I'm really struggling right now. As a college student, things have gotten tough—especially with upcoming exams and daily expenses. If you're able to help in any way, even with a small amount, I'd be incredibly grateful.
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Thank you so much for reading and for your support. Sharing this also means a lot. I'll keep writing my best for you all. 🙏
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The room was small, dimly lit by a single desk lamp. Dust had gathered on the shelves. This was Peter Parker's room.
Drake stood by the door.
(So this is where he lived… where he fought… and where he died inside before dying for real.)
He stepped inside and let the door close behind him with a soft click.
Outside, Earth-42's cold wind howled through the cracked windows. In the distance, a police siren cut off mid-wail. Silence returned just as fast.
Drake looked around the room.
The bed was untouched. The desk chair still slightly turned. The wall was covered with old newspaper clippings about rebel uprisings, a few articles about "the mysterious Prowler," and one single yellowed flyer titled: "Oscorp Intern Opportunity – Hope for Tomorrow's Scientists".
(Guess this Peter still dreamed big… even in a world like this.)
He walked toward the mirror above the desk.
And again—it wasn't his face staring back.
It was Peter's.
Dark shadows under his eyes. Faint stubble along the jaw. His body felt heavier. Stronger. But wrong.
"Still can't get used to this," Drake muttered.
Suddenly—
ZNNNGGG.
A sharp pulse shot through his palm.
He flinched.
(What the hell? My hand, it's burning.)
He pulled off the hoodie and saw the faint, glowing blue veins under the skin around the spider bite.
He stumbled backward. His back hit the desk.
"Shit—this can't be normal…"
Then came the itching.
Then the buzzing.
Then—everything changed.
The room lit up in ways he never saw before. He could see the tiny, perfect cracks in the ceiling paint. Hear the pipes creaking three floors down. He could smell burnt wire from inside the old printer.
His heartbeat… slowed.
(Everything's moving in slow motion… this isn't adrenaline. This is something else.)
His gaze tracked across the room—then froze.
A fly, mid-air.
Hovering, wings vibrating in perfect frames.
Drake turned his head slightly, still tracking it.
"…What the—"
He shifted his foot—
CLANK.
It landed on a wrench.
"WHOA—!"
He slipped but didn't fall.
Instead, his body twisted flipping mid-air on instinct and landed in a crouch… not on the floor.
On the wall.
He blinked.
Frozen in place.
Hands and feet gripping the wall as naturally as if he were standing on solid ground.
"…Am I… on the wall right now?"
He looked down.
The floor felt miles below.
(What the actual hell… am I turning into a damn spider?)
He pushed off.
Effortless.
Soaring through the air and this time landed with a soft thud…
On the ceiling.
Upside-down.
Breathing steady. Balanced.
The entire room felt different from up here. It was like looking at the world from a secret angle only he could see.
He stared at his palms. Then at the floor below. Then back at his reflection, distorted in a desk lamp's shine.
And for the first time…
He laughed.
"Yo… this is crazy…"
He dropped with a clean twist landing back on the ground without a single stumble. Smooth. Quiet. Controlled.
Powerful.
(I think that spider… the one that bit me… did this to me.)
(And that voice… "I give you a gift"… who the hell was that?)
He flexed his fingers again.
The blue glow had faded… but something inside him stayed awake now.
Not just strength.
Purpose.
Something was calling him.
And whether he was ready or not—
Spider-Man had returned to Earth-42.
…
Meanwhile… Somewhere in the Underbelly of Earth-42
The room was dim lit only by a neon-purple glow pulsing from the digital maps projected across the walls. Security feeds flickered, each showing different corners of the broken city. Drones hovered overhead, their eyes scanning alleys, rooftops, and abandoned safehouses.
At the center stood Miles Morales.
Not the boy from Brooklyn.
Not the Spider-Man the world once loved.
This was the Prowler.
His mask rested on the table beside him, revealing sharp eyes that had long since forgotten what innocence looked like. His jaw was tense. His braids were pulled back tightly. His presence cold and calculated.
He stared at the holographic display of a marked district—red blinking lights over a sector labeled "Zone 6C: Lower Bronx."
Behind him, a voice spoke.
"Status update, Miles."
It was Uncle Aaron, dressed in black, his cybernetic gauntlet humming softly. Scars lined his face—earned through years of enforcing order for the Sinister Six.
Miles didn't look back.
"How's the status, Uncle?"
Aaron tapped a few keys on his wristpad. One screen expanded—showing footage of a small bodega. Its doors were scorched. The Viper enforcers had walked away empty-handed.
"Looks like they didn't pay their protection fee again."
Miles sighed, eyes narrowing.
"Make them."
Aaron raised an eyebrow.
"You sure? They're starving down there."
Miles turned.
His eyes were ice.
"Then maybe next time, they'll remember who protects them from worse."
The room fell silent.
Miles picked up his mask slowly.
"No one lives in my city for free."
He slid it on.
The glowing eyes of the Prowler ignited.
…
Back to Drake…
He stood still in the middle of the room, breathing steadily now. The echo of the ceiling flip still fresh in his muscles. The silence settled again.
The only sound was the soft hum of the desk lamp and the distant buzz of a city that forgot how to sleep.
Drake—Peter—ran a hand through his hair and looked at the wall again.
A cracked photo frame showed Peter Parker with Aunt May and Uncle Ben, all smiling like they didn't know how bad things would get.
He stared at it for a long moment.
Then his mind wandered.
(Hmmm… so what should I do now… I got spider powers now… due to that spider biting me, you know…)
He looked at his hand. The one that had been bitten. The faint marks were almost gone—but something deeper remained.
(Why did I even know about Spider-Verse or Spider-Man anyway…? Like, it ain't like this stuff real back in my world… but I know it like gospel. I knew Spider-Man. Multiverse. All that.)
He squinted at the mirror again.
(I mean… yeah. I was a geek. So what?)
He chuckled under his breath.
"Just 'cause I was in a gang don't mean I ain't read."
(I watched anime. Movies. Cartoons. Read comics—manga, DC, Marvel. All that. I remember thinking Spider-Man was cool because he ain't perfect—just a dude trying his best.)
He sat on the edge of the bed, bouncing once.
(So… I guess this makes sense in a messed-up way. The spider biting me. The soul-jump. Me ending up in a version of Peter who never got to become what he shoulda been.)
His hands clenched.
The powers buzzed beneath his skin like static just waiting to be released.
(So now what? I'm in a world with no Spider-Man… just Prowler Miles and a damn Sinister Six running the streets like they own 'em.)
He looked out the window.
The Prowler's symbol glowed purple on a passing drone overhead. Watching. Always watching.
(Maybe… it's my turn to give this city something different to fear.)
(Nah—something to believe in.)
He stood up again, this time with more purpose.
(I may not be Peter Parker from this world… but I am Spider-Man now. So what if I read manga and used to throw hands in alleyways? Maybe that's exactly what this city needs.)
He cracked his knuckles.
"…Time to learn how to really use these powers."
…..
Meanwhile, in Another Dimension...
The room was bathed in deep crimson light. Screens flickered around the massive control chamber, each one displaying Earths from different timelines—some peaceful, some crumbling under chaos.
In the center, Miguel O'Hara stood still, eyes locked on the swirling hologram of Earth-42.
His jaw was tight.
"Spider-Man returned… on Earth-42?" he said quietly. "So it's not Michael Wilson?"
From the shadows, Jessica Drew stepped forward, arms crossed, her motorcycle helmet tucked under one arm.
"Yes, Miguel… We ran the quantum traces. The signature's different. It's not Michael."
She hesitated.
"But—whatever power he unleashed… it did cause the chain reaction. Earth-42 wasn't supposed to have a Spider-Man. But now… it does."
Miguel's eyes narrowed.
He turned toward the main screen. The image sharpened—Drake, standing on a rooftop, still unaware of how deeply he'd been rewritten into the multiverse.
"…Michael…"
Miguel's voice dropped, laced with something between dread and curiosity.
He clenched his fist, then slowly looked up toward the skylight above the HQ, beyond it, the stars of infinite worlds blinked in silence.
"Michael… where are you?"
The holograms flickered.
To be continue