New York was never grateful.
They clapped when Spider-Man saved them. Laughed for selfies. Used him for front pages and feel-good fluff. But when the sirens stopped and the dust settled, they always found a way to blame him. Broken windows? Spider-Man. Collapsed scaffolding? Spider-Man. Never the villain, never the criminal — always the man in the mask.
Peter didn't care. He kept saving them anyway.
Until the fire.
The call came at 2:37 a.m.
He was perched high above the East River, catching his breath after another long night of painkillers and cracked ribs. His phone buzzed. A number he didn't recognize. He answered. The voice on the other end didn't say anything. Just let him listen — to fire. To screaming.
Then came the explosion.
Peter felt it before he saw it. A shockwave pulsed through the city like a heartbeat from hell. Red and orange plumes split the skyline. A second later, his legs were moving before he even thought to swing.
Queens.
Her house.
No. No. Please God no.
He arrived too late.
The street was swarmed with firetrucks and paramedics, but none of them were close to the heart of the blaze. Aunt May's house was a skeletal inferno — wood collapsing, windows blown out, the smell of burning flesh everywhere.
He fought past them. They tried to hold him back. Didn't matter. He screamed her name until his throat bled. He tore through fire like it couldn't hurt him. But when he found her, what was left of her, curled up on the kitchen floor beside Mary Jane —
There was nothing to save.
They'd died together. Burned together.
Mary Jane had been pregnant.
He could still see her hand cradling the curve of her stomach. A life not yet born. A name they'd argued about just the night before. A future turned to ash.
He found something else, though.
Carved into the scorched wall, just above where the smoke-stained ceiling had collapsed:
A jagged bolt. Electro. A crude vulture symbol. Adrian Toomes. Kraven's hunting knife, still buried in the floor. A shattered fishbowl helmet. Mysterio's.
No ransom note. No grand scheme. No sinister speech. Just death. For no reason other than to hurt him. To break him.
And the worst part?
They were the ones he'd spared. Time and time again. He'd shown them mercy. Given them second chances. Let them walk away instead of ending it when he had the chance.
It was his fault.
And it worked.
The funeral was a joke. A private service. No media, no fanfare. No real bodies — just two urns with ashes and the promise that what made them human was already gone.
Peter stood there like a statue. Mask in his pocket. Eyes hollow. Not a single tear. Not a single word.
When the service ended, he disappeared.