Joren continued walking home, a shopping bag dangling from his hand. A small hole near the bottom threatened to spill its contents—but for now, the sirloin steak inside remained safe, its marbling exquisite even in the dimming evening light.
He was already planning the meal: Slowly simmer butter and rosemary over low heat for a rich sauce. Boil potatoes and broccoli together in salted water for the side.
Cooking was all he could think about.
Less than ten minutes from home, he stopped again.
Five figures blocked his path.
Stronger than the last batch.
Joren exuded a calm, fierce aura—unshaken, unreadable.
The leader stood front and center, an aluminum baseball bat resting on his shoulder. To his left, a thug with dyed green hair stepped forward, tilting his head as he sized up Joren.
"Kid," the leader said, voice rough but controlled, "Thompson raised the price. Says he'll have you lying in the hospital for a month." He smirked. "We don't wanna make this ugly. So—pick your spot. Where d'you wanna go down?"
Not again?
Joren sighed.
These idiots really never learned.
---
Elsewhere, Peter Parker wandered the streets like a ghost.
His senses—sharper, stranger, overwhelming—threatened to unravel him. Every sound, every scent, every shift in the air pressed against his skull like static on a radio turned too loud.
He ducked into an abandoned multi-story parking garage, seeking refuge from the chaos of the city. Here, at least, it was quiet.
But the power coiled inside him had no outlet.
He stared at his hands. Are these even mine anymore?
An idea—wild, involuntary—flashed through his mind.
He approached a brick wall, clenched his fist, and tapped it lightly.
Click… click…
Fine cracks spiderwebbed outward from the point of impact.
Peter froze, eyes wide with horror. Did I do that?
He stumbled back, disbelief twisting his features.
Then his gaze lifted—to the second-floor platform, about four meters above.
Without thinking, he bent his knees.
Energy surged through his legs.
He pushed off—lightly, almost casually.
Whoosh.
Wind screamed past his ears. The world blurred.
And just like that—thud—his feet landed solidly on the second-floor ledge.
He'd leaped.
Peter stood there, heart hammering. Half of him thrilled like an explorer who'd just spotted new land. The other half trembled at the stranger he was becoming.
Then—his hearing sharpened further.
A scuffle. Shouts. Close by.
With great power comes great responsibility.
Uncle Ben's voice echoed in his mind.
Without hesitation, Peter sprang into motion—vaulting over rooftops, silent and swift—until he crouched at the edge of a building, peering down at the street below.
What he saw stunned him.
Joren—Joren?—was surrounded by five thugs under the flickering streetlights.
"Yale yaale," Joren muttered under his breath.
He sighed again, more annoyed than afraid.
"If we don't hurry," he said, "the meat's gonna go bad."
Carefully, he set the bag of ingredients on a clean patch of steps nearby. Then he tugged the brim of his hat lower over his eyes.
The leader's face darkened at Joren's calm.
"You're dead!" he roared, swinging the baseball bat with both hands—a brutal, overhead strike aimed straight at Joren's skull.
Joren remained calm—and stepped forward instead of retreating.
Just as the baseball bat was about to swing down, he surged ahead and placed his palm flat against the middle of the metal shaft.
There was no clash of force, no head-on collision.
A pale golden energy rippled from his palm, surging through the bat in the blink of an eye.
Buzz—
"Ah!"
The thug holding the bat screamed.
A sharp, numbing jolt shot up his arm. His fingers spasmed open, and the bat clattered to the ground.
Joren didn't pause.
He sidestepped a wild straight punch from the side, then pivoted sharply—his shoulder driving backward like a piston.
"Hah!"
The second attacker, lunging from behind, was launched off his feet by Joren's Iron Mountain Lean. He hit the pavement hard, rolled three times, and lay still.
From his vantage point on the rooftop, Peter Parker stared down in disbelief.
He'd been about to hurl something—anything—to create a distraction.
But the fight was already over. And it hadn't gone the way he expected. Not even close.
Joren moved with unnatural speed—his reactions, his strength… nothing like a normal high school student.
The remaining thugs exchanged a panicked glance and pressed themselves against the chain-link fence, trying to cut off Joren's angles.
Calm as ever, Joren reached out and gripped an iron bar of the fence beside him.
Golden ripples flared to life once more.
Energy surged through the metal with terrifying speed.
Sizzle—
"Ahhh!"
The two thugs convulsed violently the moment their hands touched the fence. Foam bubbled at their lips, their eyes rolled back, and they collapsed like ragdolls—unconscious before they hit the ground.
From start to finish, Joren hadn't laid a finger on them.
Peter's jaw dropped.
What… was that?
Static electricity?
Impossible.
How much voltage would it take to drop two grown men instantly?
And he'd seen it clearly—a flash of golden light the moment Joren touched the fence.
Only one thug remained—the one with green-tipped hair. He gaped at his twitching comrades, his bravado crumbling into raw terror.
"M-monster!" he shrieked, fumbling a dagger from his pocket. Without thinking, he hurled it at Joren.
Peter's heart lurched.
Too close! There's no way to dodge that!
But Joren didn't flinch.
Standing perfectly still, he simply pulled his right hand from his pocket and extended two fingers—index and middle—calmly, precisely.
The dagger, flying at lethal speed, snapped to a halt—pinned neatly between his fingertips.
Peter saw it again: a faint, unmistakable golden glow emanating from Joren's fingers the instant they caught the blade.
The entire fight had lasted less than thirty seconds.
Joren loosened his grip. The dagger dropped to the pavement with a soft clink.
He brushed dust from his sleeve, turned, and walked back to the steps. Picking up his shopping bag, he gave it a quick inspection.
Good. Didn't break this time.
He didn't spare a glance for the groaning bodies behind him. Without a word, he vanished into the amber glow of the streetlights at the corner.
Peter stood frozen at the roof's edge, mind racing—then blank.
Every "coincidence" he'd dismissed. Every "anomaly" he'd chalked up to weird physics or luck.
It all clicked.
And the answer shattered everything he thought he knew.
What is that golden energy?
In that moment, the bedrock of Peter's scientific understanding cracked—and crumbled before a single man walking calmly into the night.