Peter pushed through the revolving doors of Metro-General Hospital, the antiseptic smell hitting him immediately. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting everything in a sterile white glow that made his eyes ache.
In his left hand, he clutched a small bouquet of daisies—he would have bought something else but he left his wallet at home. The daisies were the only thing he could afford.
In his right pocket, nestled against his ribs, a tiny ball of warmth shifted. The black kitten had fallen asleep during the subway ride, lulled by the rhythm of Peter's heartbeat and the warmth of his body heat. He'd wrapped it in his scarf before tucking it away. No one needed to know he was smuggling a half-starved kitten into a hospital.
What the hell am I doing?
His been asking himself that since he'd scooped the tiny thing off the sidewalk.
He told himself he'd just... hold onto it for a bit to distract himself. Figure out what to do later. Not think about the Blood Catalyst. Not think about May. Not think about the possibilities.
Peter made his way to the elevators, shoulders hunched, hood still up despite being indoors. A few nurses glanced his way but didn't stop him. He looked like any other teenager visiting a sick relative—tired, worried, and trying not to fall apart.
Third floor. Room 314…
He'd memorized address weeks ago. Problem was he had never bothered to come over to visit till now.
The door was half-open when he arrived.
Peter paused.
Someone was inside.
He peered around the doorframe and saw a woman standing beside May's bed—mid-forties, dark hair pulled back in a neat bun, white coat, stethoscope around her neck. She was checking the monitors, making notes on a tablet, her expression professionally neutral.
Peter knocked softly.
The doctor looked up. Her face shifted into a practiced smile—the kind doctors gave to family members when they needed to deliver news that wasn't quite good but wasn't quite terrible either.
"You must be Peter," she said, setting the tablet aside. "I'm Dr. Reyes. I've been overseeing your mother's care."
Peter blinked.
Mother…
He opened his mouth to correct her, and then stopped.
"Yeah," he said instead, stepping inside. "That's me."
The kitten shifted against his ribs. Peter pressed his elbow against his pocket gently, hoping it would stay asleep.
Dr. Reyes gestured to May's bedside. "Please, come in. I was just finishing her routine checks."
Peter moved closer, his eyes drawn immediately to the bed.
Aunt May lay perfectly still, her chest rising and falling with mechanical regularity. Tubes ran from her arms to IV bags hanging beside the bed. A ventilator hummed softly. Monitors beeped in steady rhythm—heartbeat, blood pressure, oxygen levels.
She looked so small. Smaller than he remembered. Peaceful too…
Her hair had been brushed back from her face, probably by a nurse. There were more gray strands than before. More lines around her eyes.
Peter's throat tightened.
"How is she?" he asked, voice rougher than intended.
Dr. Reyes hesitated—just for a fraction of a second, but Peter caught it. His enhanced senses picked up the slight intake of breath, the way her fingers tensed around the tablet, the minute shift in her posture.
"Stable," she said carefully. "Her vitals are good. The swelling in her brain has gone down considerably. The internal injuries are healing well. All things considered, she's doing remarkably well for someone who sustained the trauma she did."
"But?" Peter pressed.
Dr. Reyes met his eyes. There was sympathy there. And something else.
Resignation.
"But she's not waking up," Peter finished for her.
The doctor's professional mask slipped slightly. "We're doing everything we can. Sometimes with traumatic brain injuries, the body needs time. Weeks. Months. Sometimes longer. And sometimes..." She trailed off.
"Sometimes they never wake up," Peter said flatly.
Dr. Reyes didn't deny it.
"I don't want to take away hope," she said gently. "Miracles do happen. I've seen patients wake up after being in comas for months, even years. But I also think it's important to be realistic about expectations. Your mother—" She caught herself. "May. She suffered significant trauma. The likelihood of her regaining consciousness diminishes with each passing day."
Peter stared at the flowers in his hand. The daisies suddenly felt absurdly inadequate.
A miracle, he thought bitterly. That's what she needs. A miracle.
His hand drifted unconsciously to his pocket, where the kitten lay sleeping.
Blood Catalyst. If I consumed blood with unique properties...
"How long?" Peter asked quietly.
"I'm sorry?"
"How long before the hospital gives up on her?"
Dr. Reyes' expression softened. "We're not giving up, Peter. We'll continue her care for as long as necessary. But at some point, decisions will need to be made about long-term care facilities, whether to maintain life support indefinitely—" She stopped when she saw his face. "I'm sorry. These are conversations for later. Right now, she's stable, and that's what matters."
She moved toward the door, then paused.
"You know, aside from Anna, you're the only one who's visited her regularly," she said. "That means something. Even if she can't respond, having loved ones present... it matters. Don't stop coming."
Peter nodded mutely. His guilt spread subtly, like blood dispersing in water.
Dr. Reyes gave him one last sympathetic smile before slipping out, closing the door behind her with a soft click.
And then it was just Peter and May.
And the kitten sleeping in his pocket.
And the flowers that wouldn't change anything.
Peter pulled the chair closer to the bed and sat down heavily. He set the daisies on the bedside table, next to a vase that already held wilting carnations—probably from Anna's last visit.
For a long moment, he just sat there, staring at May's face.
"Hey, Aunt May," he said finally, voice barely above a whisper. "Sorry it's been a while. Things have been... complicated."
The ventilator hummed. The monitors beeped.
May didn't respond.
"I, uh... I brought you flowers. Daisies. Yeah, I know—not your favorite. Sorry, couldn't exactly afford the Tulips. " He forced a weak laugh. "Probably should've brought them sooner. I'm kind of a terrible nephew. Or son, I guess, since apparently the doctors think you're my mom now. I didn't correct her. Hope that's okay."
Silence.
Peter's hands clenched into fists on his knees.
"I'm sorry," he said, voice cracking. "I'm so sorry, May. For everything. For not being there. For not protecting you. For almost... for almost giving up."
The kitten stirred in his pocket. A tiny mewling sound escaped before it settled back down.
Peter carefully pulled it out, cupping the small creature in both hands. It was so light. So fragile. Its ribs were visible beneath matted black fur, and its breathing was shallow.
He looked from the kitten to May and back again.
Blood Catalyst… The thought came naturally.
What if he injected it with the lizard serum and consumed its blood for its regenerative property? It was a long shot—a desperate, insane long shot—but it was something. More than the doctors could offer.
Or what about Original Sin? His blood could create derivative strains. What if he infected May? Gave her powers? Forced her body to evolve, to heal, to wake up?
The possibilities spun through his mind, each one more desperate than the last.
All of them required one thing.
Sacrifice.
He shouldn't rush this. At the very least he had some time left to consider his options. Moving to rash would cost him. His constant failure with Poindexter taught him that much.
Peter stared at the kitten in his hands. It yawned, revealing tiny needle-sharp teeth, then blinked up at him with sleepy yellow eyes.
It trusted him. This sick, starving creature had nuzzled against his leg looking for warmth and safety, and he'd provided it.
And now he was considering...
No…
Peter's hands tightened protectively around the kitten.
Not like this. Not yet. There has to be another way…
"I'm going to fix this," he said to May, his voice firmer now. "I don't know how yet, but I will. I've got... I've got resources now. Options. Things I didn't have before. I just need time to figure it out the right way."
He tucked the kitten back into his pocket, then reached out and took May's hand. It was cool to the touch, but her pulse was steady beneath his fingers.
"Just hold on a little longer, okay? I promise I'm not going to let you down again. I promise."
The monitors beeped their steady rhythm.
May's chest rose and fell.
Peter sat there for another three hours, holding her hand, talking to her about nothing and everything—school, the weather, the weird homeless guy who'd given him orange juice, anything to fill the silence.
When visiting hours ended, a nurse politely knocked and told him it was time to go.
Peter stood reluctantly, squeezed May's hand one last time, and left. Maybe he'd stop by Uncle Ben on the way home.
The kitten slept soundly in his pocket the entire way home.
***
The subway ride back took longer than usual. Track maintenance. Signal problems. The usual New York bullshit.
By the time Peter emerged at his stop, it was after midnight. The streets were quieter now, the daytime crowds replaced by the nighttime wanderers—late-shift workers, bar-hoppers, the occasional homeless person huddled in doorways.
Peter walked with his hood up and hands in his pockets, one hand resting protectively over the sleeping kitten.
His mind was still at the hospital.
Dr. Reyes' words echoed: The likelihood of her regaining consciousness diminishes with each passing day. Miracles do happen. I've seen it. But I also think it's important to be realistic…
Peter's jaw tightened.
Realistic. Right…
The realistic thing was that May would never wake up. The realistic thing was that she'd waste away in that bed until someone decided to pull the plug. The realistic thing was—
A scream cut through his thoughts.
Peter's head snapped up, his enhanced senses immediately zeroing in on the sound.
The sound was coming from the alley two blocks ahead.
Peter's body moved—so fast the even he found himself surprised by the speed and at which he could move. One moment he was walking, the next he was sprinting, his feet barely touching the ground as he picked up speed.
He threw his hand up and held down the hood on his head just to make sure the his little passenger didn't fall off.
The world didn't quite slow down—not yet, he wasn't focusing that hard—but everything sharpened. Every sound, every movement, every detail crystallized with perfect clarity.
He rounded the corner into the alley and took in the scene instantly:
A woman—mid-twenties, athletic build, sharp features, brunette hair tied in a ponytail—was backed against the far wall. In front of her, eight figures in dark hoodies were closing in, forming a semi-circle to cut off any escape routes.
No weapons visible. But the body language was enough indication for Peter to act.
The woman's stance shifted—feet planted hands up in a defensive posture. She knew how to fight. But eight-on-one was bad odds no matter how skilled you were.
"HEY!"
Peter's shout cut through the confrontation.
All nine heads whipped toward him.
Peter stepped into the alley, hands coming out of his pockets. The kitten stirred at the movement but stayed hidden in his hood.
"Don't know what kind of kink you asshat's got going on there but eight on one isn't exactly fair," Peter said, voice flat.
The hooded figures exchanged glances. Then one of them—the one who'd been talking, Marcus apparently—laughed. "Yo, trust me bro. This isn't what it looks like,"
"I don't need backup to handle children," the woman replied coolly. Her eyes flicked to Peter. "Kid, you should walk away. This is dojo business."
"Eight-on-one isn't business," Peter said. "It's assault."
"Big words," one of the other figures sneered. Female voice this time. "You gonna back them up, street rat?"
Peter's eyes narrowed.
[Incarnation of Garou: Passive]
The knowledge was there, instinctive, immediate. He could see their stances—sloppy, overconfident, telegraphing their weight distribution. He could track their micro-movements; predict their attacks before they launched them.
They had training. He could tell that much. But training and instinct were different things.
And right now, Peter's instincts were screaming.
"Last chance," Peter said quietly. "Walk away."
"Or what?"
Three of them rushed him simultaneously.
Peter moved.
The world slowed—not much, just enough. His focus sharpened, and suddenly he could see everything. The girl coming from his left, telegraphing a high kick. The boy from his right, dropping low for a leg sweep. The third coming straight on with a predictable right hook.
Too easy…
Peter sidestepped the kick, using the girl's own momentum to spin her into the boy attempting the sweep. They collided in a tangle of limbs.
The one with the right hook got closer, but Peter caught his wrist mid-swing, twisted, and used the leverage to flip him over his shoulder. The boy hit the ground hard, the wind knocked out of him.
Three seconds. Three down.
The remaining five hesitated.
"What the hell—"
They came at him together this time, more coordinated. Better strategy.
Still not good enough…
Peter wove between them like water moving through the cracks on a rock, his body moving with unnatural grace. Every attack was deflected, redirected, or simply avoided. He didn't try to hurt them—just disable. A precise strike to a nerve clusters here, a joint lock there, a sweep that sent someone sprawling.
His enhanced body awareness made it simple. He knew exactly how much force to use, exactly where to strike, exactly how to move to stay out of reach.
One of them—a tall boy who was slightly more skilled than the others—managed to land a glancing blow to Peter's shoulder.
Peter barely felt it.
He responded with a controlled palm strike to the boy's solar plexus. Not hard enough to cause real damage, just hard enough to drop him.
Thirty seconds. Eight down.
Peter stood in the center of the alley, breathing slightly elevated but not winded, as the eight hooded figures groaned on the ground around him.
The woman was staring at him, eyes wide.
A soft mewling sound came from Peter's hood.
Everyone froze.
The kitten poked its tiny black head out from under the hood, having been jostled awake by the fight. It blinked sleepily at the scene, yawned, and then tucked itself back into the warm darkness of Peter's hood.
One of the kids on the ground started laughing. "Dude. You just kicked all our asses with a cat on your head?"
"Kitten," Peter corrected automatically. "And yeah, I guess so."
The woman stepped forward slowly, her defensive posture relaxing slightly. She studied Peter with sharp, assessing eyes.
"That was impressive," she said finally. "Where did you train?"
"I didn't."
Her eyebrows rose. "You didn't train? At all?"
"Nope."
"That's..." She shook her head in disbelief. "That's not possible. Those were trained students. Not great students—" Several groans of protest rose from the ground. "—but trained nonetheless. And you took them down in under a minute without breaking a sweat. Nobody moves like that without training."
Peter shrugged. "Guess I'm a natural."
The woman's eyes narrowed, a curious brow raised, but she didn't push. Instead, she reached into her pocket and pulled out a card.
"Colleen Wing," she said, offering it to him. "I run the White Dragon Dojo a few blocks from here. These idiots—" She gestured at the groaning students. "—are mine. This was supposed to be a training exercise in teamwork and adaptation. Clearly, they still have a lot to learn."
Peter took the card, glancing at it briefly before pocketing it. "They jumped you eight-on-one for a training exercise? Well they failed miserably."
"Agreed." Colleen's lips quirked into a slight smile. "Which is why they'll all be running laps until they puke tomorrow. But you—" She pointed at him. "—you have raw talent. If you've never trained formally, that's incredible. And also a waste."
"Not interested," Peter said immediately.
"I haven't even made my pitch yet."
"Don't need to. Not interested in joining a dojo."
"Why not?"
Because I have cosmic powers and I'm planning revenge on a professional assassin and maybe a take over to probably kill a reclusive billionaire with criminal connections?
"Just not," Peter said instead.
Colleen studied him for a long moment, then nodded. "Alright. But if you change your mind, the offer stands. Someone with your instincts could be exceptional with proper guidance."
"I'll keep that in mind."
Peter turned to leave.
"Hey, street rat," one of the students called out—the girl who'd sneered earlier. She was sitting up now, rubbing her shoulder where she'd landed. "What's your name?"
Peter paused, glancing back.
"Does it matter?"
"Yeah. I want to know who just kicked my ass so I can return the favor someday."
Despite everything, Peter almost smiled. "Good luck with that."
He walked out of the alley, leaving Colleen to deal with her students.
Behind him, he heard her voice shift into teaching mode:
"Alright, you all embarrassed yourselves tonight, so let's talk about why. Marcus, you telegraphed every single move. Sarah, your stance was too wide, you had no mobility. Chen, you committed to that kick way too early..."
The voices faded as Peter turned the corner.
The kitten mewled softly from his hood.
"Yeah," Peter muttered. "That was weird for me too."
His phone buzzed. Peter frowned thoughtfully. Who would call him at his time?
Peter pulled it out, expecting nothing.
MJ: Where are you? We need to talk.
Peter stared at the message.
He typed back: On my way home. Be there in 20.
The response was immediate: I'll be waiting at the abandoned warehouse next to the park. Hurry.
Weird, could it be about this morning. Whatever...
Peter pocketed his phone and kept walking. His stomach rumbled like an engine. He hadn't eaten anything all day.
The cat on his head meowed softly in agreement with him having eaten nothing all day too. Peter reached up and gave it a soft pat on the head.
The night wasn't over yet.
Chapter End