I'm three blocks from home when my phone starts having a seizure.
*Buzz. Buzz. Buzz-buzz-buzz.*
I'm mid-swing, one hand gripping webbing, the other fishing my phone out of my suit pocket, which is already a terrible decision because multitasking while web-slinging is how you end up plastered against a billboard.
Seven missed calls. Twelve texts. All from the same number.
Whitney Chang.
Oh no.
Whitney Chang, investigative reporter for the *Daily Bugle*—well, technically she's freelance now after the Bugle imploded and reformed and imploded again, but she still has that Bugle energy. Sharp. Persistent. The kind of person who could interview a brick wall and get it to confess to structural violations.
And, more importantly, the only journalist with an *exclusivity deal* to Spider-Man.
A deal I signed.
During what I can only describe as a "chaotic phase of my life," which is saying something because my entire life is a chaotic phase.
I land on a rooftop, perch on the edge, and finally read the messages:
*Need to talk. ASAP.*
*It's about the contract.*
*Call me back or I'm showing up at your apartment.*
That last one makes my eye twitch because she's bluffing—she doesn't know where I live. I still live with Aunt May.
I call her back.
She answers on the first ring. "Finally. I was starting to think you'd ghosted me."
"I don't ghost people," I say, which is technically a lie because I absolutely ghosted a dentist appointment last month. "What's going on?"
"We need to meet. Face-to-face."
"Why? Are you breaking up with me? Is this a 'it's not you, it's me' situation?"
"Spider-Man, I'm serious."
Her tone kills the joke. She sounds stressed. Actually stressed, not reporter-pretending-to-be-stressed-to-get-a-quote stressed.
"Okay," I say. "Where and when?"
"Tomorrow. 2 PM. You know that coffee shop on 9th? The one with the terrible lighting?"
"The one that looks like a noir film set designed by someone who's never seen a noir film?"
"That's the one."
"I'll be there."
She hangs up without saying goodbye, which feels ominous.
I sit on the rooftop for another ten minutes, staring at my phone, thinking about contracts and obligations and how I fight mutants on a semi-regular basis but paperwork still scares me more than any other threat.
---
The coffee shop on 9th is exactly as terrible as I remember.
Dim lighting. Mismatched furniture. A chalkboard menu with drinks that have names like "The Existential Brew" and "Capitalism's Tears (Oat Milk)." There are three customers total: a guy typing furiously on a laptop, a woman reading a book thicker than my head, and Whitney Chang sitting in the corner booth, looking like she's preparing for war.
I slide into the seat across from her, still in full costume because showing up as Peter Parker would defeat the entire point of secret identities.
"Nice mask," she says without looking up from her phone. "Very dramatic."
"Thanks. I workshopped it."
She finally looks at me, and I can see the exhaustion around her eyes. She's wearing her usual reporter uniform—blazer, practical shirt, the kind of no-nonsense outfit that says "I will fact-check your lies and then publish them."
"Thanks for meeting me," she says, setting her phone face-down on the table. "I know this is weird."
"Weird's my baseline. What's going on?"
She takes a breath, and I can see her organizing her thoughts, assembling them into the most efficient delivery method possible.
"I've been under pressure," she starts. "From editors, from competitors, from the entire ecosystem of modern journalism, which is basically a dumpster fire held together by caffeine and spite."
"Sounds healthy."
"They want bigger stories. More sensational Spider-Man coverage. Exclusive angles, behind-the-scenes access, the whole parasocial nightmare." She pauses. "I've been offered money to spin narratives. To make you look worse. Or better, depending on who's paying."
My stomach drops. "You're not—"
"I haven't taken any of it," she interrupts sharply. "But the offers keep coming. And the original contract we signed? It's vague enough that technically I *could* do staged rescues, manufactured drama, hero branding bullshit. Nothing in our agreement explicitly prevents it."
I feel my hands curl into fists under the table. "Whitney—"
"I'm not going to," she says firmly. "That's why I'm here. I want to revisit the terms. Make it explicit. Make it *right*."
The relief is immediate and overwhelming. "Oh thank God. I thought you were about to tell me you'd been secretly filming me for a reality show."
"That was plan B."
"Not funny."
"Little bit funny."
I lean back, processing. "Okay. So you want to... what? Rewrite the contract?"
"Remix it," she says. "Keep what works, fix what doesn't. Make sure neither of us can exploit the other, even if we wanted to."
"I don't want to exploit you."
"I know. But I needed to hear you say it."
---
We order coffee—well, she orders coffee. I order something called "The Midnight Existential" that tastes like burnt regret—and spread out the original contract on the table.
It's worse than I remembered.
"Who wrote this?" I ask, squinting at the dense legal language. "A lawyer having a stroke?"
"You signed it without reading it, didn't you?"
"I was very busy that day. There was a thing with Raptor. And a pigeon."
"A pigeon."
"Long story."
Whitney pulls out a red pen—an actual red pen, like a teacher grading homework—and starts marking sections. "Okay. Here's what we need to fix. First: exclusivity. Right now, this gives me first access to any Spider-Man story, regardless of context. That's too broad. We need to specify that exclusivity only applies to stories that are real and verifiable."
"Define 'real.'"
"Actually happened. Not staged, not manufactured, not exaggerated for clicks." She taps the paper. "No fake rescues. No PR stunts. No planted tips."
"I don't do PR stunts."
"I know. But this makes sure I can't pressure you into doing them." She moves to the next section. "Second: editorial control. Right now, you don't have any. I can write whatever I want, spin it however I want, and you have no recourse."
"That seems bad."
"It is bad. So here's the fix: I report responsibly. No exaggeration, no misleading headlines, no taking quotes out of context. But in exchange, you don't interfere with what I write—even if it's critical."
I hesitate. "What if the truth makes me look bad?"
Whitney looks up, pen hovering over paper. "Then you probably deserve it."
The honesty stings, but she's right.
"Okay," I say. "Fair."
She smiles slightly—the first real smile since I arrived. "You're handling this better than I expected. Most people would've negotiated for more control."
"I'm not most people. Also, I'm really bad at negotiating. I once agreed to fight the Hulk for twenty dollars."
"Did you win?"
"Define 'win.'"
She laughs, and the tension in the booth eases slightly. We keep working through the contract, line by line, crossing out vague clauses and adding specific protections. She proposes language that protects both of us: I can't fake events for publicity, and she can't fabricate drama for views.
It's weirdly... collaborative. Like we're building something together instead of just signing away rights.
"There's one more thing," Whitney says, flipping to a blank page in her notebook. "A test. For both of us."
"A test?"
"What if I write something that makes you look really bad? Not lies—just an unflattering but accurate portrayal of a decision you made. What do you do?"
I don't answer immediately. It's a good question. A hard question.
"I guess..." I start slowly, "I'd have to accept it. If it's true, if it's fair, then it's not your job to protect my image. It's my job to be better."
Whitney sets down her pen and studies me. Really studies me, like she's trying to see through the mask to whatever's underneath.
"When I first reached out to you," she says quietly, "I saw you as a brand. A story generator. Something I could build a career on."
"And now?"
"Now I see you as someone who actually gives a shit. Which is rarer than you'd think." She picks up the pen again. "That's why I want this contract to work. Not because it's good for my career—though it is—but because I think you're trying to do something real. And that's worth protecting."
I feel an uncomfortable warmth in my chest. Gratitude, maybe. Or dread. Or both.
"Great," I say. "Now she respects me. That's somehow worse."
"Why worse?"
"Because now I have to actually live up to it."
She grins. "Welcome to having standards."
---
We finalize the new agreement over the next hour, adding clauses, removing loopholes, making sure everything is explicit and fair. No fake rescues. No planted tips. Real people, real stakes, real stories.
By the time we're done, the coffee shop is nearly empty and my hand is cramping from signing things.
"I've never signed anything as Spider-Man that wasn't a liability waiver," I admit, staring at my shaky signature on the final page.
"This is legally binding," Whitney warns. "If you violate it, I can sue you."
"For what? My web-shooters? My emotional baggage?"
"Your emotional baggage would settle for millions."
She slides the contract into a folder, tucks it into her bag, and stands. I stand too, adjusting my mask.
"Thank you," she says, and this time she doesn't sound like a reporter. She sounds like a person. A citizen. "For taking this seriously. For not trying to turn it into something it's not."
"Thank *you*," I say. "For calling me out before it became a problem. For wanting to do this right."
She nods, then extends her hand. I shake it.
"See you around, Spider-Man."
"Yeah. See you."
She leaves first, disappearing into the late afternoon light, folder under her arm, purpose in her stride.
I wait a few minutes before heading out myself, pulling my hood up, blending into the crowd.
As I swing home, I think about control. About how much of being a hero is choosing to give it up—trusting people to tell the truth, even when it's uncomfortable. Even when it costs you the ability to shape your own narrative.
Being a hero isn't about looking good. It's about being honest... even when it costs you control.
I land on my apartment building's roof and finally check my phone.
There's a text from Whitney: *You forgot to ask for a copy of the contract.*
Oh no.
Another text: *I'll email you one. Don't worry. This time I'm taking care of the paperwork.*
I laugh, relieved, and swing down to my window.
Tomorrow I'll fight crime. Tonight I'll sleep knowing that at least one thing in my life is actually handled responsibly.
Progress, I guess.
Small, contractually-binding progress.