Deep beneath the city, far from the chants and the ruins, the laboratory hummed like a living thing.
Cables pulsed along the walls. Rings of distorted light rotated slowly in midair, bending space itself. At the center of it all stood Miles Morales.
The portal flickered.
Not stable.
Not complete.
But alive.
A blue-white shimmer surged and a figure appeared within the projection.
A man in a police uniform.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Familiar.
Miles froze.
His breath caught in his throat.
"Father…"
The hologram looked real enough to hurt. Every detail was there,the tired eyes, the faint scar near the jaw, the posture of a man who had spent his life standing between danger and civilians. The image moved slightly, as if breathing.
Miles took a step forward.
His hand trembled.
(It's him… it has to be.)
Metal limbs clicked softly behind him.
Doctor Octopus observed the projection, head tilted, lenses adjusting.
"He can't hear you," Octavius said calmly.
"Nor can he see you."
Miles didn't look away.
"You said it would work."
Octavius folded two mechanical arms behind his back.
"I said it was progressing."
"This is still incomplete."
He gestured toward the hologram, data streams cascading around it.
"What you're seeing is a dimensional echo. A reconstructed imprint pulled from quantum residue across neighboring realities."
Miles clenched his fists.
"Say it plainly."
Octavius sighed.
"It's a hologram."
"You can see it… but you can't feel it."
Miles stepped closer anyway.
He reached out.
His fingers passed straight through the image.
Nothing.
No warmth.
No resistance.
Just cold air and light.
The hologram smiled faintly, an idle animation loop and Miles's jaw tightened until it hurt.
(I was too late again.)
"You promised," Miles said quietly.
Octavius's voice sharpened just a little.
"I promised possibility. Not miracles."
The scientist turned, mechanical limbs scraping against the floor.
"To cross dimensions fully, to retrieve a living being, you would need power, precision, and time beyond what even I possess."
He paused.
"…For now."
Miles lowered his hand.
The softness in his eyes vanished.
Something colder took its place.
"Then we keep going."
Octavius looked back at him.
"At this rate," he warned, "you risk tearing holes not just between worlds—but through causality itself."
Miles stared at the image of his father one last time.
A cop who died protecting strangers.
A man who believed in rules.
In order.
In doing the right thing.
Miles turned away.
"I don't care."
Octavius's lenses narrowed.
"Even if it destroys this world?"
Miles didn't hesitate.
"This world already took everything from me."
He stepped toward the control console, placing his hand against the glowing interface. The portal surged brighter, energy whining under strain.
(Wait for me, Dad.)
(Even if I have to burn everything to be whole again.)
Behind him, the hologram flickered.
And for just a fraction of a second
It almost looked like the man inside was reaching back.
The laboratory lights dimmed slightly as the portal's hum settled into a low, restless throb.
Miles stood at the edge of the platform, back turned.
He didn't look at either of them.
"Uncle," he said quietly, voice flat, controlled. "Stay here. I have something to do."
Aaron Davis straightened from where he leaned against a console. For a moment, the room didn't feel like a villain's lab, it felt like a kitchen late at night, like a man talking to the last family he had left.
"Okay…" Aaron said after a pause.
Then, softer, heavier
"Just take care, Miles. Be careful."
Miles nodded once.
No hesitation.
No reassurance.
Just a single, decisive motion.
And then he walked away.
The doors hissed open, swallowing him in shadows, and sealed shut behind him with a final metallic thud.
Silence followed.
Only the machines remained.
Doctor Octopus watched the readings spike and stabilize, mechanical arms folding slowly as his lenses tracked the fading energy signature Miles left behind.
"He is remarkably focused," Octavius said at last.
"At this trajectory… he is genuinely prepared to destroy this world if it means crossing into another dimension."
Aaron didn't answer right away.
He stared at the closed doors.
At the place where his nephew had stood.
At the path that could no longer be walked back from.
His jaw tightened.
"…Love makes you desperate," Aaron said finally.
Octavius turned his head slightly.
"Desperation is inefficient," the scientist replied. "It clouds judgment."
Aaron let out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh but there was no humor in it.
"Maybe," he said.
"But it also makes you unstoppable."
The machines continued to hum.
Somewhere above, the city struggled to survive.
And somewhere in the dark, Miles Morales moved forward
not as a hero,
not as a protector,
but as a man willing to tear reality apart for one impossible reunion.
Meanwhile, the lab was quiet in that rare, fragile way—no alarms, no gunfire, no distant explosions shaking the walls.
Just the hum of power.
Peter stood with his back turned, hands braced on the edge of the worktable, staring at nothing in particular. His body still ached. His mind hadn't stopped racing since Kraven.
Behind him, metal clicked.
Soft. Precise.
Final.
Gwen exhaled slowly, wiped grease from her gloves, and straightened.
She looked at the suit.
At what it had become.
Then she looked at him.
"Peter," she said.
He turned.
She didn't smile at first.
"The Mark II is finished."
For a moment, he didn't respond.
Just stared at her.
Then at the suit.
Black and red plating layered with vibranium bracing, seams glowing faintly with controlled blue energy. The chest emblem sleek, sharper than before,no longer just a symbol, but a warning. The mask lenses were narrower, adaptive, alive.
This wasn't armor.
This was evolution.
Peter swallowed.
"…You're serious."
Gwen crossed her arms, trying and failing to hide the exhaustion in her eyes.
"I triple-checked the core stabilization, rerouted the kinetic dampeners, and reinforced the spine after what Kraven did to you."
She paused, then added quietly, "It's bomb-resistant. Not bomb-proof. But it'll keep you alive."
Peter stepped closer.
Each footstep felt heavier than the last.
(This suit… this is her trust. Her fear. Her hope—stitched together.)
He reached out, fingers hovering just short of the chest plate.
"You didn't have to push yourself this hard," he said.
Gwen scoffed softly.
"Yeah, I did."
Her voice dropped. "Because every time you go out there, you don't come back the same. And I'm tired of watching you bleed in suits that can't keep up with the war you're fighting."
Peter looked at her.
Really looked.
The grease-stained sleeves. The tired eyes. The way she stood like she'd dared the universe to argue with her and won.
"…Thank you," he said quietly.
Gwen tilted her head, a small, knowing smile finally breaking through.
"Don't thank me yet."
She tapped a control on the console.
The suit activated.
The lenses flared to life.
The emblem pulsed once steady, controlled, alive.
"This suit won't just protect you," Gwen said. "It'll amplify you. Strength. Speed. Reaction time. But it also means"
She met his eyes.
"—there's no more room for holding back."
Peter nodded slowly.
(No more pretending this is just survival.)
"…Then it's time," he said.
Gwen stepped aside, clearing the path.
"Go on, hero," she teased lightly, though her voice carried weight. "Try it on."
Peter took one last breath
And stepped into the future.
The war wasn't over.
But Spider-Man?
Spider-Man was ready.
To be continue