The wail of sirens shattered the campus's quiet—growing louder with every second.
Red and blue lights strobed against the windows at the far end of the corridor.
"The wounded need to be moved—now!"
Footsteps pounded outside: paramedics, police, chaos.
Peter Parker didn't dare wait.
He sprinted to the opposite end of the hall and drove his fist through the closed window. Glass exploded outward in a glittering rain.
One last glance at the wreckage—then he leapt.
A whip of white spider-silk shot from his wrist, latching onto the roof of a distant classroom building.
In the next heartbeat, the red-and-blue blur vanished into the Queens skyline.
---
Midtown High lay in ruins. By dawn, the school had issued an emergency notice: all classes suspended for one week to allow for structural repairs.
Students celebrated the unexpected break.
For Peter—newly minted, still-shaken Spider-Man—it meant something else: time. Time to train, to adapt… and to swing.
That night, a crimson figure danced across rooftops.
He stopped a convenience store robbery. Guided a disoriented grandmother back to her apartment. And left a car thief dangling from a streetlamp, neatly wrapped in webbing like a holiday ornament.
With every patrol, Peter grew more confident. More addicted—not just to the power, but to the quiet pride of doing good. To being Spider-Man.
---
While the webslinger patrolled, Joren savored rare stillness.
After pummeling Dr. Connors—aka the Lizard—into submission, he hadn't gone home. Instead, he ducked into a roadside burger joint for a quick bite, then made his way to the Queens Public Library.
Inside, the hush was sacred. The scent of old paper and ink eased the tension coiled in his shoulders.
He found a seat by the window and pulled a thick volume from the shelf: Illustrated Guide to Ancient Ships of the World.
Sunlight spilled through the glass, dappling golden patterns across the pages.
Outside: honking cabs, shouting vendors, the pulse of New York.
Inside: silence. Stillness. A world where time moved at the pace of a turned page.
Joren lost himself in shipwrecks and forgotten galleons—so deeply that he didn't notice the hours slip away.
Only the closing bell jolted him back.
The librarian gave a polite but firm wave. He closed the book gently, returned it to its shelf, and stepped out into the evening.
Night had fallen. Neon signs flickered to life, painting the streets in electric blues and pinks.
He wasn't hungry—no need for groceries tonight. Hands in his pockets, he walked home slowly, lost in thought.
---
He pushed open his apartment door.
And froze.
A faint, unfamiliar scent hung in the air—sharp, musky, out of place.
Joren didn't speak. Didn't move beyond slipping off his shoes.
He flicked on the living room light.
Everything looked normal. Sofa. Coffee table. TV. All precisely where they belonged.
But it was too perfect. Too tidy.
His eyes narrowed.
He crossed the room and turned the knob of his parents' bedroom door.
Darkness yawned inside. He didn't switch on the light. Just stood in the threshold, listening.
The window was open. A breeze lifted the white curtains. Moonlight spilled across the far wall—
—where a landscape painting used to hang.
Now, the frame lay discarded on the floor. And the wall behind it gaped open: the hidden safe had been emptied.
Joren didn't flinch.
Behind him, the air rippled.
Star Platinum materialized—tall, muscular, eyes blazing with bluish-green intensity. It scanned the room with inhuman precision, missing nothing.
Time seemed to hold its breath.
Then, with surgical delicacy, Star Platinum stepped forward and pointed.
A single strand of brown fur clung to the edge of the carpet.
Not human hair—cat hair.
Before Joren could react, Star Platinum floated to the windowsill.
There, almost invisible in the dust: a faint smudge. Not a shoeprint. Too light. Too… clawed.
Joren approached slowly. Crouched. Traced the outline with one fingertip—careful not to disturb it.
Yare yare…
He exhaled through his nose. His jaw tightened.
No ordinary thief would dare break into a Joestar residence.
And stealing the sapphire his father gave his mother on their twentieth anniversary?
That wasn't theft.
That was a challenge.
Joren pulled out his phone. Dialed an international number.
The phone rang for a long time before it was finally answered.
"Hi~ Jojo~ My dear son!"
A vibrant female voice crackled through the receiver, underscored by the crash of waves and distant seagulls.
"Is it night where you are? Why'd you suddenly call your mom? Short on allowance again?"
"A thief broke into the house."
Joren's voice was calm—eerily so.
The line went dead silent.
A few heartbeats passed. Then his mother's voice returned, sharp with urgency.
"Are you alright? Are you hurt?"
"I'm fine."
"That's good, that's good…"
She exhaled in relief. "Did you lose anything? Was it valuable? Most important thing is you're safe."
"The safe was broken into."
"Oh… that."
Her tone softened, almost dismissive.
"So what if it's gone? That 'Heart of the Ocean' was a fake—worthless."
"Don't worry about it, Jojo. Just be careful when you're home alone. And tell Mom if you need more money."
After another ten minutes of affectionate, overprotective rambling, Joren's mother—Shirley Joestar—finally hung up, satisfied.
Joren let out a quiet breath. His mother's tongue was as sharp as ever… and just as comforting.
He tucked his phone away, closed the window against the night air, and paced the room once more.
The intruder had been precise. Nothing else had been touched—only the gemstone was taken.
Whether it was real or fake didn't matter.
What mattered was this: someone had dared to step into his space.
That alone was a provocation.
And provocation demanded consequence.
---
Queens. Public Library.
Joren sat hunched over a thick volume titled Illustrated Guide to Rare Felines of the World.
Star Platinum—his Stand—hovered just behind his shoulder, its eyes scanning each page with inhuman precision, comparing every photographed fur pattern against the fleeting image imprinted in Joren's memory: sleek, tawny, with black-tufted ears.
His finger stopped on an illustration.
Caracal.
Native to Africa, West Asia, and northwestern South Asia. Often called the "desert lynx" due to its preference for arid habitats. Though capable of domestication, it is classified as a prohibited exotic animal in New York State. Private ownership is illegal.
Joren snapped the book shut.
A thief keeping such an expensive, illegal pet?
That wasn't discretion.
That was arrogance.
And arrogance left trails.
He returned the book to its shelf and stepped out into the midday glare. The sun forced him to tug his hat brim lower over his eyes.
Pulling out his phone, he opened a map and began marking every upscale apartment complex in Queens—then overlaid them with nearby pet stores, specialty groomers, and exotic animal suppliers.
One by one, red pins appeared on the screen, weaving a net across the borough.
His hunt had a shape now.
---
The first pet store belonged to a grumpy old man who barely looked up from his newspaper.
"We don't sell those weird things!" he snapped, waving Joren off before he'd even finished his question.
The second was a sterile chain supermarket. The cheerful assistant had never heard of a caracal—but was very eager to sell him discounted tuna-flavored cat treats.
The third, an elegant grooming salon, offered only services. "We don't deal in sales, darling," the proprietress said with a practiced smile, eyes sharp behind it.
Then came the fourth.
Tucked into a quiet corner of a side street, the shop had no flashy sign—just a dusty window where a few scruffy kittens dozed in a patch of sunlight. Wind chimes jingled as Joren pushed the door open.
"Welcome!"
A woman in a faded apron looked up from behind the counter. When she saw his face, her motions stilled for half a second.
"Looking to buy something for your pet, handsome?" Her voice lilted with practiced charm.
"I want a cat," Joren said, stepping closer. His gaze swept the cages—empty of anything unusual. "But the kind I'm after isn't easy to find."
"Oh?" Interest flickered in her eyes. She rounded the counter, drifting nearer. "I've run this place five years. Name it—I know it."
"Caracal."
The word hung in the air.
The shopkeeper's expression shifted—just slightly. Wariness, calculation, then opportunity.
"That's… rare." She studied him, weighing his clothes, his posture, his quiet confidence. "Costly, too. Delicate. Needs climate control, purified water, special diet…"
"Money's not the issue," Joren said flatly. "I just don't have the connections."
That did it.
Her smile widened. She leaned in, close enough that her fingers brushed his forearm as she spoke. "Connections… I might know a few. Sold a brown caracal a few months back—twenty grand. Lives in the Astoria apartments, right around the corner."
She lowered her voice conspiratorially. "Owner's a real looker. Comes in every week for probiotics and hypoallergenic paste. Says the little one's stomach's sensitive—humidity off by five percent, and it's diarrhea city."
While she rambled on about air filters and imported kibble, Joren already had what he needed.
Astoria Apartments.
A woman with a brown caracal.
Felicia Hardy.
He didn't need to hear more.
As the shopkeeper veered into asking if he was free that evening, Joren let Star Platinum pulse—just once.
A ripple of Stand energy, subtle as a sigh, passed into her arm.
Her voice cut off mid-sentence. Her eyes glazed over. A flush rose on her cheeks; her breath hitched.
"Where… where was I?" she murmured, blinking slowly, disoriented.
Joren was already at the door.
"Thanks."
The wind chimes sang as he stepped back into the street.
Behind him, the woman slumped against the counter, one hand pressed to her racing heart, wondering why the world suddenly felt so warm—and why that tall stranger left her breathless.
Outside, Joren tilted his head up.
Not far away, gleaming under the Queens sun, stood the Astoria—modern, luxurious…
and full of secrets.
MERRY CHRISTMAS EVERYONE 🎄🎄🎁🎁🎁