The alarm clock screamed its mechanical scream, and Peter Parker's hand shot out from under the tangled sheets to slam it silent, knocking over a half-empty can of soda that had been teetering on the edge of his nightstand. The sticky liquid pooled across the surface, seeping into the pages of a sketchbook left open to a detailed pencil drawing of Miyamoto Musashi mid-strike, the samurai's face frozen in a snarl that Peter had spent hours perfecting. He groaned, rolling onto his back and staring at the water-stained ceiling, where a single glow-in-the-dark star from childhood still clung stubbornly.
Sunlight sliced through the gaps in the blinds, stripes of gold cutting across the room to illuminate the faint scars on his shoulders—thick, jagged lines from last night's encounter with a meth-head in a welded exoskeleton who'd tried to rob a pawnshop. The guy had called himself "Steel Hornet," and Peter had webbed him to the side of a dumpster with a sprained wrist and a lecture about originality.
"Peter Benjamin Parker!" Aunt May's voice rattled the doorframe, sharp and frayed at the edges. He could hear her slippers shuffling impatiently on the hallway carpet. "If you're late one more time, Principal Morita's gonna have my head on a platter!"
"I'm up," he lied, sitting up too fast and nearly headbutting the shelf above his bed. A cascade of trinkets clattered down—a bent Iron Man action figure missing an arm, a dried-out marker, and a framed photo of him and Gwen at Coney Island, her blonde hair whipping across her face as she laughed. He caught the frame before it hit the floor, thumb brushing over her smile. The ache in his chest hadn't dulled. If anything, it had calcified, a fossilized weight he carried everywhere. He shoved the photo face-down into a drawer and stumbled to his feet, kicking aside a pile of laundry that smelled suspiciously of burnt rubber.
The room was a museum of his failures: a cracked phone screen, a torn pair of jeans mended haphazardly with webbing, and a stack of Vagabond manga volumes leaning precariously against the leg of his desk. Volume 12 lay splayed open on the floor, pages dog-eared at Musashi's duel against the Yoshioka clan. Peter had read it so many times the dialogue was memorized. "A sword is not a tool for killing. It is a tool for polishing the soul." He snorted. Try telling that to the guy who'd swung a lead pipe at his ribs last night.
Aunt May was waiting in the kitchen, her silver hair haloed by the flickering fluorescent light overhead. She stood at the stove, her knuckles white as she gripped the edge of the counter, her other hand stirring a pot of oatmeal that smelled like burnt cinnamon. The tremor in her fingers was worse today. Peter's throat tightened. She'd turned seventy-three last month, and the years hung on her like wet laundry. "Sit," she ordered, not looking up. "You're skin and bones."
"I'm fine, May," he said, but slid into the rickety chair anyway. The kitchen table was cluttered with coupon flyers, a half-finished crossword, and a vase of plastic daisies he'd bought her for Mother's Day. She thunked a chipped bowl in front of him, oatmeal slopping over the edges.
"You forgot the trash again," she said, her voice clipped. "Mrs. Chen from downstairs complained about the raccoons."
"I'll take it out tonight," he mumbled, stirring the oatmeal into a gray paste. If only she knew the "trash" he'd dragged to the curb last week was a malfunctioning drone that had tried to incinerate his spleen.
"You say that every time." She turned to face him, her eyes narrowing behind her thick glasses. There was a smear of flour on her cheek, and Peter fought the urge to reach out and wipe it away. "What's going on with you, Peter? You're never home. You look like you haven't slept in weeks. Are you on drugs?"
He choked on his oatmeal. "What? No. I'm just… tired. School's kicking my ass."
"Language," she said automatically, but her frown deepened. "You used to tell me everything."
Not anymore. He shoved another spoonful into his mouth, the oatmeal tasteless on his tongue. The lie sat between them, fat and ugly.
The walk to Midtown High was a gauntlet. Queens buzzed around him—the smell of fried dough and exhaust, the clatter of subway grates, the sticky heat already rising from the pavement. A group of kids in varsity jackets shoved past him, their laughter too loud, too sharp. Flash Thompson leaned against a lamppost outside the bodega, his letterman jacket pristine, his grin a knife. "Parker!" he called, holding up his phone. "Saw your sad little doodle in the art room trash. What was it? A stick figure with a sword?"
Peter's hands curled into fists. One punch. Just one. He could already picture it—Flash's nose crunching under his knuckles, the satisfying spray of blood. But he kept walking, shoulders hunched, the sketchbook in his backpack suddenly feeling like a brick. A mural of Iron Man stared down from the side of the bodega, the red and gold paint peeling to reveal the brick beneath. The hero's face was serene, untouchable. Peter hated it.
MJ was waiting under the school's cracked awning, her back against the graffiti-tagged wall. She looked like she'd been plucked from one of his sketchbooks—curly auburn hair tied up in a messy bun, freckles scattered like cinnamon across her nose, and a faded Ramones T-shirt that clung to her curves in ways that made his throat dry. She raised an eyebrow as he approached, holding out a styrofoam cup. "You look like you got run over by the L train."
"Missed you too," he shot back, but took the coffee gratefully. It was bitter and lukewarm, exactly how he liked it.
She fell into step beside him, their shoulders brushing. Not quite touching. Not since Gwen. The halls of Midtown High swallowed them whole, lockers slamming like gunshots, the air thick with Axe body spray and teenage desperation.
"You finish the chem homework?" she asked, flipping open her notebook. Her nails were painted chipped black, and there was a doodle in the margin—a crude stick figure swinging from a web.
"Barely." He pulled out his own notebook, pages filled with equations and margin sketches of mechanical web-shooters. A sticky note fluttered out—Gwen's grave, 3 PM—and he crumpled it, shoving it deep into his pocket.
Lunch was a blur of lukewarm pizza and stolen fries. MJ stole a slice off his tray without asking, biting into it with a smirk. "Your art teacher's still pissed you skipped figure drawing last week."
"Had stuff to do," he muttered, picking at his food.
"Stuff," she repeated, leaning forward. Her eyes were too knowing. "You know, for a guy who's allegedly 'just tired,' you've got a lot of mysterious bruises."
He glanced down. The sleeve of his hoodie had ridden up, revealing a mottled purple mark on his wrist. "Fell down the stairs."
"Bullshit." She kicked his shin under the table, not gently. "You're a terrible liar, Parker."
The final bell rang like a death knell. Flash cornered him at the lockers, his cronies snickering behind him. "Heard you cried during Decathlon practice again. What's the matter? Still sad your girlfriend's worm food?"
The pencil in Peter's hand snapped. So easy. One punch. One. He could already feel the impact, the crack of bone—
MJ materialized beside him like a vengeful ghost, her glare sharp enough to slice glass. "Get a hobby, Flash. Maybe try not being a dick for five minutes?"
Flash's smirk faltered. "Whatever. Enjoy your freakshow boyfriend, Watson."
Peter's ears burned. "I could've handled that," he muttered as they walked away.
"Sure," MJ said, rolling her eyes. "Walk me home."
They took the long route, past the graffitied subway entrance and the boarded-up arcade. The sun hung low, painting the streets in gold and shadow. MJ paused outside the comic shop, her reflection flickering in the window next to a display of Vagabond volumes. "You ever gonna tell me why you're obsessed with this samurai crap?"
Peter shrugged, hands in his pockets. "Musashi's… got clarity. No powers. No weird tech. Just a guy trying to figure out how to live without destroying everything he touches."
She snorted. "You'd trip over a katana."
"Hey, I've got reflexes," he said, grinning despite himself.
"Reflexes don't fix your two left feet." She bumped his shoulder, and for a second, he could pretend things were normal.
At her doorstep, she hesitated, keys jingling in her hand. "You're visiting her today, aren't you?"
The air turned leaden. "Yeah."
"Tell Gwen I…" MJ shook her head, curls bouncing. "Never mind."
The cemetery was quiet, the kind of quiet that pressed against his eardrums. Gwen's headstone was simple, polished granite. Beloved Daughter. Friend. Hero. The last word made him flinch. He knelt, grass staining his knees, and traced the letters. "Hey, Gwen," he whispered. The wind rustled the trees, but it wasn't her voice. It was never her voice. "I almost hit Flash today. Again. You'd've yelled at me." His laugh came out ragged. "You were always better at… this. The whole 'being human' thing."
The walk home was slower, heavier. Aunt May was humming Sinatra in the kitchen, her voice wavering over the lyrics. She stood at the counter, trembling hands struggling to dice carrots. Peter stepped in silently, taking the knife. "You'll cut yourself," he said.
She swatted his arm, her touch feather-light. "I raised you, didn't I?"
He smiled, but it felt brittle. She has no idea what I've become.
The suit waited under his bed, folded neatly beneath a stack of old textbooks. Black and navy, reinforced with carbon fiber strips he'd painstakingly scavenged from Oscorp's trash. It stank of sweat and motor oil, the mask's lenses scratched from too many close calls. He slid it on, the fabric clinging like a second skin, and slipped out the window as Aunt May's TV blared the evening news.
Queens sprawled beneath him, a living, breathing beast. He swung through the canyons of brick and steel, the city's rhythm thrumming in his veins. A mugging in an alley—a woman's scream cut short as he webbed the gun to a fire escape. A carjacking on 45th—tires screeching as he yanked the driver's door clean off. He left the thieves webbed to a billboard of Captain America, their curses fading as he swung away. "Stay put, pal. Cops'll love the view."
By midnight, he'd helped a lost girl find her mom, stopped a liquor store robbery, and webbed two meth-heads trying to steal a catalytic converter. No speeches. No jokes. Just work.
He landed on his fire escape, muscles screaming. Through the window, Aunt May snored in her armchair, the TV flashing news of a "mysterious vigilante." His sketchbook lay open on the desk, a half-finished drawing of MJ mid-laugh, her edges softer than he ever dared to make her in real life.
He collapsed onto his bed, the Vagabond manga digging into his spine. Musashi stared up from the page, frozen in ink. "If you wish to control others, you must first control yourself." Peter snorted, tossing the book aside. "Easy for you to say. You didn't have to pass calculus."
Somewhere below, a siren wailed. The city kept burning.
He closed his eyes. Tomorrow would be the same.