Brooklyn – Morning
It was a room like any other teenager's room. Posters clung to the walls, laundry sprawled across the floor, and an open suitcase sat half-packed on the bed. At the desk, an African-American- Puerto Rican boy hunched over a sketchpad, pencil scratching in rhythm with the beat of Sunflower by Post Malone and Swae Lee.
A call from downstairs jolted him upright. Miles Morales snapped his sketchbook shut, tossed clothes into the suitcase haphazardly and pulled on his sneakers. He trudged down the street, backpack sagging behind him, doodles and stickers plastered across it, his sketchbook jutting out like it was too restless to stay hidden.
Friends from Brooklyn Middle waved as he passed, calling his name, but Miles only half-returned the greetings, distracted by sticking his own art. A flurry of small, clever stickers onto signs and posts as he went.
At a crosswalk, his untied laces betrayed him. He tripped forward and froze at the sight of a police cruiser that had stopped just inches away.
The driver leaned out, uniform sharp as a blade. "C'mon, Miles," Jefferson Davis called, voice carrying the weight of both father and cop. "Visions Academy's the best shot you've got. Don't waste it."
"I'm not wasting it," Miles muttered, tugging his bag tighter. "I just… liked my old school better."
"Liked?" Jefferson arched a brow. "Kid, you slept through half your classes."
Miles offered a sheepish grin. "Yeah, but I was really good at it."
He climbed out, only for the cruiser's siren to blare in front of the entire school.
"I heard no 'I love you, Dad.' " Jefferson's voice boomed through the loudspeaker.
Miles somehow flushed crimson, hissing, "Dad, are you serious?!"
"C'mon, son."
Miles groaned, hiding his face as he shouted back, "I love you, Dad!"
"I love you too, son!" Jefferson's voice echoed across the courtyard, chasing Miles all the way through the gleaming glass doors of Visions Academy.
Brooklyn Visions Academy
This was a different world. Not the relaxed chaos of Brooklyn Middle but an ocean of precision. The halls thrummed with kids who looked like they'd been designing satellites since kindergarten. Miles felt like a street doodle dropped into an art museum.
His dorm was shared with a round-faced Asian kid buried in a video game console. Ganke Lee. They'd barely exchanged words beyond awkward nods. For the entirety of the day Miles flailed, perpetually late, sprinting between classes like a chicken on roller skates.
By the time he slipped into physics, the teacher had already noticed.
"Late again, Mr. Morales."
Miles froze mid-step. "Einstein said time is relative," He quipped nervously. "So maybe you guys are early and I'm just in time."
Silence. Then one laugh, quick and genuine.
He turned. Dirty blonde hair framed her face, an eyebrow piercing glinting under the projector light.
"Gwa…nda." She introduced, accentless, shaking his hand. "Just transferred here."
"Miles. Morales. Brooklyn," he replied, fumbling.
"South African," She added, catching his raised brow. "But I grew up here. Explains the no-accent thing."
He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Cool. Uh… welcome to… the place I don't belong."
She studied him, her gaze sharper than her smile. "Don't sell yourself short. Sometimes the best minds just… don't look like the rest."
He blinked at her, heat crawling up his neck. She walked off, and he couldn't shake the strange tingle that followed — like the universe itself had nudged him.
That Evening
A graded sheet landed on his desk: 0/100.
"Wow," Miles muttered. "That's bad. A few more of those and you gotta kick me out, huh?"
The teacher raised a brow. "Tell me, Morales. If a blindfolded person guessed every answer on this test, what would the score be?"
"Uh… fifty?"
"Exactly. The only way to get every answer wrong is to know every right one." With a pen stroke, the zero flipped into a perfect hundred. She leaned closer. "You're trying to quit. Guess what? I'm not letting you."
He shifted uncomfortably, but she pressed on. "Essay. Your expectations for yourself. Due tomorrow."
Later, in his dorm, the blank page glared at him. His foot tapped, his patience thinned. Inspiration wasn't coming here. He pulled up his hoodie, tucked his sketchbook under his arm, and slipped out the gates.
Uncle Aaron
Aaron opened the door with a grin. "How's the new digs?"
"It's great. Tons of friends," Miles deadpanned, tossing half-hearted punches at the punching bag in the corner.
Aaron smirked. "That bad, huh?"
"What? Noooo," Miles protested weakly.
"C'mon, kid. Let's go."
They hiked down into the abandoned subway tunnels, graffiti sanctuaries where only artists and daredevils dared linger. The concrete walls stretched empty, begging for color.
Together, they painted rebellion. Chains cracking apart, colors exploding across gray walls — Miles' vision bleeding into reality. When they stepped back, hands covered in red and blue streaks, the mural pulsed with life.
[Image]
And that's when it happened.
A spider crawled down the wall. Black with blue markings, its abdomen stamped with a glowing "Alchemax 42."
Miles leaned closer. "Huh?"
It dropped. Sank its fangs into his hand.
"Ah!" He yelped, swatting it away. "Stupid bug..."
The world tilted. His veins burned fire, his vision swimming with color. He staggered, clutching his head.
"You good, kid?" Aaron asked, frowning.
"Y-Yeah. Just… paint fumes." Miles lied, forcing a crooked smile.
But deep inside, something had shifted.
Visions Dorms
Back at the academy, Gwanda sprawled across her bed, headphones blaring, eyes fixed on a book she wasn't reading. Her spider-sense flared sharp, again and again, like an alarm no one else could hear.
She pressed a hand to her temple, whispering, "Something's coming…"
Her gaze slid to the window, out toward Brooklyn, where the night itself seemed to hold its breath.
And beneath those streets, Miles Morales was already beginning to change.
The web of destiny was shifting. Tomorrow, threads would begin to cross.
A bonus chapter for this special day. I wish all my readers a Merry Christmas 🎄 🎁 🎄 🎁 🎄 🎁
Read 33 chapters ahead on P.A.T.R.E.O.N
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