"INT. AUNT MAY'S HOUSE – YEAR 2025"
Dust floats lazily in the warm light streaming through the window. Peter Benjamin Parker kneels by an old wooden bookshelf, flipping through weathered books stacked tightly together.
He pulls out a leather-bound journal, its cover cracked with age. The name etched faintly across it: "Peter Parker I".
Peter frowns, opening the book.
Inside, a faded photograph. His grandfather "Peter Parker I" sits in a wheelchair, smiling faintly. Beside him, a man of average height with short black hair and light-colored eyes gives a thumbs up and two vertical scars cross his right eye.
Peter stares at the page, his breath catching.
Peter: Who… who are those people?
He flips the page. Inked letters in bold script stretch across the yellowed paper:
"STEEL BALL RUN – 1890"
Peter's eyes widen, tension running through him.
From behind, a voice.
Aunt May: What are you doing, Peter?
Peter jumps slightly, clutching the journal before turning around.
Peter: Aunt May… hey. Uh… I wanted to ask you something. Do you… do you know about the Steel Ball Run?
Aunt May smiles softly, stepping closer, her hands folded in front of her.
Aunt May: Yes, I know that event.
Peter freezes, his throat tight.
Peter: Yo-You knew?
Aunt May nods, her smile never fading.
Aunt May: Yes. My father, "Albert Reilly", once hosted that event… during the time of the cowboy era. Your grandfather "Peter Parker I" he used to be in a wheelchair back then.
Peter's grip on the journal tightens. Sweat beads on his forehead.
Peter: You're kidding… right?
Aunt May tilts her head, still smiling.
Aunt May: Who knows?
She lets out a light laugh, motioning toward the couch.
Aunt May: Come and sit down with me. I'll tell you the story of the Steel Ball Run.
Peter swallows hard, his eyes darting between his aunt and the strange photograph, the weight of history pressing down on him.
"135 YEARS – AGO – DESERT RACE TRACK – STEEL BALL RUN – NEW YORK – YEAR 1890"
The final stretch of the Steel Ball Run. The desert wind howls as horses thunder across the dirt, their hooves pounding like drums of war.
Peter Parker I rides hard, sweat streaking down his brow, his eyes locked forward. The crowd in the distance roars as the finish line glimmers in the dying sunlight.
Behind him, a shadow looms. A man average height, short black hair, scars slashing over his right eye presses his horse forward, his smile cruel and knowing.
Peter clenches his reins, his voice rising above the storm of hooves.
Peter Parker I: WEATHER REPORT!
A Stand bursts into existence beside him an ethereal figure wrapped in swirling storm clouds. Thunder cracks across the sky, the wind screaming with Peter's fury.
But the man only laughs, raising his arm. His Stand erupts behind him tall, golden, with piercing eyes.
Aldo: THE WORLD! THIS TIME, ONLY MINE!
The air snaps. Sound dies.
Everything freezes. The horses halt mid-gallop, grains of dust hang in the air unmoving, the storm itself caught in silence.
Aldo smirks, stepping forward in the stillness. In his hand, knives shimmer into existence.
Aldo: I know you well, Peter Parker.
He flicks his wrist knives scatter, glinting as they hover inches from Peter's body.
Aldo: And it seems there's nothing different about you in this place… not so different from the Peter of my world. The very same Peter I killed… with this very Stand.
His voice lowers into a cold promise, his eyes burning with fanatic pride.
Aldo: Because I am Aldo J. Joestar. And The World's true power is, indeed, the power to reign over this world! Just like what the weird ass dude told me...
Time ticks. His smile widens.
Aldo: NOW TIME RESUME!
The knives fly. The storm surges. Peter Parker's eyes widen as the deadly blades slice toward him.