The day's visit had come to an end.
Students from Midtown High School gathered at the entrance of the Osborn Industrial Complex for a headcount.
Joren stood on the outer edge of the crowd, hands buried in his pockets, his hat pulled low over his eyes.
His gaze locked onto one figure.
Peter Parker.
The bookworm stood hunched slightly, one hand nervously scratching the back of his neck, his movements tense and jittery.
Joren's eyes narrowed.
At the nape of Peter's neck—just beneath the hairline—there was an abnormal patch of redness and swelling. At its center, a tiny puncture wound glistened, ringed by an eerie purple discoloration.
Beads of sweat rolled down Peter's forehead. He was pale, breathing fast and shallow.
A blonde girl noticed and hurried over.
Gwen Stacy—the student leader for the field trip.
"Peter? Are you alright?" Her voice was laced with concern. "You look terrible."
Peter jerked, startled, then forced a smile that came out more like a grimace. "I'm fine, Gwen," he rasped. "Just… I think I caught a chill. The AC in the Osborn building was freezing."
"Are you sure? You're sweating buckets. Maybe you should go to the hospital?"
"No, really—it's nothing. I'll just go home and sleep it off." He waved her off, clearly eager to end the conversation.
Joren looked away.
Once the headcount was done, he turned and walked straight toward the subway station.
Behind him, Peter and Gwen exchanged hurried goodbyes.
"I gotta go, Gwen. I'm feeling really dizzy."
"Okay—be careful on your way home."
A wave of vertigo hit Peter. The world spun, edges blurring. Instinctively, he staggered in the direction of the subway.
Joren swiped his card and stepped into the station, heading straight for the far end of the platform—away from the crowd. He preferred these quiet, overlooked corners.
When the train arrived, he boarded and took a seat in the rear corner of the empty carriage.
Just as the doors hissed shut, a figure stumbled inside.
Peter Parker.
He looked worse than before—drenched in sweat, leaning heavily against the handrail, gasping for breath. He didn't even notice Joren a few meters away.
Moments after the train lurched forward, Peter slid to the floor, curling into himself.
My teeth won't stop chattering…
He hugged his arms tightly, caught between lucidity and delirium—until exhaustion finally pulled him under.
Joren reached out and pressed his palm flat against the seat.
Golden ripples bloomed outward, washing over the entire carriage in a silent pulse of light.
He sensed it instantly—an invasive, volatile energy tearing through Peter's cells, shredding his DNA like paper. The stable helix was being ripped apart, then violently reconfigured.
Yale yale…
Joren's gaze stayed fixed on the trembling boy on the floor.
With a quiet sigh, he intensified the ripples. Warmth—pure, vital life-force—flowed through the metal floor and into Peter's body.
The convulsions eased. Peter's breathing slowed, his muscles unclenching.
Once Joren was certain Peter was stable, he withdrew his hand and settled back into silence, waiting for the train to reach its next stop.
The train passed through another station.
The doors hissed open, and three greasy, middle-aged men stumbled in.
Their shirts were unbuttoned, revealing sagging beer bellies, and they erupted into loud, boisterous laughter the moment they boarded—completely oblivious to the other passengers.
A thick, sour stench of cheap alcohol and sweat rolled off them, drawing disgusted glances from every corner of the carriage.
One of the men spotted Peter, curled up asleep in the far corner.
"Hey, look at that kid," he sneered, nudging his friend with an elbow. A malicious grin spread across his face. "Sleeping like a log."
The man in the yellowed vest chuckled and pulled an empty beer bottle from his jacket pocket. "How about we play a game?" He shook the bottle. "Let's see if he can hold on."
The third man whipped out his phone. "I'll record it—upload it online, and it'll go viral for sure."
The man in the vest crept toward Peter, bent down slowly, and tried to balance the glass bottle upright on the sleeping boy's head.
His companions stifled laughter, the red recording light on the phone blinking like a malevolent eye.
Just as the bottle was about to touch Peter's damp hair—
A hand shot out from the side and seized the man's wrist.
He jolted in surprise. The grip was iron—unyielding, unshakable.
He looked up.
Standing over him was a boy in a strange black hat, its brim pulled low over his face. Only a sharp chin and tightly pressed lips were visible.
"What the hell? Let go!" the man snapped, tugging uselessly at his trapped arm.
"Bullying a student?" the boy said coolly. "Pathetic."
"Who the hell are you?" the man growled, panic flickering beneath his bluster. He yanked harder—but the grip didn't budge.
Click.
A soft, sickening pop echoed through the sudden silence.
The man's face went pale. Cold sweat beaded on his forehead.
His two friends froze. The playful cruelty vanished from their faces, replaced by dawning unease. This kid looked like a student—but something about him felt wrong. Like staring down a lion pretending to nap on the savanna.
"You little bastard—!" one of them roared, lunging forward with a wild punch.
The other charged from the side, aiming a kick at the boy's knee.
The boy—Joren—released the vest-wearing man with a shove, sending him crashing into the puncher. They tumbled to the floor in a tangle of limbs.
In the same instant, Joren sidestepped the kick with fluid precision. His hand snapped up, the edge of his palm striking the attacker's neck like a blade.
The man crumpled, unconscious before he hit the ground.
Silence.
Absolute, trembling silence.
The two remaining men scrambled to their feet, dragging their fallen comrade up without a word. They didn't look back as they bolted for the connecting door to the next carriage.
Yale yale…
Joren exhaled inwardly.
The subway announcement crackled overhead:
"Approaching Ingram Street Station."
He turned and walked toward Peter, still slumped in the corner. He raised a hand—ready to slap him awake.
But just before his palm touched Peter's shoulder—
Peter's head snapped up.
His hand shot up in a blur, catching Joren's wrist mid-swing.
His other fist flew forward—a lightning strike aimed straight at Joren's cheek.
It stopped less than a centimeter from his nose.
Then a stronger hand closed around Peter's fist.
Peter was wide awake now.
He'd seen everything.
He'd seen Joren.
He'd felt it—the strange, coiled power humming beneath his own skin.
He yanked his hands back and shrank away, eyes wide.
"You woke up?" Joren said.
The doors slid open with a chime.
"Then get off the train."