The morning after the winter formal was quiet—peaceful in a way that Peter rarely experienced. No buzzing phone. No crime reports. Just the subtle smell of toast and tea drifting in from the kitchen.
He was already up, sitting at the dining table, a notebook open in front of him. His laptop glowed softly as pages loaded with terms like "index funds," "compound interest," and "dividend yield."
If I'm gonna play this long game right, he thought, I need clean money. Real money. Not just stolen cash stashed under floorboards.
He wasn't going to get caught for laundering—not if he kept it simple. That meant starting small, legal, and boring.
The sound of slippers on tile broke his train of thought. Aunt May appeared in the doorway, dressed in her usual morning sweater and apron, hair tied up. She gave him a curious glance.
"Since when do you look that serious this early?"
Peter looked up and smiled. "Just thinking."
"About what ?"
"Money," he replied, gesturing to the laptop. "I want to learn how to invest."
May paused. "You mean like, stocks and Wall Street and all that?"
"Sort of. Nothing huge," Peter said, keeping his voice calm and casual. "Just something small. School's hosting a financial literacy seminar next month, and it got me thinking. Might as well learn how this stuff works now."
She moved over, peeking at the screen. "You're serious?"
Peter nodded. "I want to open a basic account. Nothing big. A thousand dollars tops, maybe less. But I need someone over eighteen to sign it since I'm technically still a minor."
Aunt May raised an eyebrow. "You know, your uncle tried investing once. Lost fifty bucks on a company that made talking blenders."
"That will not be my strategy," Peter said, grinning. "I'm thinking slow, steady stuff. Index funds. ETFs. Low-risk. I just need your name on the form."
May hesitated, clearly weighing the idea. Peter kept his posture relaxed. Just logical. She respected that more.
"I'm not going to lie to you," he added. "I've been saving a bit here and there from school tutoring and some tech fix-ups for classmates. Not much, but enough to learn. If I blow it, I blow it. Lesson learned."
She studied him for a moment, then finally sighed. "Alright. If it's really what you want, we'll go down to the bank after lunch. But I'm putting a limit on how much you can toss into this thing."
Peter nodded. "Deal."
She turned to head back into the kitchen, muttering, "Next thing you know, he's buying a company."
Peter smiled faintly.
'Not yet.' He thought to himself.
Later that day, they sat inside a local bank branch. The place had that sterile-clean look—laminated floors, polished glass doors, and the faint hum of a printer in the background.
A friendly-looking financial officer guided them through the paperwork. Peter kept his questions simple, precise. He requested a custodial investment account, linked to a micro-investing platform that offered basic ETFs and blue-chip stock options.
Aunt May raised an eyebrow at the mention of "emerging markets," but said nothing.
By the end of the hour, Peter Parker had his own legal investment account—with a $500 starting deposit in his name.
That night, Peter sat at his desk with a plate of cold sandwiches and a spreadsheet open on his screen. His secret lair could wait. The web-slinging could wait.
This… this was building something real.
He watched as the numbers changed slightly in real time. Tiny shifts in value, green and red indicators flashing next to his tiny portfolio.
Apple. Microsoft. Oscorp—nope, that one's a little too personal.
He skipped Oscorp entirely. Too much heat. Too much risk. But a lesser-known biotech firm caught his eye—NeuroGeneX, a startup focusing on memory-boosting medication.
He read through the financials, checked recent articles, even scanned a few forums. One user posted something vague:
"Word is, NeuroGeneX just signed a shadow contract with a subsidiary of Roxxon. Earnings might spike next quarter."
Peter grinned. That'll do.
He placed a small trade—$100. Nothing that would matter to most people. But for him? It was a move on the board.
He shut the laptop and leaned back.
No suits. No masks. No risk of broken ribs.
This was a different kind of power.
And no one even knew he had it.