The bell rang, signaling the end of class.
The teacher closed her textbook and announced the lesson was over.
Immediately, the classroom filled with the rustle of zippers, the scrape of chairs, and the buzz of students packing up and chatting.
Joren slid his open copy of The Illustrated Compendium of Marine Creatures back into his bag and stood, ready to leave.
A nimble figure appeared at his desk.
Gwen Stacy.
"Hi, Joren~"
She held out a flyer stamped with the Science Club logo.
"I saw your score on the last physics test—almost perfect." She smiled, hopeful. "The Science Society's working on a project about high-energy particle collisions right now. I thought you might be interested."
Joren pulled his backpack onto his shoulder and looked up. His gaze was calm. Unreadable.
Neither of them spoke.
Gwen shifted under his stare but held the flyer out anyway. "We meet every Wednesday afternoon in the physics lab. You could—"
"Come on, Gwen."
Another voice cut in—dry, edged with sarcasm.
Jessica Jones leaned against the neighboring desk, arms crossed inside her worn leather jacket, chewing gum with deliberate slowness. "He's just playing it cool. Don't tell me you actually believe he's some kind of physics prodigy? That whole silent act only works on people like you—y'know, the ones who still think grades matter."
Joren glanced at her once—then looked away, as if she hadn't spoken at all.
He slung his bag over one shoulder and walked straight between them, heading for the back door.
"Hey!" Jessica snapped, stung by the dismissal.
Gwen grabbed her arm. "Don't, Jess."
Then she turned and called after him. "Joren, wait!"
He didn't slow.
"Our next class is sociology," she said, hurrying after him into the hallway. "It's in the East Building—same direction. So, um… convenient."
The crowd of students in the corridor instinctively parted as Joren passed, like water around a stone.
"You've always had amazing grades," Gwen continued, matching his stride. "Why not join a club? It'd look great on your college applications—or internships. Seriously, it'd make your résumé stand out."
Joren kept walking, eyes fixed straight ahead.
Her voice trailed off.
They crossed the sunlit lawn between buildings in silence—Gwen half a step behind, Joren unmoved.
At the sociology classroom door, she stopped.
"You… should think about it," she said softly.
He didn't reply. Just walked inside, dropped into his usual seat in the back row by the window, and pulled out his sociology textbook.
Gwen watched him for a moment, then sighed.
How can this guy be so heartless?
Peter gets along with him just fine… Maybe I should ask Peter for help.
Inside the classroom, Joren opened his book—but the words blurred before his eyes.
Clubs.
Resumés.
College.
All the ordinary milestones students mapped out for themselves…
All of it felt impossibly far away.
The day's classes had ended.
As usual, Joren slung his schoolbag over one shoulder and headed toward the supermarket.
He needed to buy a fresh cod—plus lemons and dill.
For dinner, he planned to make herb-baked cod.
Everything went exactly as anticipated: peaceful, orderly, mundane.
Back home, he moved with practiced ease—scaling, gutting, and patting the fish dry. He seasoned it generously with sea salt and freshly cracked black pepper, then arranged thin lemon slices over its surface, tucking sprigs of fragrant dill in between.
Into the preheated oven it went. Timer set.
He poured himself a glass of water, settled onto the sofa, and flicked on the TV.
The evening news droned on in the background—
"…breaking news bulletin."
The screen cut abruptly.
A reporter stood at the head of the Williamsburg Bridge, police lights strobing behind her, the crowd in chaos.
"Just moments ago, a massive unidentified creature appeared on the Williamsburg Bridge! It attacked vehicles, causing severe traffic disruptions and multiple casualties!"
The camera jolted violently.
On-screen, a hulking monster covered in emerald-green scales rampaged across the bridge. With terrifying ease, it flipped a sedan onto its side, claws screeching across metal like nails on a chalkboard.
"Oh my God—!" the reporter shrieked, voice cracking with panic.
Joren watched, unmoved.
Then—a red-and-blue blur descended from the sky, swinging gracefully on a strand of spider-silk.
Peter Parker.
He landed lightly on the suspension cables, then launched himself toward the creature.
On the television, Spider-Man danced between the monster's swipes, firing webs to yank civilians back from the edge before they could plummet into the river below. He dodged, weaved, and tangled the beast in reinforced webbing—calm, quick, relentless.
Yale yale.
That talkative bookworm had finally done something worthwhile.
Joren picked up the remote and switched channels—to an ocean documentary. A shimmering school of sardines twisted through the blue, evading a pod of hunting dolphins.
Now this was interesting. Not some overgrown iguana throwing tantrums on a bridge.
The oven chimed softly.
Dinner was ready.
---
The next day.
The halls of Midtown High buzzed like a hive.
"Did you see the news? That lizard monster!"
"It was insane! Spider-Man saved, like, ten people!"
"He's literally our hero. I swear, I cried."
Joren moved through the chatter like a ghost—expression blank, pace steady, utterly disinterested.
He'd just reached his locker when a blur of flailing limbs barreled out from the stairwell.
It was Peter Parker—pale, wide-eyed, with dark smudges beneath his eyes like he hadn't slept in days.
"JoJo!"
Peter grabbed his arm and yanked him into the stairwell's shadowed corner.
"Did you… did you see the news last night? The Williamsburg Bridge thing?"
His voice was hushed, trembling with barely restrained panic.
Joren said nothing. Just looked at him.
"That lizard… that monster—" Peter's breath hitched. "I think it's Dr. Connors."
Joren's expression didn't flicker.
He remembered the name.
Osborn Industries. The lab tour. The one-armed scientist, hollow-eyed with obsession.
"That day at OsCorp," Peter rushed on, "Dr. Raman said Connors was researching cross-species genetics—trying to use reptilian DNA to regenerate his arm."
His voice dropped to a whisper. "The monster… it's missing its right arm too. And the way it moves, the strength—it's him, JoJo. It has to be."
"I tried calling Osborn last night. No answer. Nothing."
Peter's hands clenched. "I have to stop him. Before he hurts anyone else."
He looked up at Joren, eyes raw with fear—and something deeper: desperate hope.
Because he knew.
Only the person standing in front of him had the power to face something like that… and win.
Joren reached up slowly and adjusted the brim of his hat.
This damn fate.