In Peter Parker's bedroom, the dim glow of his monitor illuminated a face carved with exhaustion.
He had not slept.
On the screen, a 3D model of a cast-iron manhole cover spun slowly while undergoing its 174th physics simulation.
Each run used different parameters:
Wind shear.
Ground subsidence.
Transient pipe pressure spikes.
Localized gas bursts.
Every result was identical.
Failure.
In the corner of the software window, a red message flashed again:
[Result: Violation of the Law of Conservation of Momentum]
[Conclusion: Simulation Failed]
Peter dragged both hands through his hair.
To propel a 200-pound manhole cover half a meter into the air required an instantaneous impulse bordering on explosive yield.
This was not coincidence.
It was intervention.
He opened his browser and typed:
"localized energy burst"
"object self-propelled displacement"
"precision anti-gravity phenomenon"
The results were useless — UFO sightings, paranormal blogs, urban legends.
A link titled "Is Telekinesis Real? A Yoga Master's Confession" made him physically recoil.
He closed everything.
Only one image remained on screen:
A student profile photo downloaded from Midtown High's website.
Joren Joestar.
Hat brim low. Expression unreadable.
Peter's finger traced the screen and stopped on the name.
Physics does not end in theology.
It ends in Joren Joestar.
The next morning, Midtown High's locker room reeked of sweat and cheap shampoo.
Lightning Thompson slammed his fist against a locker.
The metal rattled.
"That bastard used witchcraft!"
He snarled at the teammates gathered around him, face twitching with fury.
"I felt something under the chair — then crack! I was on the floor! My butt still hurts!"
A burly lineman named Marcus laughed.
"Lightning, maybe practice fried your brain. Nobody dismantles a chair with their eyes."
Another player snorted.
"That chair was flimsy. And you weigh as much as a vending machine."
Thompson's face flushed crimson.
"No! You don't get it! The way he looked at me was wrong. He was behind it!"
The locker room quieted.
Teasing their quarterback was one thing.
Letting him get humiliated by a transfer student was another.
This was team pride.
Marcus's grin faded. He clapped Thompson's shoulder.
"Alright. Whether he did it or not… we answer it."
Thompson's lips curled.
"That freak cares about his stupid hat, right? Hasn't taken it off once."
He scanned the room.
"Lunch. Cafeteria. In front of everyone."
"I'll rip it off and see what he's hiding — bald head or demon horns."
A few players laughed nervously.
"Let's remind him who runs Midtown High."
Morning sunlight filtered through corridor windows, scattering fractured light across the polished floor.
Joren walked through the hallway with his backpack slung over one shoulder.
Students parted unconsciously.
Whispers trailed behind him, dying the instant he turned his head.
He ignored it.
His destination was the library.
They should have the illustrated cephalopod guide he needed.
A figure darted in front of him.
The bespectacled nuisance.
"Joren!"
Peter Parker stood there, slightly breathless.
"Wait! We're classmates. I'm Peter Parker."
He spoke rapidly, words tripping over one another.
"The manhole cover yesterday — its instantaneous vertical acceleration had to exceed 150 meters per second squared! That requires a precisely directed impulse beneath the plate!"
"But there was no blast pattern, no energy residue! Energy can't just appear and vanish!"
He gestured wildly.
"And the chair bolts — zero torsional stress, zero shear deformation! That golden light — was it a directed energy device?"
Nearby students slowed, watching.
"I don't know."
Joren stepped around him.
Walked on.
"Hey — wait!"
Peter started after him but slowed.
This distance was useless.
He needed proximity.
Observation.
He needed to witness the phenomenon as it happened.
Morning classes passed like a lullaby.
When the bell rang, Joren closed his book precisely on time.
The cafeteria awaited.
Food. Efficiency. Study.
He entered calmly.
The moment he crossed the threshold—
Six football players rose from their tables.
At their center stood Thompson.
They spread outward, forming a half-circle.
Blocking his path.
The cafeteria fell silent.
Trays halted midair.
Voices died.
Peter, entering moments behind Joren, froze.
Thompson didn't move immediately.
He stepped forward and raised his voice so the entire cafeteria could hear.
"Everyone, take a good look!"
He jabbed a finger at Joren.
"This guy transferred here yesterday and attacked me in class for no reason!"
"He's dangerous! A violent criminal hiding among students!"
Murmurs rippled through the cafeteria.
Thompson's voice rang louder, feeding on the silence.
"Today, I represent the order of Midtown High School…"
His lips twisted into a cruel grin.
"And I'm going to teach him a lesson."