Night enveloped Queens.
On the TV, a female news anchor delivered the local news in a slightly exaggerated tone.
"For three nights in a row, a masked vigilante in homemade tights has appeared on the streets of Queens—specializing in attacking street gang members."
"According to eyewitnesses," she continued, "the man can leap over walls and possesses extraordinary strength."
A police spokesperson later condemned the actions, calling them "a lawless act of vigilantism that seriously disrupts public order." Authorities pledged to investigate and urged citizens to come forward with any information.
Joren turned off the TV.
He leaned back on the sofa and rubbed his temples.
He didn't need to think hard to guess who this so-called "masked weirdo" was.
Peter Parker.
The kid was frantically hunting for the robber who'd shot Uncle Ben—in his own, increasingly conspicuous way.
What a guy who never shied away from trouble.
Joren stood, walked to the fridge, and pulled out a bottle of iced milk.
He unscrewed the cap, tipped his head back, and took a long gulp.
The cold liquid slid down his throat, dulling the edge of his irritation.
Everyone's got their own path.
He'd already pointed Peter in the right direction. What the kid did with it—or where it led—wasn't his problem anymore.
Dong! Dong! Dong!
A sharp knock cut through his thoughts.
Joren set the milk bottle down and frowned beneath the brim of his hat.
At this hour? Who the hell…?
"Jojo! It's me! Peter! Open up—I've got something awesome for you!"
Oh, perfect.
He'd barely had the thought before the voice confirmed it.
With a sigh, Joren got up and opened the door.
Peter stood outside, zipped into an oversized hoodie that made him look oddly puffed up—like a startled pigeon in sweatshirt form.
The moment the door cracked open, he practically bounced inside.
"You'll never guess what I made!"
He slammed the door shut behind him with a dramatic backhand, then—without warning—yanked down his hoodie zipper.
Beneath it: a red-and-blue spandex suit, homemade down to the last crooked stitch.
The fabric looked rough, clearly repurposed from who-knew-what. A lopsided spider had been hand-painted on the chest in black—less arachnid, more starved crab.
But the real masterpiece was the full-head red hood, complete with two enormous white lenses sewn over the eyes, giving him the unsettling gaze of a predatory insect.
Joren stared. Expressionless.
Peter, oblivious, spun in a full circle to show off his creation.
"So? Cool or what?!"
"This is all my design! High-elasticity fiber—fire-resistant, insulated, the works!"
He thrust out his wrist. "And check this—I left tiny holes right here so my webs can shoot out no problem!"
To demonstrate, he fired a strand of white silk straight at the ceiling—where it stuck, dangling limply from the chandelier.
Joren raised his head and glanced at the crystal chandelier—freshly wiped just a few days ago. A tiny # seemed to flicker into existence on his hat.
Peter tugged proudly at a strand of spider silk dangling from the ceiling.
"Jojo! I even came up with a cool name for myself!"
He struck what he clearly thought was a heroic pose and dropped his voice an octave.
"From now on… please call me… Spider-Man!"
Silence.
Dead, absolute silence.
The only movement in the room was the lone thread of spider silk, swaying gently from the chandelier.
Joren stared at him. Said nothing.
Peter's confident grin slowly melted into confusion.
"Jojo… don't you think the name's cool?"
"No."
"Why not? Look at this whole vibe!"
"Ugly."
"Huh?"
Peter blinked, stunned.
"I said," Joren repeated, voice flat, "this outfit is very ugly."
He reached out and tapped the crab-like spider emblem on Peter's chest with his index finger.
"And that name? Also stupid."
Peter felt like someone had dumped a bucket of ice water over his soul.
"But—"
"Are you done?"
"Uh… yeah?"
"Then get out."
Before Peter could protest, Joren grabbed him by the back of his collar.
"Wait! I'm not done yet! I found a lead on that robber—the one from the alley!"
Peter flailed, arms windmilling.
Joren didn't even glance his way.
He hoisted the flailing boy in his ridiculous red-and-blue tights like a sack of groceries, marched to the door, yanked it open—
—and tossed him out.
BANG!
The door slammed shut with finality.
Peace.
Joren turned and walked back to the center of the living room. His eyes lifted to the offending strand of white spider silk clinging to the ceiling. He sighed.
…I'll deal with that tomorrow.
He headed to his bedroom and locked the door behind him.
The room was dark, lit only by silver moonlight spilling through the windows. Joren shrugged off his coat, removed his hat, and sat cross-legged on the floor, hands resting lightly on his knees. He closed his eyes.
Breath in—long, deep, as if drawing the very night into his lungs.
Breath out—steady, smooth, rhythmic.
With each cycle, his blood began to quicken.
A faint golden halo shimmered across his skin, threading through his veins like liquid light—slow, luminous rivers coursing beneath the surface.