Chapter 79: Not My Problem
Peter's head was full of money and Mary Jane. Uncle Ben's words were already fading.
When he stepped into the arena, the noise hit him like a wall — ten thousand people screaming, professional wrestlers throwing each other around the ring, the whole place shaking with energy.
He could see himself up there. The crowd chanting his name. The win. The money.
Uncle Ben's advice was gone. Completely gone.
He was about to walk to the sign-up desk when a familiar voice came from behind him:
"You sure about this? Uncle Ben's advice goes in one ear and out the other, huh?"
Peter's heart stuttered. He looked around, scanning the crowd —
And found Ethan. Leaning against the wall in the corridor shadows, smiling, but with something heavier underneath it.
Peter's face did three things at once: confusion, suspicion, alarm.
"How — why are you here?"
Is this guy stalking me? The thought was immediate and uncomfortable. Peter started running through every time he'd seen Ethan, wondering if there was a pattern.
Ethan read the look and laughed. "Relax. I was in the neighborhood. Saw your uncle dropping you off — you two looked like you were having a disagreement. Figured he was giving you the parental lecture."
The tension in Peter's shoulders eased. Slightly.
He'd been about half a second away from calling Ethan a creep. That would have been embarrassing.
"So," Ethan said, glancing toward the arena floor, "you're interested in the show? Thinking about stepping in the ring yourself?"
Peter waved both hands. "No! No, I'm just — spectating. I'm really into wrestling."
He wasn't about to blow his cover. If Ethan told Uncle Ben he'd entered a wrestling match, Ben would shut the whole thing down.
"Want to watch together?" Ethan offered.
"No — no thanks — I actually need to, uh, hit the restroom. You enjoy the show." Peter was already backing away. If he stuck with Ethan, there'd be no match, no three thousand dollars, no car, no MJ.
He turned and walked off, fast.
Ethan watched him go, smiling to himself.
He knew exactly what Peter was going to do. He let him go anyway.
"Whatever you decide today," Ethan called after him, voice easy, "make sure you think it through. Some choices you can't take back."
Peter looked over his shoulder, frowning. What is he talking about? Does he know I'm entering the match?
He shook it off, shook his head, and ducked into the bathroom to change.
At the registration desk, the woman behind the counter took one look at Peter — scrawny, underfed, wearing what appeared to be a homemade Halloween costume — and asked him three separate times if he was sure he wanted to do this.
In her professional estimation, this kid was a novelty act at best.
Peter didn't waver. He signed the form and pushed it across the counter.
After what felt like an eternity of waiting, his name came up.
The announcer looked at the entry card — "The Human Spider" — and grimaced. Too boring. He scratched it out and improvised.
"Ladies and gentlemen — your next challenger — the terrifying, the spectacular — SPIDER-MAN!"
The crowd looked at the skinny kid climbing through the ropes and collectively decided he had about forty-five seconds to live. The booing started immediately.
The bell rang.
Peter moved like a different person.
Everything Ethan had drilled into him the day before — spider-sense, timing, positioning, reading an opponent's weight shift — came pouring out. His attacks were quick, precise, and devastating. Every dodge was clean. Every counter hit flush.
He took the professional wrestler apart in under two minutes.
The arena went dead silent. Then it erupted.
Peter stood in the center of the ring, drenched in cheering, and for the first time in his life, thousands of people were screaming for him.
All because a masked knight had kicked the hell out of him in a field yesterday.
Three thousand dollars. The car. MJ. Peter was grinning ear to ear.
"Why is this only a hundred bucks? The deal was three thousand."
Peter stared at the promoter, confusion all over his face.
The promoter didn't even look up.
"Read the fine print, genius. Three minutes, three thousand. You lasted two. Be grateful you're getting anything."
Cold. Dismissive. The man couldn't have cared less about Peter's feelings.
Peter's anger spiked. He needed that money. And he'd just watched the man pocket the difference.
He tried asking. Tried pleading. Tried being reasonable.
The promoter stared him dead in the eye.
"Not my problem."
The words went through Peter like a blade.
He turned to leave. There was nothing else to do.
He was walking toward the elevator when a man shoved past him going the other way — fast, head down, something clutched in his fist.
Peter's spider-sense prickled. He glanced back through the open office door.
The room was trashed. The promoter was on the floor, holding his head. The cash box was gone.
Peter understood instantly. The man who'd brushed past him was the thief.
And the feeling that rose in Peter's chest was... complicated.
This was the man who had just cheated him. Lied to his face. Taken his money. And now someone had done the same thing to him.
There was a small, ugly satisfaction in that.
The promoter saw Peter standing there and screamed at him: "Why didn't you STOP him?! He's getting away!"
Peter looked at the promoter. Looked at the elevator doors closing behind the thief. Looked back at the promoter.
And used the man's own words.
"Not my problem."
The promoter's face went purple with fury.
Peter turned and walked away, and the word in his head was serves you right.
What Peter didn't know — what he couldn't possibly know yet — was that this one decision, this single moment of looking the other way, had nearly cost him the person he loved most in the world.
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