The next day.
Joren walked through the gates of Midtown High School.
The crowd in the corridor parted automatically at his approach, and whispers only dared to resume once he'd passed.
Thompson still hadn't come to school.
Rumors about Joren and Thompson had spiraled into more than a dozen versions.
The latest? That Joren carried a mysterious, malevolent curse—anyone who got too close would meet misfortune.
Thompson was the textbook example.
Joren couldn't care less.
He strode to his seat, dropped his backpack onto the floor, and sat down.
Sunlight from the window spilled in—just right.
As he unzipped his bag to pull out Introduction to Marine Biology, a figure appeared in the classroom doorway.
It was Peter Parker.
His thick-rimmed glasses were gone.
Without lenses obscuring his face, his features looked sharper, clearer—and strangely unfamiliar.
A few classmates immediately swarmed him.
"Hey, Peter! Where are your glasses?"
"Switched to contacts," Peter replied, voice calm, clipped.
He navigated the crowd with quiet ease and made his way to his seat.
Not once did he glance at Joren with that old, probing look.
Good, Joren thought. Peace and quiet at last.
He flipped open the textbook to the chapter on octopuses.
Three hearts. Blue blood.
He found the creature oddly fascinating.
The following days settled into a rare calm.
Peter didn't bother him again.
Thompson—and his football cronies—had vanished completely.
Joren began to wonder if quietly finishing high school at Midtown might actually be possible.
Maybe even… peaceful.
Until three nights later.
Joren stood at the stove, butter sizzling in the pan.
He laid a thick-cut filet mignon gently onto the hot surface.
The moment the meat hit the oil, rich aroma filled the kitchen.
He reached for the black pepper grinder beside him—gave it a few twists.
Nothing. Empty.
He opened the spice cabinet.
No backup.
Yale, yale.
With a sigh, he turned off the burner, slid the half-seared steak onto a plate, and peeled off his apron.
Dinner was sacred. The ritual wouldn't be broken.
Night had fallen over Queens, streets shimmering under a canopy of streetlights.
Hands in his pockets, Joren walked toward the 24-hour supermarket down the block.
A cool breeze tugged at his coat, stretching his shadow long across the pavement.
Just as he reached an intersection, a sharp shout cut through the quiet.
"Give me the keys! Now, old man!"
Two figures in hoodies were yanking at a gray-haired elderly man slumped in the driver's seat of a yellow cab.
The man clutched the steering wheel like a lifeline.
"This is my car! You can't just—!"
"Let go!"
In the struggle, one of the thieves pulled a pistol and jammed it against the old man's temple.
"I said—let go!"
Joren froze.
He stood at the corner, hat pulled low over his eyes.
Trouble.
Another hassle.
He turned to take a detour—
Bang!
The gunshot shattered the night's silence.
The old man—Uncle Ben—had been dragged from the taxi by the two robbers. Now he shuddered once and slumped softly into the driver's seat.
Blood gushed from his chest, staining his light-colored shirt crimson.
The robbers froze, stunned by the sudden turn of events. They never expected the gun to go off accidentally. Panic seized them, and without a second glance at the man they'd shot, they bolted into the darkness.
Just then, a figure came sprinting across the street like a madman.
"Uncle Ben!"
It was Peter Parker.
He skidded to his knees beside the car, heart hammering in his throat. Uncle Ben lay in a spreading pool of blood, his chest wound still oozing dark red.
Peter's mind went blank. His trembling hands hovered uselessly, torn between lifting his uncle and staunching the bleeding.
"Uncle Ben! Wake up! Look at me—please!"
The old man's eyes were half-lidded, his breath shallow and ragged. He murmured something unintelligible—just a broken whisper.
"No… no, no, no…"
Tears blurred Peter's vision. He pressed his palm hard against the wound, but warm, sticky blood kept seeping through his fingers.
His world was collapsing.
"Someone call an ambulance!" he screamed into the empty street, voice cracking. "Please!"
Then—a voice cut through the chaos.
"Get out of the way."
Peter stiffened. He knew that voice.
Slowly, he turned his head.
Joren Joestar stood behind him, his silhouette sharp against the dim streetlights, the night softening his edges but not his presence.
Peter's lips parted, but no sound came out.
Without a word, Joren knelt beside Uncle Ben. The old man's consciousness was fading, yet somehow, he sensed the newcomer. With a final effort, he lifted a trembling, bloodstreaked hand.
Joren took it gently—his grip firm, his expression unreadable at first, then softening.
"It's alright," Joren murmured.
Then he placed his other hand over the wound on Uncle Ben's chest.
A golden light bloomed from his palm—calm, not blinding, yet humming with unmistakable power. Warm ripples of energy flowed into Uncle Ben's body, seeping into flesh and bone like liquid sunlight.
Peter stared, breath caught in his throat.
The bleeding slowed.
The pallor receded from Uncle Ben's face.
His shallow, frantic breaths deepened, steadied.
This wasn't science.
This wasn't first aid.
This was a miracle.
Joren withdrew his hand.
Uncle Ben's eyes fluttered shut, not in death—but in peaceful sleep. His chest rose and fell, strong and even.
The wail of an ambulance grew louder in the distance.
Peter exhaled—a shuddering, broken sound—and his legs finally gave out. He collapsed onto the asphalt, shaking from head to toe, overwhelmed by relief and raw disbelief.
He looked up at Joren, who had already risen to his full height, his expression once again cool and distant—as if he hadn't just rewoven the threads of a dying man's life.
"Thank you…" Peter whispered, voice hoarse. "Thank you."
Joren said nothing.
He simply tipped the brim of his hat—and vanished into the night.