A sharp siren ripped through the night, growing louder with every second.
Red and blue lights spun across the brick walls, dizzying onlookers as they pulsed in frantic rhythm.
Peter knelt on the pavement, motionless.
The body beside him lay stiff, unmoving.
His hands were slick with Uncle Ben's warm blood.
All sound around him vanished.
He couldn't hear the approaching ambulance. Couldn't hear the panicked shouts of passersby.
Smack.
A crisp snap of fingers exploded in his ear.
The world rushed back in an instant.
Peter jerked upright—back in his body, back in the chaos—and found Joren standing before him, the brim of his hat casting a long shadow over his eyes.
"The ambulance has arrived," Joren said, voice calm, steady.
"Accompany him to the hospital."
He paused.
"Then call your aunt."
Peter nodded without thinking, like a puppet on strings.
Paramedics surged forward with a stretcher, moving with practiced efficiency. They secured Uncle Ben and lifted him into the ambulance with urgent care.
"Family members, follow!" one called.
Peter scrambled to his feet and staggered after them.
Just before the ambulance doors closed, he glanced back.
Joren had already turned away, hands tucked in his coat pockets, walking in the opposite direction—away from the hospital, away from the flashing lights.
The doors slammed shut, sealing Peter in sterile white light and muffled street noise.
Inside, the steady beep… beep… beep of the electrocardiogram monitor filled the space.
Peter stared at Uncle Ben's peaceful face—so still, so quiet—and finally remembered Joren's last words.
With trembling fingers, he pulled out his phone and scrolled to "Aunt May."
…
The supermarket's automatic doors hissed open, sealing out the chill of the Queens night.
Joren walked straight to the condiment aisle.
Shelves stretched overhead, packed with salt, sugar, sauces—dozens of brands gleaming under fluorescent lights.
He picked up a bottle of black pepper, scanned the label, and set it back.
Then another—this one filled with whole peppercorns and fitted with a grinder.
Very good.
He dropped it into his cart and headed for the refrigerated drinks.
Milk was running low at home.
He paid in silence and stepped back into the night, shopping bags in hand.
The street corner where the shooting had happened was now cordoned off with yellow police tape, fluttering softly in the breeze.
Joren gave it a wide berth.
Back at his apartment, he shrugged off his long trench coat and tied on his apron.
On the counter, the filet mignon—seared on one side—waited patiently on a plate.
He turned the burner back on. Butter melted in the pan, bubbling gently.
Click. Click.
He twisted the new grinder. Fresh black pepper rained down onto the meat.
Sizzle—
The steak hit the pan again, and the rich, savory scent of seared beef mingled with butter and spice, filling the kitchen with warmth.
He loved this part—the precision, the order.
Combine the right ingredients. Apply the right heat. Follow the right steps.
And for a moment, the world made sense again.
Fifteen minutes later, Joren sat at the small dining table.
His plate held the perfectly cooked steak, boiled broccoli, and roasted potato chunks.
Simple. Balanced. Delicious.
He flipped on the TV and landed on a documentary about the deep ocean. The narrator's deep, calm voice became the perfect backdrop.
He cut a bite of steak and chewed slowly. Tender. Juicy. Just right.
After dinner, he washed the dishes and set them to dry.
Then he retrieved a heavy hardcover from the bookshelf—Introduction to Marine Biology—and sank into the sofa, flipping to the chapter he'd left off on:
The Predatory Habits of the Giant Squid.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
The sound was soft—but unmistakable in the quiet apartment.
Joren didn't move. Didn't turn the page.
Maybe it was a mistake. Maybe they'd walk away.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
More persistent this time.
Trouble.
He closed the book, stood, and walked to the door—but didn't open it. Just stood there, silently.
"Joren?"
Peter Parker's voice—hoarse, exhausted.
"I know you're in there."
A pause.
"I… I just wanted to say thank you."
Joren reached for the lock and turned it.
The door opened.
Peter stood on the threshold, clothes still stained with dried blood, eyes hollow, shoulders slumped like the weight of the world had settled on them.
"Uncle Ben… the doctor said he's out of danger."
Peter's lips moved, barely forming the words.
"They said the bullet missed his heart by less than a hair's breadth. It was a miracle he survived."
He bowed deeply. "Thank you."
"If it weren't for you," Peter continued, voice cracking, "Uncle Ben would've… he would've left this world today."
Joren leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, making no move to step aside.
Peter straightened slowly, meeting the gaze of the boy—barely older than himself—standing before him. Gratitude warred with confusion.
He saved Uncle Ben's life… and hasn't said a single word.
"I…" Peter faltered. "I don't even know how to—"
"Why," Joren cut in, voice flat and cold, "is an old man who's practically retired still driving a taxi at this hour?"
Peter froze.
The question hit like a sledgehammer.
His face flushed—burning, then draining to a sickly pallor.
Why?
Because he wanted a new laptop.
Because he wanted to impress Gwen.
Because Uncle Ben and Aunt May's worry felt like nagging, like they didn't get him.
So he'd slammed the door.
Skipped dinner.
Left Ben alone.
And that's why his uncle was out there, steering that rickety cab through Queens at midnight—chasing spare change while Peter chased validation.
Peter's lips trembled. No sound came out.
Shame. Regret. Grief.
They wrapped around his ribs like barbed wire.
Joren said nothing. Just watched.
A night breeze stirred fallen leaves. The rustle filled the silence.
After a long moment, Joren stepped aside—wordless, but clear.
Come in.
Peter shuffled inside.
The apartment was clean, quiet. The scent of grilled steak still lingered in the air. On the TV, tropical fish drifted through a coral reef, the narrator's voice calm and low.
Everything was orderly—a sharp contrast to the storm tearing through Peter's chest.
Joren returned from the kitchen with a glass of water and handed it over.
Peter stared at it. Only then did he notice his fists were clenched so tight his knuckles had gone white. His whole arm shook.
He took the glass with both hands. The chill bit into his skin, jolting him back—just enough.
He drank. The water was cold, but it did nothing to douse the fire inside.
"I…" He swallowed. "I saw you."
"There's a canteen in the alley," he said, voice rough. "Back then, I thought… I thought I'd stumbled onto some kind of breakthrough. Some insane physical anomaly."
A bitter twist tugged at his mouth—less a smile, more a flinch. "I even wanted to write a paper about it."
Joren didn't respond. He walked to the couch, picked up the remote, and turned off the TV.
Silence crashed down.
It was suffocating—yet somehow, it gave Peter room to breathe.
"I was bitten by a spider," he whispered. "At the Osborn Building."
"In that exhibit… the one with the glowing vials. I didn't think much of it. But on the way home, I started burning up. My body ached like I'd been run over."
"I barely made it back that night. Passed out with a fever."
"When I woke up… everything was different."
He set the glass down, lifted his hand, and stared at his palm as if seeing it for the first time.
"My vision—perfect. My body—strong. I could leap three stories. Punch through brick. And… I could feel danger. Like my skin buzzed before it happened."
For a heartbeat, wonder flickered in his eyes.
"I was… happy. Like I finally mattered."
"I wanted to use it. To help. To fix things."
"There's an underground fight in Queens—three grand to the winner. I thought… with that money, Uncle Ben wouldn't have to drive anymore."
His voice began to shake.
"I won. But the promoter only paid me a hundred. Said I 'didn't fit the brand.' When I argued, he threw me out."
Peter's breath hitched.
"Right then, a guy burst in—robbed the place. Ran past me. I could've stopped him."
He dragged his hands through his hair, eyes squeezed shut.
"But I didn't."
"I just… let him go. Told myself it wasn't my problem. That the guy deserved it."
"And then… I walked downstairs… and the street was full of people."
"Uncle Ben was on the ground."
"The shooter… it was him. The same thief I let run."
Peter crumpled to his knees, shoulders heaving. Muffled sobs tore from his throat.
"It's my fault."
"If I'd just—"
If I'd stopped him…
If I hadn't been so selfish…
If I'd stayed for dinner…
But there are no second chances. Only consequences.
Joren stood in the dim light, unmoved. No comfort. No judgment. Just presence.
Eventually, Peter's crying quieted.
He looked up, eyes bloodshot, raw.
"Help me," he rasped. "Please."
"I know you're not ordinary. You saved him. You saw what I am."
"You have to know how to control this—how to use it right."
"I can't… I can't let someone else get hurt because of me."
Joren turned, the brim of his hat casting his face in shadow.
Ugh. Teenagers.
Massive guilt complex. Superhuman abilities. Walking disaster.
If left alone, Peter would either drown in regret or spiral into reckless heroics—either way, things would get messy.
But if guided…
If trained…
He might actually do some good—and stay out of Joren's hair in the process.
"Tomorrow night. 10 p.m."
"West City Wharf. Abandoned Warehouse No. 3."
Peter's head snapped up, disbelief flashing in his eyes.
"You're… you'll—?"
"Don't be late."
Joren opened the door.
"Now go. Be with your family."