As I stepped into the bathroom and shut the door behind me, panic settled in. Then the clothes came off.
Shirt first, peeled away from slightly sore skin. Pants next, jeans kicked into a corner.
Finally boxers, clumsily stepped out of like I had never undressed before in my life. Which... given the new body, this is technically my first time.
I stood there. Stark naked. In front of the mirror.
And that was when it hit me.
"…okay. Now that I am alone, it is time to freak out."
I grabbed the sink edge with both hands, stared at the reflection in front of me. Jawline. Cheekbones. Eyes I had seen in movies and comics and memes but never like this. This close. This real.
"What the actual f… okay, no. No f-word yet. Let us stay composed."
Deep breath.
Out.
In.
Out again, shakier.
"I died?" I asked the mirror like it could answer me.
It said nothing. Just showed me the guy who used to be Peter Parker. Or still was. Or… was I both now? I frowned, ran a hand through my hair and stared harder.
I remembered everything. My old life. My room. The way the carpet had frayed in the corner near the desk. The smell of instant noodles and cheap deodorant. The way the VR headset and everything.
And then this.
This body. These powers. That voice in my head like a horny Siri who binge-watched too many dating sims and decided to improvise.
I took another breath and let go of the sink.
"Okay. New rules. One: I am not dreaming. Two: I have a literal system in my brain. Three: I am Peter Parker. But reincarnated. So technically, I am… me 2.0?"
That sounded dumb.
Also true.
I also realized, "You cannot read my brain, can you?"
Silence.
A long, weighted silence like the universe paused to consider whether to answer that.
Then, syrup-smooth and three syllables away from a purr:
[System]: What is that, love? Did you say anything?
I nodded slowly, still staring at my reflection like it might blink first.
"I said," I repeated, tapping my temple like I was knocking on a fish tank, "I died. And reincarnated. With a horny Siri. So... hey Siri? What the actual fuck? I think you owe me an explanation."
[System]: Mmhh, language. But I do love it when you talk dirty, even if it is existential.
A flicker in my mind's eye. Not sight, exactly. More like the feeling of a screen flickering open inside my skull. Purple glow. Delicate script. System Mood: Curious. And maybe just a little smug.
[System]: So... you want the how? Or the why? Or just the part where I praise your new cheekbones?
I rubbed my face with both hands. The skin felt real. Warm. Familiar in an unfamiliar way.
"No. I want to know what you are," I said, pulling my hands down slowly. "And why you are in my head like some sultry Alexa who downloaded too many fanfics."
[System]: Aww, flattered. But if you want the clinical rundown, here we go: You are dead. Were dead. Past tense. Timeline hiccup. Quantum oopsie. You fell through a crack somewhere between your dumb Earth and this... scripted little sandbox. And I?
The voice dropped, velvet and heat wrapped in smug delight.
[System]: I am your bonus prize. Your cheat code. Your walking libido whisperer. I am the ULTIMATE SEDUCTION PROTOCOL. Version 1.69, baby.
My head tilted sideways in quiet horror. "One point what?"
[System]: Sixty-nine. Because subtlety is for cowards.
I sighed. Pressed a knuckle into my eye like I could reboot the world with blunt force.
"You are a perverted dating sim wrapped in RPG mechanics."
[System]: And you are a hormonal nerd with spider powers. Sounds like a match made in fanfiction heaven.
"Why me?"
[System]: Why not you? Cosmic randomness. Narrative necessity. Maybe I liked your death face. Or maybe some reality-bending entity got bored and spun the wheel of reincarnation while drunk.
"Cool. So I am a glitch. And you are a thirst trap."
[System]: Close. You are potential. I am opportunity. And together, we are going to rewrite this universe one sultry sigh at a time.
"You really cannot read my mind, though?"
[System]: No, sugar. Privacy settings enabled. I only respond to direct voice commands. Or seductive mumbling. Or mild groaning if it is contextual.
Good.
That meant I could think.
It meant I had room to plan. Room to feel without commentary. Room to keep certain things mine.
Because underneath all the jokes and the smirks and the not-so-subtle tank tops... I just died.
And now I was alive again. In the skin of a superhero. With a voice in my head that wanted to track how many girls I could fluster before breakfast.
After the shower, I stepped over the still-damp bathmat and walked straight to Peter's closet. I toweled my hair then let it stay wild, then yanked open the closet door and threw something on without looking. Baggy tee. Some jeans that almost fit. Close enough.
Then I reached for the back panel. The one that felt out of place. Pried my fingers into the gap near the bottom, pushed with my palm and the fake wood cover slid open with a lazy clack.
And there it was.
The suit.
The original, home-stitched, pajama-tier Spider-Man suit.
I stared. Someone had just confessed to anime crimes and nobody knew how to respond.
"Lame," I groaned. "This looks like a middle school art project that got rejected by the Avengers."
The red and blue pattern mocked me from its plastic hanger, crumpled and unassuming, like it had no idea how many canon deaths it was about to witness.
"I am not forced to become a hero, am I?" I asked the room. Or maybe the mirror. Or maybe the ceiling. Whoever was listening.
The System answered, voice syrup-smooth and already enjoying herself.
[System]: You are not forced to do anything, baby. Do whatever you want, however you want. Though, I would love to see some entertainment. And by entertainment… I mean sweat, panting, emotional intimacy, and possibly lasers.
I stared at the mask. I reached for the fabric. Touched it. Ran my thumb across the stitching.
Soft.
Stupidly soft.
"Peter, you were too nice," I muttered. "Too eager to help. Too willing to die for people who would not even remember your name after the funeral."
I let the mask fall back into the box and slid the panel shut.
Throwing myself to the bed, I pulled out a notebook from the nightstand. The cover still had that weird little sticker Peter must have slapped on it during some prepubescent fanboy phase. Cute. I flipped it open. Blank pages, scribbled formulas, the shy little notes probably written for a girl he never had the guts to talk to.
Well. That Peter was gone.
I flipped it open, scrawled a header at the top in messy, all-caps handwriting.
GAMEPLAN.
Then underlined it twice. Because it looked cooler that way.
"Let's see..." I muttered. The still had bite marks in the plastic. Old habits from a nervous kid who probably chewed it every time Flash so much as looked in his direction. I clicked it, then again, just to hear the sound. Then I started writing.
Pre-Invasion Timeline.
I could remember it now. MCU before things got messy with gods, aliens, and purple chin fetishists. Iron Man was still a billionaire in a suit, Thor had not found a barber yet, and Captain America still thought fondue was code for something dirty.
Which meant... opportunities.
I started writing.
Rob rich villains.
Upgrade wardrobe.
Survive high school without dying, simping, or turning into a martyr.
Not necessarily in that order.
I scratched the pen across the page, brain kicking into gear. Peter's memories came in like fog with flashlights. Faces I never met. Teachers I never liked. Hallways I had never walked. Yet somehow, I knew the exact locker combo and which stall in the boy's bathroom to avoid unless I had a death wish.
"Now," I muttered, sliding the notebook aside, "for the real test."
I sat up. Then I curled my fingers inward and focused.
Nothing.
I frowned.
"Come on," I whispered. "Don't make me say the line. I will. But I don't want to."
Still nothing.
I stood, rolled my shoulders back, and tried again. Same hand position. This time, I threw a little mental oomph behind it. A sense of pressure. A twist in the gut like flexing a muscle I forgot existed.
Thwip!
Webbing shot out from my wrist like an offended cobra. Fast. Wet. Glorious.
It smacked the wall above my bed and stuck with a sound somewhere between a slap and a kiss.
"Oh... hell yes," I breathed.
I stared at it. The glistening line, thin and strong and disgustingly organic. It pulsed faintly at the base. I tried not to think too hard about where exactly in my anatomy that came from.
[System]: Mmmh~ You shot your first. I am so proud.
I rolled my eyes. "Not now."
[System]: Fine. I will be quiet. But just so you know… I saved that sound. For reasons.
Silence.
Thank god.
I raised my other hand, angled it a little differently, and fired again. Web struck the closet door this time. Clean hit. Quick retraction. No strain.
So. Tobey version. Wrist shooters. No tech. Pure spider-juice.
I flexed my fingers and stared at the slight sheen across my palm. Could feel it now, beneath the skin, like a buzz of dormant electricity laced with caffeine and god complex.
"Alright," I whispered to the room, "I have powers. I have memories. I have MJ mildly flustered. Now I need gear."
Who to rob... Who to rob...
Lucky for me, Peter was not a name that lit up news feeds yet. A few police reports about a masked guy pulling old ladies from traffic, maybe one blurry TikTok of a wall-crawl at night, but nothing concrete. I was not Spider-Man, not really. Not yet. Just a rumor.
Which meant I had options.
I could still move in the shadows. Still act without dragging the spotlight onto me. And God knew I was not about to go full cape and announce my arrival like a budget Avenger with a branding problem.
No. I needed money.
Not allowance. Not the twenty May slipped into my hoodie pocket like it was going to save me from capitalism. Real money. Enough to build gear. Upgrade. Get ahead of the canon curve.
Because the moment the world found out I could do backflips off rooftops and cling to ceilings like a caffeinated gecko, the game would change. S.H.I.E.L.D. would sniff around. Stark might send a drone. And God forbid I fumbled a save and ended up with a lawsuit and a dead civilian on my conscience.
So I would stay under the radar. For now.