In Peter Parker's room, the dim glow of his monitor cast sharp shadows across his exhausted face.
He hadn't slept all night.
On-screen, a 3D-modeled cast-iron manhole cover spun slowly in midair—the subject of its 174th physics simulation.
Each run used different parameters: wind speed, ground subsidence, sudden spikes in underground pipeline pressure.
Without exception, the outcome was identical.
In the corner of the simulation window, bright red error messages flashed relentlessly:
Result: Violates conservation of momentum.
[Conclusion: Simulation failed]
Peter tugged at his hair in frustration.
The instantaneous impulse required to launch a 200-pound manhole cover half a meter into the air was astronomical.
This wasn't some random fluke.
He opened a new browser tab and typed three phrases into the search bar:
"Localized energy bursts," "objects bouncing autonomously," and "precision anti-gravity phenomena."
The results were a mess of UFO sightings, paranormal forums, and urban legend wikis.
One link—"Is Mind Control Real? A Yoga Master's Confession"—made his skin crawl.
He slammed the tab shut.
All that remained open was a student profile photo downloaded from Midtown High's official site:
Joren Joestar.
The boy in the picture wore his hat pulled low, expressionless, eyes hidden in shadow.
Peter's index finger traced the edge of the screen, finally stopping on the name.
The end of physics isn't theology, he thought.
It's Joren Joestar.
---
The next day, the Midtown High locker room reeked of sweat and cheap body spray.
Flash Thompson—slammed his fist against a locker. The metal groaned under the impact.
"That freak definitely used some kind of witchcraft!" he barked, glaring at the circle of football teammates around him. His jaw clenched tight, face flushed with rage.
"I felt something under the chair—and then crack!—I was flat on my ass. My tailbone still hurts!"
Marcus, a hulking linebacker, snorted. "Dude, you're just sore from yesterday's drills. How's someone supposed to sabotage a chair just by looking at it?"
Another teammate nodded. "Yeah, man, that chair was junk. And let's be real—you're not exactly light on your feet."
Flash's face turned crimson. "No! You don't get it! The way he looked at me—it was weird! He's behind this, I swear!"
An awkward silence settled over the group.
Mocking their own quarterback was one thing.
Letting him get humiliated by some new transfer student?
That was a different story.
It wasn't just about Flash—it was about the whole team's rep.
Marcus stopped smiling and placed a firm hand on Thompson's shoulder.
"Alright. Whether he did it or not—we get our revenge."
Thompson's lips curled into a sinister grin.
"That guy's obsessed with that tattered hat of his. Haven't seen him take it off once since he walked into class." He glanced around at his teammates. "At lunch. In the cafeteria. In front of everyone."
His voice dropped, low and venomous.
"I'm gonna rip that hat off myself—see if he's bald… or if he's got horns under there."
He straightened, voice booming again.
"Time he learned who really runs Midtown High."
Morning sunlight streamed through the corridor windows, painting shifting rectangles of gold across the linoleum floor.
Joren walked through the crowd, schoolbag slung over one shoulder, eyes fixed straight ahead.
Students parted before him like water around a stone. Whispers bloomed in his wake—only to die the moment he turned his head.
He didn't care.
All he wanted was the library. There was an illustrated guide to cephalopods waiting for him—octopus camouflage patterns, squid propulsion mechanics—he'd been dreaming about it since last night.
A figure darted from the side and blocked his path.
That bespectacled nerd.
"Joren!" Peter panted, clearly having sprinted to catch up. "Wait! We're classmates! I'm Peter Parker!"
He jabbed a finger toward the ceiling, eyes wide with manic energy.
"That manhole cover in the alley yesterday? Its instantaneous vertical acceleration hit at least 150 m/s²! To generate that kind of force, you'd need a precision-placed explosion—down to the millimeter!"
He lowered his voice conspiratorially.
"But there were no blast marks. No thermal residue. No energy signature at all! Energy can't just vanish—it conserves!"
He threw his hands up.
"And those chairs in class? Bolts intact—no shear stress, no torque fractures! Then—poof—golden light! Was that a directed-energy weapon? Alien tech? Magic?!"
A few students nearby glanced over, curious.
Joren didn't break stride.
"Have no idea."
He stepped around Peter and kept walking.
"Hey! Don't just—!" Peter spun to follow, but Joren was already ten paces ahead, disappearing into the flow of bodies.
Peter stopped.
Chasing him now would be useless. From this distance, he'd never get answers.
No.
He needed to be closer.
He needed to see it happen—with his own eyes—the exact moment reality bent around Joren.
The morning classes passed like a lullaby for Joren—droning voices, half-heard lectures, time dissolving into the quiet hum of turning pages.
When the bell rang, he closed his textbook precisely on the final chime.
Cafeteria.
A pit stop. Fuel the body, then back to solitude and cephalopod diagrams.
He strolled in, schoolbag brushing his hip, calm as ever.
The moment he crossed the threshold—
Six hulking figures in rugby jerseys rose from a central table like wolves scenting blood.
At their head stood Thompson.
They fanned out in a semicircle, cutting off Joren's path with practiced ease.
The cafeteria fell silent.
Clattering trays froze mid-air. Conversations choked off mid-sentence. Every eye locked onto the scene unfolding near the entrance.
Even Peter, trailing a few steps behind, halted in the doorway, fists clenched.
Thompson didn't rush. He strode forward, chest puffed, voice ringing loud enough for the whole room to hear:
"Everyone—look!"
He pointed at Joren like a prosecutor unveiling a criminal.
"This guy transferred in yesterday—and already attacked me in class! For no reason!"
He paced a slow circle, voice rising with theatrical outrage.
"He's dangerous. Violent. A madman hiding in plain sight!"
Then, with a flourish, he turned to face Joren directly, eyes blazing with mock righteousness.
"Today, I speak for Midtown High. And I'm gonna teach this freak what happens when you mess with our school."