The subway had arrived.
Peter followed behind Joren, his steps unsteady.
Without turning around, Joren walked straight to the exit, hands buried in his pockets.
Peter stared at his own hands.
Just moments ago, it was this hand—his hand—that had snapped up and blocked Joren's attack.
Then, in the next heartbeat, the same hand had struck back.
But that hadn't been his reaction.
His body had never moved that fast.
He'd never felt that much strength before.
"Hey!" Peter shouted, snapping out of his daze, and bolted after Joren.
Joren didn't slow down.
"What the hell just happened in the train car?" Peter caught up beside him, voice trembling—though he hadn't even realized it.
"My hand… it moved by itself," Peter said.
Joren glanced at him once, said nothing, and kept walking uphill.
His silence only made Peter more frantic.
"And you—how did you block it? I barely touched your wrist, and you froze like you couldn't move!"
"Your strength…" Peter trailed off, memories crashing back: Thompson's fall, the manhole cover ripped clean off, the brutal impact of Joren's shoulder slamming into him like a freight train.
He sniffed as they stepped out of the subway station.
The rich aroma of the corner pizza shop. The sour stench of the overflowing garbage bin.
Scents he'd ignored for years now hit him like a wall—sharper, richer, overwhelming.
His stomach lurched.
Up ahead, Joren had already reached the intersection and stood waiting for the light.
Peter staggered over and stood beside him.
"Who are you?" he asked, voice low but urgent. "You're not just some ordinary high school student, are you?"
Joren stayed silent until the light turned green. Then he stepped onto the crosswalk without a word.
Peter hurried after him.
"Please," he said, desperation creeping into his voice. "Tell me—what's happening to my body?"
"I've got a bad feeling about this," Peter went on before Joren could respond. "I'm dizzy. My whole body's burning up. Sweating like crazy. Back at Oscorp… I think something bit me."
As he spoke, he reached up and touched the back of his neck.
The bite was red, swollen—hot and hard to the touch.
Joren finally stopped.
But Peter still couldn't see his face.
"What do you think is wrong?" Joren asked quietly.
Peter blinked. The question caught him off guard.
"I… I have no idea," he admitted. "I feel like—I feel like I'm about to die. Or… or turn into something else."
A car roared past, horn blaring.
The sound ripped through Peter's skull like a drill.
He clapped his hands over his ears, eyes squeezed shut. Every decibel was magnified tenfold—glass-shattering, nerve-shredding.
"I—" he tried to speak again.
But Joren had already turned and kept walking.
Peter didn't know where they were going. But right now, Joren was his only lifeline.
He forced himself to follow.
They walked down Ingram Street—a road Peter had known since childhood, every crack and curb familiar.
But today, everything was different.
His eyes tracked every hairline fracture in the sidewalk.
He could see, clear as day, a pigeon preening its feathers on a rooftop two blocks away.
He heard a couple hissing at each other three streets over.
He even caught the gurgle of water echoing through the sewers beneath his feet.
Sensory data flooded his brain—relentless, chaotic, too much to process.
The dizziness worsened.
His knees buckled.
"I… I think I'm dying," Peter gasped, slumping against a telephone pole, breath ragged.
"You're not dying," Joren said.
"Then what is this?"
"You're adapting."
"Adapting?" Peter looked up, bewildered. "To what?"
"To the new you."
Joren pointed across the street.
It was a 24-hour supermarket, brightly lit.
"I need to go buy something," Joren said.
He ignored Peter and walked straight toward the store.
Peter leaned against the telephone pole, watching Joren's retreating figure.
The new you.
Those three words echoed in his mind.
He looked down at his hands, then slowly clenched them, testing his grip. An unprecedented power coursed through his muscles and bones—raw, humming, alive.
His eyes drifted upward to the iron utility pole he'd been leaning against.
An idea popped into his head.
He released his grip and took a step back. He wanted to see just how strong this new force really was.
Just as he raised a fist—
"Don't damage public facilities."
Joren's voice cut through the night from across the street.
"It's very troublesome to pay compensation."
Peter froze.
He turned and saw Joren standing at the supermarket entrance, looking back at him with calm, knowing eyes.
How did he know what I was about to do? Peter thought, panic prickling at the base of his skull. We're barely even across the street.
This man knew more than just about the changes in his body.
He could practically see through Peter's thoughts.
What exactly is he?
Peter crossed the street and followed Joren into the supermarket. The blast of cold air from the AC offered a small reprieve from the tension coiling in his chest.
Joren was already in the fresh produce section. He stood in front of the meat freezer, carefully selecting a steak. He picked up a box, examined the marbling, frowned, and put it back. Then he reached for another.
Peter walked over.
"You knew all along, didn't you?" he said, voice low. "You already knew back at school—when I told you about the manhole cover."
Joren's gaze never left the steak in his hand. "Know what?"
"Everything."
Joren finally selected a satisfactory box and dropped it into his cart. He pushed it toward the vegetable aisle.
"I have no idea what you're talking about," he said evenly.
"You're lying!" Peter's voice cracked, louder than he intended.
A few nearby shoppers glanced over.
Joren stopped the cart and turned. His eyes were calm—but beneath that calm was a quiet warning.
"I only know that Osborn Industries is running some dangerous experiments," he said. "Besides… I hate trouble. And right now, you are a big problem."
Peter opened his mouth, then shut it again. The unspoken message was clear: Don't push this.
He watched as Joren picked up a head of broccoli, weighed it in his palm, checked its color. Then a potato—squeezing it gently to test its firmness.
He was genuinely just planning dinner.
The absurdity of it hit Peter like a truck.
His life was unraveling. He might be turning into a monster.
And the only person who seemed to understand was more concerned with side dishes than secrets.
Joren ignored him completely. He added milk and a bag of toast to the cart, then headed for the checkout.
Peter trailed behind like a ghost—lost, afraid to go home. He couldn't face Aunt May and Uncle Ben like this. Not when he might lose control. Not when he didn't even know what he was anymore.
"That'll be thirty-seven dollars and fifty cents," the cashier said.
Joren paid without a word, tucked the bags into the crook of his arm, and walked out.
Peter stood frozen at the entrance, staring into the neon-drenched night.
"Aren't you going home?" Joren's voice came from beside him.
"I…" Peter's voice faltered. "I don't know what to do."
"Then find a place," Joren said, tugging the brim of his hat lower over his eyes, "and figure out exactly what you've become."
He paused, then added, "Don't let yourself get dragged into a lab like some lab rat. That'd be even more troublesome."
And with that, he walked off toward his apartment.
Peter remained alone at the entrance.
The city pulsed around him—honking cars, chatter, neon signs, the smell of exhaust and fast food. It all blurred into a roaring whirlpool, threatening to swallow him whole.
He watched Joren's silhouette vanish around the street corner.
And for the first time, he wasn't sure if he was the hero… or the monster.