Parker residence, night.
"Peter? Are you really not going to try one?"
Aunt May stood in the kitchen, holding out a tray toward him. On it were freshly baked pancakes.
"Banana-coconut flavor, with cinnamon and honey. They're really good—you should at least taste one and see if you like it."
Beside her, Uncle Ben added, "May thought your appetite's been poor lately. She spent two hours making these just for you."
Peter looked up from where he was leaning against the cabinet, flipping through today's paper. "I already ate, Aunt May, Uncle Ben."
"But we didn't see you eat anything," Uncle Ben said, shaking his head. "Don't tell me you've been eating out again. If you keep buying food outside every day, your allowance won't last long."
"Maybe I can earn my own money," Peter replied, setting the newspaper down. "I'm fine, Uncle Ben. You don't need to worry about me."
Aunt May didn't agree. She placed the tray on the table, wiped her hands on her apron, and walked over to him.
"You've been down lately—I can feel it. Peter, you're not the kind of child who can hide his feelings," she said softly, taking his hand. "Maybe we can help."
For a moment, Peter stayed silent. Then he looked into Aunt May's worried eyes.
"I'm fine."
It was all he said. Enough to leave a trace of disappointment in her expression.
Though he hadn't lived with Aunt May and Uncle Ben for long, Peter could feel the sincerity of their care. Yet the burden he carried wasn't something he could share with them—nor was it something they could solve.
The silence was broken by Uncle Ben's warm, steady voice.
"Peter, if you're having a hard time at school, maybe you should take a couple of days off. I could take you to the Metropolitan Museum—you said you wanted to go once, didn't you?"
"No, thank you, Uncle Ben." Peter shook his head. "I'm not interested right now."
"Well," Uncle Ben sighed, "you might think I nag, but I'll say it anyway. Peter, don't trouble yourself too much. Everyone has strengths and weaknesses. You might not be the strongest boy around, but your mind—your science—is exceptional."
"And my gift," he added with mock solemnity, "is lecturing with long-winded speeches."
Peter gave him a blank look as Uncle Ben coughed, then picked up a notebook from a chair.
"I know a formula, one that always applies no matter the situation. I believe it applies to you too, Peter."
He scribbled onto the page: W/G^p = G^r
"The greater the power, the greater the responsibility."
Peter froze. Hearing that most famous line, he fell silent.
Why… why do I feel the shadow of death around you, Uncle Ben?
"Isn't that formula something you made up?" Peter finally asked.
"Of course it's real. I can explain the symbols—'P' stands for—"
"Alright, Ben, enough with the lectures," Aunt May cut him off. "I don't know what 'P' stands for, but I do know that 'G' might stand for 'Goofiness.'"
She shot her husband a look, then patted Peter on the shoulder. "Our Peter probably needs some rest. My ears are already buzzing from all this talk."
Uncle Ben shrugged helplessly at being undercut. "Fine, maybe I did go on a little long today."
After excusing himself from their concern, Peter sat at his desk, browsing the web. From downstairs came the low humming of Aunt May's vacuum cleaner.
Chemotherapy. Hospitals. Radiation therapy.
His fingers flew across the keyboard. Search results from New York's hospitals filled the screen.
His battle with the Hand had left no doubt: the alien gene was constantly eroding him.
The embryo inside him clung to his organs like a cancer. Radiation or chemotherapy could kill cancer cells, but they would do nothing to the alien parasite.
Still, those hospitals had the best diagnostic equipment, the strongest drugs, and the most advanced methods of suppression. Even if they couldn't stop the embryo's growth, at least he could understand what changes it was undergoing inside him.
"NewYork–Presbyterian Hospital," he murmured.
One of the top medical systems in the country. Its neurosurgery and oncology departments ranked among the very best. Even presidents and officials had been treated there.
Now, all he needed was money.
But in America, medicine was notorious for its cost.
Peter remembered a story he'd once heard about a new immigrant who went to see a doctor for back pain. The physician, attentive and polite, chatted with him for fifteen minutes and sent him home. The next day, he received a bill for $5,670.
The man was dumbfounded. Five thousand six hundred and seventy dollars—just for a simple check?
For context, a skilled tradesman might make around a thousand dollars a week.
The doctor's note on the bill read: "Touching: $10. Knowing where to touch: $5,660."
The immigrant had no words.
Peter leaned back. Well, back to money.
For good people, earning money legally might take time.
For someone like him, who no longer cared about rules, it was the easiest thing in the world.
He glanced at the clock ticking on the wall. Eleven o'clock. A little more time until midnight.
He would wait until Aunt May and Uncle Ben were asleep.
That hunger again—gnawing at his body, making his throat twist with nausea.
Yes, the alien gene had given him strength beyond ordinary humans. But it was also a constant reminder: a sword of Damocles hanging over his head. One day it would fall, and when it did, he'd die in the most horrific way—his chest torn open from within.
He nibbled on some chocolate, just enough to keep going, then waited.
Finally, past midnight, when the house grew silent, Peter put on a baseball cap and slipped out.
He melted into the night, heading for the neighborhood where New York's gangs prowled the streets most boldly.
Under the ink-black sky, his body was almost one with the shadows.