Tiptoes, tiptoes, tippy, tippy toes. I crept across the porch and twisted the doorknob carefully, easing it open with a slow breath.
Silent plan engaged, the perfect way to sneak back into the house without being caught. Returning late was risky, but I was sure I could pull it off.
Click.
"Hello, Peter Richard Parker."
Dun dun dun!
Aunt May was sitting in Uncle Ben's easy chair, arms crossed, eyes sharp. Not a good sign.
DEAD MAN ALERT! DEAD MAN ALERT!
"Wait, Aunt May! I can explain!"
Clang!
"Oww! What did I do?" I winced, clutching my arm and playing dumb.
"You realize it's 11 p.m.?" she said, her brow arching higher.
"Eh?" I blinked at her, tilting my head and pretending like I had no clue. Acting like a teenager even though I was way too old to be scolded like a kid.
"Well, time sure flies when you're having fun. Bye bye!" I blurted and bolted.
In a flash, I zooped down the hallway, darted into my room, and slammed the door before Aunt May transformed into Auntzilla.
"PETER!" her voice thundered after me, rattling the walls.
A week later, it happened. The tragedy. Uncle Ben's tragedy.
It was supposed to be the talk about great power and great responsibility. But man, I screwed up big time.
Right now, I was in the passenger seat of Uncle Ben's car. He had asked me to come along with him to the library.
The hum of the engine filled the silence as streetlights streaked across the windows.
We pulled up to the library, and Uncle Ben parked with his usual patient calm. He turned to me and said, "Stay here until I get back from an errand."
I nodded, pushed the door open, and stepped into the quiet library. The scent of old paper and dust settled around me as I wandered between the tall shelves.
My fingers brushed over spines until I stopped at a section on finance.
"Aunt May and Uncle Ben are currently tight with the house mortgage and stuff,"
I muttered under my breath.
"Time to use my knowledge—and my past life knowledge—to good use."
I sank into a chair, flipped through books at a rapid pace, scanning line after line. Numbers, formulas, strategies, all burning into my mind.
I pulled a stack of finance texts into my arms, then drifted into another aisle where books on spiritualism sat quietly waiting.
I opened one and whispered,
"Honestly, I would ask Doctor Strange about rebirth theories, but his journey to becoming the Sorcerer Supreme is still three years away. Right now, he's probably just a neurosurgeon."
Pages turned, whispers of paper filling the silence. I leaned closer, eyes darting across paragraphs, searching for answers that felt just out of reach.
Finally, I glanced at the clock on the wall. Only an hour left.
I closed the books, gathered what I needed, and left the library. My steps echoed against the sidewalk as I dialed Uncle Ben's number.
"Hey, I'm in a nearby store, just grabbing a can of juice," I said casually.
Of course, I wasn't. The store was right next to the underground wrestling arena.
And ah, I remembered it like yesterday. The smell of sweat, beer, and cheap hotdogs hit me the second I walked into the underground arena.
The crowd roared, stomping their feet against the bleachers, chanting for blood and glory.
I tugged at my mask nervously, stepping out from behind the curtain as the announcer bellowed my name.
The lights swung down, hot and blinding, catching the glint of the ropes. My sneakers squeaked against the mat as I climbed into the ring, heart pounding like a drum.
And there he was. The wrestler. A giant of a man with muscles stacked like boulders, a wild mane of hair, and shades that barely clung to his face.
He pointed straight at me and growled into the mic, sounding almost exactly like Macho Man Randy Savage. The crowd went berserk.
"OOHHH YEAH! GONNA BREAK YOU IN HALF, KID!"
He charged. The ring shook as his boots slammed down, each step echoing like thunder.
I darted to the side, barely slipping out of his reach. He swung, I ducked, the air whooshed past my ear.
The crowd roared louder, stomping, screaming my name and his all at once.
I leapt off the ropes, springing higher than I should've been able to, twisting in midair. My heel clipped the side of his jaw. He stumbled back, arms pinwheeling, rage blazing in his eyes.
The crowd gasped, then erupted again.
I grinned under the mask. That rush, that thrill—it was addictive. For just a moment, I wasn't Peter Parker, the kid sneaking home late, or the nephew who'd get scolded by Aunt May. I was someone else entirely.
The bell clanged. Round over.
That memory still lingered like smoke in my mind as I stood outside the store, juice can in hand, the underground arena buzzing only a block away.
Back to the present.
"Hey! Stop him!"
The shouting echoed through the arena halls, and out burst that murderer—that son of a bitch. I remembered him all too well. In my past life, I killed him.
But the aftermath? That was when I finally understood what Uncle Ben had said. Great power comes with great responsibility.
The thief shoved past the crowd, sprinting out of the underground wrestling arena. I turned, and my eyes caught Uncle Ben's car pulling up to the curb. My stomach twisted.
And then I saw him.
"There you are, Sandman."
Flint Marko stepped into the dim streetlight, his face weary, his posture heavy. He wasn't the one who pulled the trigger—that had been his partner, the thief who panicked when Uncle Ben tried to reason with him.
But right now, in front of me, Flint was lowering his gun. His hands trembled, his eyes clouded with remorse.
I knew that look. Regret. Guilt.
He wasn't evil, not deep down. He was desperate. His daughter needed surgery, and he saw no other way. I had found out the truth too late back then.
But now… now I knew.
And because I knew, I could change it.
I clenched my fists, heart hammering.
I'll change them all.
---
Chapter 10 — End