Alex sat alone in his dark apartment. He was 28, a software engineer. His life had crumbled. His girlfriend left after he worked 80-hour weeks. His app idea? Stolen by his boss in a screaming office fight. Now takeout boxes piled like failures. The air smelled sour—old coffee and regret. Stories were his only light. In them, heroes fixed everything.
He played Avengers: Endgame again. Tony Stark died by the water. The heroes cried. Alex's chest tightened. It felt like his dad's funeral—sharp, endless, never healing.
Then a box appeared on screen. Plain white. Black words.
Alex laughed, short and bitter. "Why not?" he said to the empty room. "I broke mine. Fix yours."
He clicked [YES].
Reality ripped him apart. No sound. His skin burned like fire ants crawled inside. Bones stretched, snapped, reformed. Muscles tore and rewove. Memories flashed: girlfriend's goodbye, boss's smirk, dad's coffin lowering into dirt. His mind clawed at the void—I am being erased—then tumbled through black wires, a ghost yanked from his body. Ned's memories crashed in like ice water—Peter's laugh, LEGO bricks clicking, Queens pizza steam rising. Two lives collided, bruising his mind. When it stopped, he wore a stranger's skin. His new heart raced too fast. Wrong. All wrong.
He woke gasping. Dust choked him. Cheap carpet scratched his palms. Boy sweat and old socks filled the air. Outside, bodega bells jingled under gray May skies, kids shouted in Spanglish—a Queens heartbeat pulsing through thin walls.
He sat up. His hands—small, soft, wrong. Legs too short. He was 16. Name: Ned Leeds.
But Alex fought inside. I chose this. Fear clawed. A raw ache hit—his old body's absence, like losing a limb. Then his engineer's brain clicked: Assess. Adapt. Survive. Old life gone. This one—he'd rewrite.
He looked around. Star Wars posters sagged on walls. Half-built LEGO Death Star cluttered the desk. Outside, Queens traffic growled. Sirens wailed—sharp warnings of fights coming.
His stomach lurched. He stumbled to the mirror. A kid stared back: round face, messy hair, eyes wild with his terror.
"No," he whispered. The voice cracked high. "This isn't me."
Phone buzzed. He grabbed it. A warm hum pulsed in his palm. Rules unfolded—not words, but knowledge, like downloading an app mid-run:
Week 1 unlocked. Touch an object. Feel its parts glow—metal hardens, circuits sharpen, energy surges.Example: Pen writes on walls, never smudges, unbreakable. One per week. No life. No Stones. Safe for you. Source: The ones who debug universes.
He sank onto the bed. Springs creaked. 104 chances. Too few. One pen won't stop a Titan. What if I glitch the timeline?
Ned's memories hit—full blast. Building LEGO with Peter. Laughing at bad movies. Trust like family. They warmed Alex's cold plans. Not hero. Survivor. But maybe... more.
Morning. Midtown High. Lockers slammed like doors closing. Kids laughed about crushes and tests, blind to the end coming. Ned smiled, joked—perfect mask. Inside, Alex listed moves.
In the hall, Peter Parker appeared, worn thin. He limped slightly—the spider bite still scarred his leg. His eyes were sharp, shadowed by Civil War guilt that kept him up nights.
Right then, Ned made his choice. Peter was Spider-Man. Strongest here. Ned would stick close. Fix gear. Plan fights. Be needed. Or die.
Afternoon. Peter's door. "Death Star time," Ned said. Easy lie.
"Ned!" Aunt May called. Garlic and tomatoes warmed the air—like hugs she gave after Ben died. Her voice: kind, cracked with daily grief.
"Peter's room!" she said.
A crash echoed down the hall. "Oh no, no, no!"
Ned pushed in.
Peter clung to the ceiling, upside-down. Red-blue suit. Mask eyes huge.
Three seconds of silence.
"You're early," Peter mumbled. His voice shook through the mask.
Ned kept cool. "This is your room." He paused. "Internship fun?"
Peter jerked. Scratched neck. "Uh... yeah."
THWIP. Web hit Ned's LEGO Emperor. Glued it to wall.
"Rude," Ned deadpanned. "He ruled a whole galaxy."
Peter dropped silent. Ripped mask off. Sweat poured. Eyes begged. "Swear silence, Ned. Please."
Ned crossed arms. "Silence about what? My best friend—Spider-Man?"
Peter gaped. "HOW?"
Ned grinned first—real, from Ned's joy. "Fast learner."
"Learner? I hide perfect!" Peter cracked, half-laugh. He bounced on his toes—classic Peter energy, unable to stay still.
Ned stepped closer. "You vanish at lunch. Dodge dodgeballs impossible. And spider-sense?"
Peter blinked. "Huh?"
"Booger patrol. You always stop me. Not normal."
Two seconds. Pure quiet.
Peter deflated. "Boogers got me?"
Ned laughed—free, shared. Peter's eyes lit up. No plan. Just friends—for one perfect moment.
Then vulnerability cracked Alex open.Peter's just like me—scared of failing family. The ache from his dad's funeral echoed. Peter's hands fidgeted, same as Alex at 16, terrified of disappointing Dad. Two boys, same fear, different wars. For a breath, plans vanished. Just two kids against the world. He wanted to tell Peter everything—I get it. I failed too.—but survival snapped back.
Peter spilled: "The spider bite burned for days. The suit feels heavy. I help people, Ned. But... what if I fail May?"
Ned squeezed his shoulder. Warmth spread. "You won't. We won't."
Trust clicked into place between them, solid and real. But Alex wondered—Real friend? Or step one of my plan? The warmth twisted—moral gray he couldn't ignore.
Ned eyed his phone. Tomorrow: upgrade. Track Vulture. Save us.
Peter paused. "Spider-sense guess?"
Ned's grin sharpened. "My turn for secrets."
104 weeks. Race on.
End of Chapter 1