The middle of September had already started to cool the city, the kind that made everybody just a little bit grumpier or a little bit more invigorated than usual. In an apartment on the East Side, Peter A. Parker was hunched over his coffee maker,which he had paid way too much money for,examining the dark liquid like it held the world's secrets.
"Alright, universe… give me something good today," he muttered, swirling the mug. He brought it up to his mouth and took a tentative sip, savoring the heat.
The city spread out below his balcony in a patchwork of brick, glass, and asphalt, golden in the morning sun. He leaned over the railing, letting the cool breeze tousle his hair.
"Good morning, New York," he grumbled, as though the city would respond. For a fleeting moment, it was quiet, ordinary. The kind of ordinary he'd been missing lately.
Then he glanced at his watch.
"Oh, come on."
Peter swallowed the rest of the coffee, near-choking, and banged the mug into the sink. Shirt? On. Tie? Somewhere on the floor, probably plotting against him. Glasses? Check. He grabbed his messenger bag and all but flew out the door.
By the time he reached the Daily Bugle, his hair had become very messy. He dashed across the lobby, apologized to the security guard a good dozen times, and slammed the button for the topmost floor.
Phones rang. Printers vomited paper. Reporters shouted over each other. Peter waved to a few of his coworkers, muttering "Morning" in all the right tones of distracted politeness. And then he froze.
The mural.
His uncle, immortalized in heroic brush strokes, stood alongside J. Jonah Jameson, whose expression looked like that of a man who'd just caught a scent of a bad idea and was now making the world take notice.
Peter looked to his side and Jona was already headed towards him.
"Always knew it was a stupid idea. Who gave it out anyway?" Jonah said.
Peter turned. "You did."
Jonah didn't respond. He just kept walking back to his office, his scowl practically radiating authority. Peter trailed behind him, taking long steps to catch up.
"So… Mary Jane," Jonah began, leaning back in his chair once Peter closed the door. "Still going out with her? Or has she come to her senses and run away screaming yet?"
Peter chuckled. "She's still mine. Mostly because she hasn't figured out that she can leave me yet."
Jonah made a sound. "Mm-hmm. Naturally. And Allan Biotech?"
Peter crossed his arms and rested against the desk. "Not a good thing, definitely. They have a whole 'we're covering up something dirty and hope nobody looks' going on. The sort of company you don't want to deal with unless you enjoy corporate horror tales."
Jonah massaged his temple. "I have a bad feeling about them. Labs filled with God-knows-what, vanishing employees… and I don't believe a word these paid-off officials are saying."
"Same here." Peter slid a folder across the desk. "Seventeen people—missing or pronounced dead—since that Oscorp subsidiary opened shop. The public? They're clueless. And bonus points: they've been secretly dumping chemicals into the docks and bay."
Jonah frowned. "Damn it. Bribed officials… all of them. Shame is a thing of the past, apparently."
Peter's eyebrow rose. "Also, Fisk has been making the rounds lately. My instinct says he's in on it somehow."
Jonah leaned back, his voice low. "Wouldn't be the first time he's worked with the Osborns. Watch yourself, Parker. You poke this, it bites."
Peter straightened. "I have a journalistic duty to poke it." He grabbed his bag.
Jonah's voice dropped, seemingly against his will: "Parker… Ben's anniversary is coming up. Don't… forget."
Peter nodded. No response needed. He slipped out into the city streets.
The docks reeked of salt, oil, and decay. The brutal shape of Allan Biotech towered above, harsh lines slashing in the morning light. Peter raised his camera, snapping away. "There's something about this place… that's not right," he muttered.
A ruckus distracted him. A group of kids were teasing another, shoving and jeering. Peter didn't hesitate.
"Hey! Knock it off!" He plopped down in front of them, knees slightly bent. "If you're auditioning for the 'Juvenile Delinquents of the Year' award, I'd advise knocking it off."
Most of the kids scattered. Just the biggest one and the girl he was teasing remained.
Peter crouched. "Alright, let's talk. Hurting people just because you can? Bad style. Seriously. Not trendy at all."
The bully puffed up, arms crossed, chest out. The girl just stood there, staring at the ground.
Peter nodded towards the boy. "You know, Uncle Ben used to tell me something that was pretty crucial. Something I didn't fully understand until… well, messing up a few times. Ready? With great power comes… great responsibility."
The boy raised an eyebrow. "That's Voltaire, isn't it?"
Peter paused. "Uh… wow. Really?"
"Yep. Big fan."
Peter chuckled. "Smart cookie. Didn't think you'd know that one."
The boy flipped him off and ran. Peter shook his head, laughing softly.
He extended a hand to the girl. "You okay?"
She nodded. "Thanks."
Her sneakers squeaked as she ran off.
Peter ducked into a quiet alley, the smell of salt and diesel mixing with the city's usual chaos. He fished his phone out of his pocket.
[Jackpot]
"Hey, MJ," he choked out, aiming for casual, but the constriction in his chest wouldn't permit it.
"Hello, Tiger," she said immediately, her voice warm but with that strand of worry he knew all too well. "Are you okay? You sound… winded."
Rushed is the diplomatic word. Late is closer to it. You know me, still chasing deadlines and dodging exploding coffee cups," he continued with a dry smile, though it didn't quite reach his eyes.
MJ chuckled low. "Classic Parker. But seriously… how's the dockside investigation going?"
Peter glanced over his shoulder at Allan Biotech's sleek skyscraper. "It's. creepy. Gray concrete, suspiciously spotless windows, ominous atmosphere—you know, your average supervillain decor.
"Mm-hmm," MJ replied, her voice crisp now. "Peter… a friend of mine… worked there. She's… she hasn't appeared lately. Just… gone."
Peter stopped dead in his tracks. "Gone? As in… no call, no text, just disappeared?"
"Exactly. And it's not like her to just vanish. Something's wrong, Peter."
He ran a hand through his hair. "Yeah… me too. Look, I'll check it out, MJ. I promise. I have to know what's going on in that place anyway."
"You'd better be careful," she said, her voice more gentle now, a near plea. "I don't want to lose you to some… secret lab horror story."
Peter smirked, though with forced humor. "MJ, you wound me. You believe some test tubes and lab coats can take the best out of me? I'm sort of trained to do this… And besides." He paused, letting the weight of the next words linger in the air between them. ".you know I couldn't stay out of trouble. Not when people disappear."
Her sigh was audible. "Just… be smart, Peter. And don't do anything too reckless. I mean it."
"I will. Scout's honor," Peter said. He took a deep breath, letting her words sink in. "And MJ? Thanks… for letting me know. I'll take care of it. I always do."
There was a pause. Then she said softly, almost hesitantly, "Just… come home in one piece, okay?"
Peter's chest tightened. "Always do. Always will."
He hung up, gazing at the brutalist structure in front of him. The shadowed concrete, the serrated lines, the secrecy—it all digs into his stomach like a warning.
"Yeah… something's very wrong," he muttered to himself.