The lighting was low, like deliberately low, which somehow made it feel both expensive and kind of haunted. A warm gold glow ran up the sides of the walls, making the place feel like it was trying to convince you it wasn't as cold as it actually was. It didn't work.

We passed a row of medieval suits of armor that probably cost more than a car each. One of them had a dent in the chestplate, and I wasn't sure if that made it more authentic or less. There were racks of weapons—actual swords and spears—lined up like someone was waiting for a siege. I don't even know what you're supposed to do with that many blades in New York.

"Mand would love this," I muttered mostly to myself, barely in a whisper.

A fireplace sat dead center in the living room, and I swear it looked like it had been ripped out of some European castle. It was massive. Black stone, heavy mantel, fire already lit. Mounted above it was a TV that slid out from behind a hidden panel—because of course it did.

And the walls? All windows. Top to bottom. I could see half the city from where I was standing, and we weren't even on the balcony yet. The glass gave everything this weird blue-gray tint, like the whole place was suspended in its own little snow globe.

To the right, a kitchen bigger than my actual apartment, with steel appliances so shiny I didn't want to breathe near them. The kind of kitchen you hire people to use. And at the far end of the hall, there was this huge, curved double staircase that looked like it belonged in a movie about people who never had to do their own taxes.

I just stood there for a second, blinking at it all.

Because what else are you supposed to do?

"That look never gets old," Harry chuckled, stepping around me and making his way toward the kitchen like this was all just... normal. I followed, still low-key wondering if I should take my shoes off or sign a liability waiver just for walking across the marble.

He pulled open the fridge—naturally, it was one of those double-door units that lit up like a spaceship when you opened it—and turned to me.

"You want a drink?"

"Uh, yeah. Sure."

I didn't even register what I was grabbing until I had it in my hand. Cherry Dr. Pepper. Cold enough that the condensation immediately started forming against my skin. It's always been one of my favorite sodas to drink, besides cherry Pepsi of course.

Harry pulled out some sleek glass bottle of sparkling water. The kind with a minimalist label that probably cost ten bucks per bubble.

I squinted at it.

"How the hell can you drink that stuff?"

He glanced down at it, then back at me with a crooked little smirk.

"Huh. You used to love these." I blinked, then dragged a hand down my face in the slowest, most existential facepalm in history. "I... guess tastes do change."

I didn't say anything, opting to open my soda with a little hiss that felt almost defiant.

Harry chuckled under his breath and nudged the fridge closed with his hip. As he turned, my eye caught on something to the right of us—an inset doorway built seamlessly into the wall. I wandered over and peeked in, expecting maybe a pantry or a laundry room or something else semi-grounded.

Nope.

It was a wine room. A full-on, glass-encased, temperature-controlled gallery of booze. Rows and rows of bottles, some sealed with wax, some corked, some that looked older than both of us combined. Labels in French, in Italian, in handwriting I couldn't even begin to decipher. Reds, whites, stuff that glowed faintly like it had been blessed by a Vatican sommelier.

I don't even drink, but still. Jesus.

"You're kidding me…"

Harry looked over, taking a sip of his sparkling water.

"Yeah, my dad collects it. Hardly touches the stuff though. Only uses it for parties and special occasions."

"This is nuts."

"Honestly, I was about to say the same thing. I know you're a bit spotty on everything, but you really don't remember this place?" Harry asked. I shrugged for a lack of a better answer.

"I don't. I mean, I know you had a big apartment… but this is more than what I was expecting." Harry purses his lips together, as though he's unsure whether to believe me. Finally, I tell him: "I remember names, some faces, but that's it. Everything else feels like a fog."

Harry didn't say anything at first. Just kind of looked at me, the bottle halfway to his lips. I couldn't tell if he was trying to read me or trying to decide if he wanted to read me.

"Yeah," he said finally, quiet. "I figured it was something like that."

I nodded, unsure what to say to that. The soda fizzed gently in my hand, filling the silence with just enough noise to keep it from feeling weird.

"It's a lot like déjà vu." I added, trying to keep it light. "Like walking through someone else's dream."

Harry gave a small, understanding smile, then turned and started toward the stairs. I followed, the sound of our footsteps echoing off tile and stone and god-knows-what imported material.

"This used to be your second home, you know," he said as we reached the first step. "You, May, and Ben would come over during the holidays. When Mom was in town, she'd make sure to cook a big meal for everyone. It was really nice."

There was a softness in his voice, like he was trying to focus on something before it got too heavy. I knew the tone because I was the same way when people brought up someone that passed away. The rawness tended to get under my skin, and made it hard to focus on the good. Seeing as there was no mention of her before, I had a feeling I knew what he was avoiding. His mom, Emily.

I didn't press. I could've. God knows I had questions, but there was a weight in Harry's voice that told me he wasn't ready to unpack it.

So I just nodded again and kept pace beside him.

"She always went all-out," he said, a little softer now. "Roast duck, not turkey. Stuffing made from scratch. Desserts that could knock you out. Bernard would get flustered trying to plate everything the way she wanted, but she'd just laugh and tell him it wasn't supposed to be perfect."

I smiled at the image in my head, almost able to hear the laughter echoing through the penthouse, bringing much needed warmth to the home.

"She sounds amazing," I said.

"Yeah," Harry said, breathing out through his nose. "She really was."

There was a pause after that, and I knew that was where to draw the line.

We made it to the second floor, the quiet thump of our steps muffled by some kind of carpet I'm convinced was designed specifically to erase sound. I didn't know if that was a luxury thing or just an Osborn thing. Either way, it worked.

I broke the silence first.

"Where's your dad? Thought we would've seen him by now."

Harry's hand trailed lightly along the railing as we walked. "Probably in his room or office. He doesn't really get out much anymore."

I glanced at him, and my voice dropped just a notch.

"Harry… is it really that bad?"

He didn't answer right away. His eyes stayed ahead, fixed on the hallway like maybe something there needed his focus.

"He's a proud man, Pete," he said eventually. "Dad doesn't like showing weakness. That's all it is. There's still plenty of fight left in him."

I didn't say anything to that.

We turned the corner, and that's when I heard it—classical music, faint but crisp, drifting through the hall like it belonged to the walls themselves. Something with strings, nothing upbeat. Heavy, tired, like it was trying to fill the silence left behind by something bigger. Layered underneath it, barely audible, was a news report. The words didn't come through clearly until we were maybe two steps away from the door:

"…authorities are still searching for leads for the brutal slayings in which multiple bodies were found in Lower Manhattan…"

I slowed a little.

Harry didn't.

He reached the door and didn't bother knocking. The music got louder, the news report cutting off as we stepped in. There, sitting behind a desk staring at a laptop was the man himself: Norman Osborn.

Not the public version, the one from press conferences and polished magazine spreads. Not the boogeyman business tycoon. This was… different. Whatever image of Norman I had in my head didn't match what was in front of me.

He looked older and paler, like the color had been quietly retreating from his face for weeks. His skin had that dry, stretched look that comes with long nights and very little sleep. Deep bags hung under his eyes, and his posture had that kind of stiffness you only get when standing hurts more than sitting. But even like this—wearing a sweater over a dress shirt like he'd only gotten half-dressed for the day—he still had presence. Still looked like a man who ran empires before breakfast.

And when he saw me?

That look…

His face lit up in this way that caught me completely off guard. Like someone had turned on a light behind his eyes that hadn't worked in a while. It wasn't a show. It was one hundred percent honest to God.

"Peter!" he said, pushing himself to his feet with more effort than he probably wanted us to notice. His voice still had a bite, still had that edge to it, but it was… softer now. "How are you feeling?"

There was a limp in his step as he came over, subtle but there. His lip twitched slightly with each movement—pain, maybe, or something else—but he powered through it like it didn't exist. And as he got closer, it was harder to believe the man I was looking at was supposed to be on death's door.

He really didn't look like he was dying, but I could see it under the surface. God help me—I actually felt bad for him.

"I-um," I started, the words fumbling right at the tip of my tongue. Of all the times for my anxiety to kick in, this is when it decides to? It couldn't have been when those pretty nurses came into my hospital room? "I'm a lot better."

Norman reached out and gripped my shoulder—firm, steady, and way stronger than I expected. The kind of grip that made it hard to imagine this guy ever being frail.

"I'm glad to hear that," he said, giving me a look that… honestly? Felt more fatherly than anything I ever got from my actual dad. "You gave us quite the scare."

Us.

Right. I glanced toward Harry, who was lingering near the doorway now like he wasn't sure whether to stay or give us space.

"I'm sure I did," I said, rubbing at the back of my neck. "I don't know how much Harry has told you, but… I don't remember much."

"Your aunt was the one who told us." Norman gave a quiet, dry chuckle at that, like he appreciated the honesty but wished I hadn't reminded him. His hand dropped back to his side. "I will say though, you always did have a flair for the dramatic. Gave poor Otto a heart attack."

Norman turned and motioned toward a couple of leather chairs in front of his desk.

"Sit, please. Would the two of you like something to drink?"

"We just grabbed something from the kitchen on our way in," Harry piped in, holding up our drinks as we walked over to the chairs.

"I appreciate it, though." I smiled. Also, when the hell did Harry take my drink? Did I give it to him without realizing? Don't tell me my brain fog was kicking in again, I was hoping that was going to be left behind in my old body.

"Like I've said before, if you need anything, just let me know."

I didn't know how to respond to that. It was such a normalthing to say, so casual. Like we were just catching up over brunch or something. Not like I was staring into the eyes of one of the most powerful—and possibly most dangerous—men in the city. The room was warm. Not just from the classical music or the lighting, but from him. It felt like I was stepping into the Twilight Zone or something.

"How are you feeling?" I asked before I could stop myself. "I mean, with everything going on…"

He gave the smallest pause. Just a flicker. Then he smiled again, though it didn't quite reach his eyes this time.

"I've had better years," he said simply. "But I'm still here. And that counts for something, doesn't it?"

The way he said it felt heavy. Like he was weighing more than just his health in that moment. And for the first time, I wondered if Harry had undersold just how much his father was holding back.

"It's better than some," was all I could manage.

"I'm not much for staying back and letting someone else take the reins. Allistaire, while he's a good man, I worry that it might be too much pressure I'm throwing at him at once." Norman explained.

"He's doing fine, Dad. You should worry about yourself." Harry shook his head beside me as Norman sat down.

"That company is my life, Harry. It's an extension of myself. I can't help but worry." Norman exhaled through his nose, resting back into the chair like he was lowering into something heavier than upholstery. "I built Oscorp from the ground up. Brick by brick, contract by contract. It wasn't always clean. It wasn't always pretty. But it was mine," he said. "Handing it off, even temporarily... feels like carving off a piece of myself and leaving it on someone else's plate."

To my surprise, there wasn't bitterness in his voice. He sounded tired, more than anything else.

"Still," he added. "This is only a temporary setback. I'll be back at Oscorp in no time…"

"Just take it easy…" Harry grumbled under his breath, earning a small smirk in response from Norman.

"Truth be told, I was hoping to see you sooner," Norman admitted, voice lower now as he looked at me. "But… you needed time. I get that. From what May said, I wasn't sure how much you'd remember me."

I shrugged, a little sheepish.

"More than I expected, less than I'd like."

He smiled at that.

"You were always like a second son to me, Peter. I don't say that lightly." His eyes flicked to Harry, then back to me. "This place... this family—it was always yours too."

That one landed harder than I expected.

I swallowed.

"I wish I remembered more of it."

"You will," Norman said, like it wasn't up for debate. "Might not all come back at once, but it's still in there. Trust me."

He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk.

"You've always had a stubborn streak. You and Harry both, but you've got heart. You always did."

That sounded more like the Norman I remembered—sharp, intimidating, but with a core that was actually capable of real affection.

"You gave us a scare, kid," he said, voice softening even more. "Don't do that again."

I almost smiled at that.

"I'll try to keep the dramatic comas to a minimum."

Norman gave a quiet chuckle, then ran a hand through his hair.

"God, I sound like your aunt."

"You do," I nodded. "But don't worry, I won't tell her."

He laughed again, this time louder, and I saw Harry's shoulders ease just a little beside me.

The conversation after that sort of drifted. Nothing too deep. Norman asked Harry how school had been—asked me about how things had been feeling at home. I gave the kind of answers you give when you don't really know what the answers are supposed to be—short, polite, light enough to pass as real.

Harry carried most of it, which I didn't mind. Honestly, it made things easier. He was good at that, filling space without making it feel like filler. But then, right as Norman was talking about some foundation gala that I guess I'd gone to once, Harry stood up and muttered something about needing the bathroom.

I watched him step out and close the door behind him. The second the latch clicked, the room shifted.

Norman's face didn't exactly drop—it just… changed. Like he'd taken off a mask he wasn't even aware he'd been wearing. He cleared his throat once, low and tight.

"Peter," he said, and the tone was different now… grimmer and darker. "I'm serious… how are you feeling?"

I blinked.

"Like I said… I'm feeling a lot better."

He just sighed, then reached over and turned his monitor toward me. On the screen was a paused video. I leaned in a little without thinking. It was grainy, security footage by the look of it, but clear enough to tell faces. There I was—Peter, anyway—standing next to Dr. Octavius at some exhibit. One of the research floors, maybe. My arm was up, hand raised.

"Wait," I said slowly, "is that from the field trip?"

Norman nodded.

"It is still my company," he said, tapping the desk lightly. "I spent days trying to figure out what happened exactly, who was around you, what might've triggered the collapse. But then… I noticed this."

He pointed at the screen. My hand.

"You reacted. Right there. Like something happened to your hand."

I didn't respond right away. As much as I wanted to, there was no recollecting the event. Weirdly enough, my hand had a dull phantom pain jolt through it as I continued to stare at the screen.

"I woke up with bandages on that hand," I said, almost casually. The moment it came out of my mouth, I unintentionally swallowed hard and looked back at him. "But I don't remember what happened."

Norman leaned back slightly, studying me in a way that felt less like concern, more like… calculation.

"Well, nothing seemed visibly wrong before you reacted. So, something happened."

"What are you getting at?" I asked, keeping my tone level even though I already had a guess.

He was quiet a moment longer, then turned the monitor back around. When he looked at me again, his eyes were sharp. Curious. Concerned. But under all that? A hint of something else.

Hope. Maybe.

Or something worse.

"You don't remember anything strange? No dreams? No changes? Nothing you can't explain?"

I swallowed hard and did my best to look confused.

"No," I lied. "Nothing like that."

Yeah, there's been changes… but I doubt it's the one you want to hear about.

His eyes narrowed, like he was trying to see through me, peel me open and dig out whatever truth I was hiding underneath. I didn't flinch, but my pulse definitely picked up.

"Peter," he said, his voice dropping into something quiet but firm. "You can trust me if you need to talk."

"Norman, I promise… if something was happening to me, I would tell you," I said, and I was proud of how steady my voice came out. Not too fast, not too defensive. Just enough to hopefully pass.

He didn't answer right away. Instead, he pushed back from his desk and stood—slow, deliberate. He stepped around the table, his expression unreadable now, and placed a hand on my shoulder.

It was firm. Not harsh. But it anchored me in place in a way I didn't love.

Then he leaned in, close enough that I could feel the warmth of his breath against my ear.

"If you did have something happen," he said, just above a whisper, "don't tell anyone. You understand, son?"

That word hit me harder than it should have. My eyes shifted, trying to glance sideways at him.

"What?"

He didn't move back.

"There are eyes watching," he said, quieter now. "And I will not let anything happen to you."

Then, just like that, he let go and stepped back, straightening his sweater like we'd just been talking about weather forecasts. Whatever crack had opened in him just now—it was sealed again.

I just sat there for a second, trying not to let it show on my face how much that rattled me.

Because I didn't know what scared me more—what he meant by eyes watching… or the fact that I believed him.

Nothing about that sat well with me.

Norman just eased himself back into his chair like nothing had happened—like he hadn't just leaned in and whispered something that sounded more like a warning than advice. The warmth in his voice returned like flipping a light switch, the concern in his eyes replaced with that same calm, businesslike sharpness he always wore in interviews and boardrooms.

Like he was playing a part again.

I sat there with my soda in one hand, barely breathing, trying not to let the chill that crawled down my spine show on my face.

Because he was fine. Acting like we'd just talked about grades or summer plans or something stupid like that.

But me?

I couldn't stop hearing those words: "Don't tell anyone."

Was Norman… not a bad guy, like I was afraid he'd be?

I didn't know. I still don't.

Everything in me was on edge, like my brain couldn't decide whether to trust the man or run from him. There was something so real in his voice—something almost desperate—but the fact that he felt the need to say it at all? That said everything I needed to know.

If Norman was worried about something… really worried, enough to pull me aside and whisper it like we were being watched—then it couldn't be anything good.

By the time Harry came back in, I could tell he noticed I wasn't the same as when he left. His eyes lingered on me for a second longer than they probably needed to, but he didn't say anything—just offered a small, polite smile like he was trying not to make it worse.

I didn't say anything either. I acted like everything was fine. Like Norman hadn't just whispered something into my ear that would've made a conspiracy theorist start sweating.

And Norman?

Norman acted like it never happened. Like we were all just picking up where we left off, sipping sodas and making small talk. It was… unnerving, how well he wore that mask.

We stayed another hour. Long enough to make it seem like nothing weird had happened. Long enough for my brain to run that conversation in the background like a broken record on repeat.

Eventually, Harry stood up and stretched, giving Norman a small smile as he glanced toward the hallway.

"I should probably get Peter home before May starts filing a missing persons report."

Norman rose as well, but slower this time, like the weight in his body was starting to win.

"Of course," he said, voice light but his eyes never quite left me. Then, just as Harry turned to lead the way, Norman reached out and gently caught my arm—not hard, just enough to stop me.

"Just remember what I said, Peter," he murmured, his voice lower now. "If you need to talk… I'm here."

I nodded slowly. Forced a small smile that didn't reach anywhere near my eyes.

"Thanks."

And with that, we left.

The building felt different on the way down. Maybe it was the lighting, or the way the elevator hummed a little too quietly, but the weight of that conversation was still riding shotgun in my head. The second the elevator doors opened into the lobby, I was already on autopilot—eyes glazed, thoughts scrambled, trying to make sense of what the hell just happened were almost to the glass exit when it hit me.

Hard.

A jolt—no, a pulse—ran through the center of my head like something had grabbed the base of my skull and twisted. Not quite pain, not exactly. It was disorienting, like my center of balance had just kicked the bucket.

I stumbled, shoulder brushing hard into Harry's side.

"Whoa—hey, Pete?" he said, immediately reaching out to steady me. "You okay?"

I didn't answer right away. I couldn't. My breath caught in my throat and my whole body was on fire, but not from heat. It was awareness. Full-body alert.

The throbbing moved—shifted, spun around my head like a siren—and wherever it passed, the hair on my arms and neck stood straight up. My skin felt wired. Buzzing. The pressure built until I thought my teeth might start vibrating.

"Peter?" Harry repeated, more urgent now.

And then…

My eyes snapped open wider than I even thought possible, and the world suddenly looked clearer. Sharper.

Like I'd just stepped out of fog and into a storm.

No.

No, no, no, wait—

This… this wasn't just panic.

This was instinct.

This was danger…

My Spider-Sense was going off. For the first time.

And it was screaming.

But why the hell was it going off… here?

It started as this general pressure, like my whole brain had been dropped into a wasp's nest, but then it shifted. Drifted. The sensation crept to the left side of my skull and settled behind my ear, like something invisible was pressing into it with a cold finger.

I turned instinctively, head swiveling that way without even thinking—and the buzz slid again, fast, crawling right above my eyebrows, pulsing just under the skin.

That's when I saw him.

Someone was sitting against the far wall of the lobby, half in the shadow cast by a decorative pillar, like he'd been there the whole time but only now decided to exist.

Hood up. Head down just enough to hide his face. But his eyes?

Locked. Dead on us.

Dead on me.

I didn't know what it was about him, not really. He wasn't doing anything. He wasn't moving. But everything in me said this guy does not belong here.

And the Spider-Sense—wasn't just buzzing anymore. It was hissing.

Warning me.

Harry didn't seem to notice. He just kept walking toward the valet, tossing a casual glance over his shoulder.

"You good? You looked like you were gonna hurl for a second."

But I wasn't listening.

Not really.

Because the guy against the wall? He hadn't blinked once.

And he was still watching.

A.S.

A.S.

A.S.

The man watched as Harry led Peter through the front doors of the plaza, his gaze tracking every movement with surgical focus. The kid hesitated, just for a second—eyes sweeping the lobby, landing square on him.

He grimaced beneath the shadow of his hat.

Had he been made?

No. Stupid thought. He'd been careful. Subtle. The kid had just come out of a coma. It was nerves. Coincidence.

Adjusting the brim of his hat, he stood, brushing off his coat. One gloved hand dipped into his jacket to check something—habit, nothing more—then he turned and pressed the elevator button without breaking stride.

The ride up was silent.

No classical music this time. Just the low hum of the lift and the quiet flicker of fluorescent lights overhead. He barely blinked as the floors ticked by, watching his reflection in the stainless steel doors until they slid open.

The penthouse was quiet.

Norman Osborn was still in his office.

He didn't look up right away—but his posture shifted. A small tension through the shoulders. A glance toward the glass. He already knew.

When he finally turned, there was no welcome in his eyes.

"Why are you here?" Norman asked, voice low and worn, but sharp enough to carry weight.

The man stepped inside without answering, his movements calm and measured. The soft carpet dulled the sound of his shoes.

"You know why I'm here, Osborn," he said. "My employer wanted to send a message. In case you were thinking about keeping him from what he's owed."

Norman's brow furrowed, deepening the lines carved into his face.

"That so?" he muttered. "And what exactly is the message?"

The man stopped a few feet from the desk, head tilting slightly.

"You might've built Oscorp," he said. "But men like him—and his partners? They're not here to play games. They're here to remake the world. From the ashes if need be."

A pause stretched between them.

"Make sure you're on the side that wants to see what that world is."

Norman's jaw ticked, but his posture didn't change.

"Awfully big of you to threaten a dying man," he said dryly. "I've heard better threats from people on the street."

The man pressed his hands against the desk, lowering himself enough to be eye level with Norman.

"Where is the spider?"