"I hate this feeling!"
Gwen pressed her aching forehead, her voice low and heavy. "I don't want Peter to be seen this way… but I can't change any of it."
"You and Peter—"
Knowing what her father was about to ask, Gwen cut him off. "He's my friend."
Then quickly added, "A good friend."
George gave her a steady look. "Don't worry. We'll find the real culprit and clear your friend's name. Just give your father a little time."
—
Meanwhile, Uncle Ben's rattling old Toyota was carrying Aunt May and Peter home.
"I'm sorry, Peter," Aunt May's voice trembled, thick with guilt. "I never knew you were going through that at school."
Beside her, Peter gently comforted her. "It's over now, Aunt May. I don't really care about those things."
"I love you, Peter. I really do."
Her eyes were red as she clutched his hands. "I've always worried I wasn't good enough, that I let you suffer without realizing. If I had known what you endured, I would've taken it on myself instead."
"May, Peter's a strong kid."
Uncle Ben kept his eyes on the road. "I think he didn't tell us because he was worried about us. Everyone hits rough patches while growing up, but I believe with all my heart that Peter will grow into a fine young man."
Though Uncle Ben ached for his nephew, he remained clear-headed.
These were trials Peter ultimately had to face on his own.
Peter, listening to their words, stayed calm.
The bullying was a memory left behind by the original Peter. He didn't carry much of that pain himself.
In his eyes, the law of the jungle applied everywhere.
Fairness and justice… those were nothing more than illusions.
As his gaze drifted to the blur of scenery outside the car window, his thoughts shifted elsewhere.
The victim had been wrapped into a cocoon of spider silk. He'd never seen a killing method like that before.
Was the killer another student?
Someone like Spider-Man?
Or… another genetically altered being like himself?
His brows furrowed tightly.
—
The next day.
NewYork–Presbyterian Hospital.
Peter walked down the corridor toward Dr. Ryan's office in the oncology wing.
He needed Ryan to keep monitoring the changes of the alien embryo inside his body with specialized equipment.
As for school, it was closed for the day after Josh's death—likely to quiet the increasingly outrageous rumors swirling around the incident.
Because the circumstances of Josh's death were so bizarre, stories spread like wildfire.
Some even painted Peter as a murderer with mysterious powers.
After all, plenty of students had seen him hurl Josh against the lockers with unnatural strength.
Killing him wouldn't have seemed difficult.
Even though the school and the police had both explained Peter's innocence, whispers tied his name to "spiders."
Unbeknownst to him, his classmates had already begun calling him "Spider-Man."
Inside Dr. Ryan's office, the doctor gave him another check-up.
The alien embryo in his body hadn't changed much—it remained dormant, just like before.
Ryan offered him advice, which Peter acknowledged with a nod, though without committing.
He could feel it: his body was evolving, growing stronger.
He ran faster, moved more agilely, struck with greater power.
If he had to fight that "wolf boy" again, it would be far easier now.
The alien genes within him were exerting a greater influence by the day.
But he didn't know where it would all lead.
Would he become an alien himself?
Or would one be born from within him?
"So, you're certain you don't want a blood test? It could help us understand what kind of tumor you're carrying."
Ryan pressed him again.
"No. No need."
His blood was as corrosive as an alien's. Drawing it would melt through the needle in an instant.
Leaving the office, Peter headed toward the hospital's public lounge.
There, an elderly woman in a wheelchair called out to him.
"Child, could you take me back to my ward?"
She smiled warmly at him.
Peter glanced around, making sure she meant him, then shook his head without hesitation.
"Sorry, I've got something to do. Ask someone else."
Helping others wasn't his instinct.
"Is that so? But I can see how lost you are. Perhaps… I could offer a little advice."
Her smile didn't waver.
Peter ignored her—until her next words froze him in his tracks.
"For instance, I know you're thinking about buying a newspaper. But you don't have any change in your wallet, do you?"
Peter stopped and studied her, silent for a few moments.
It was true—he had been planning to head downstairs and buy something.
He pulled out his wallet, stuffed with Franklins—no small bills at all.
He put it away with a shake of his head. "Maybe I was going to buy something. But not necessarily a newspaper. Right up until the moment I decide, even I don't know what it will be."
"But destiny already made the choice for you, hasn't it?"
Peter didn't reply. After a moment's thought, he walked over and began pushing the woman's wheelchair.
He wanted to see what game she was playing.
"Thank you," she said with a gentle smile. "My room is 965."
—
Elsewhere, Dr. Christine realized one of her patients was missing.
The wheelchair was gone, too.
Her heart sank—she'd strictly forbidden this patient from leaving. But the moment she turned her back, the woman had vanished.
Just as Christine was about to storm off to scold a nurse, she looked up—only to see her patient being wheeled calmly back into the room.
And the one pushing the chair was the last person she expected.