The tour concluded.
Midtown High students gathered outside Oscorp Industries for the final headcount.
Joren stood at the edge of the crowd, hands in his pockets, hat pulled lower than usual.
His attention fixed on one figure.
Peter Parker.
The boy stared downward, scratching nervously at the back of his neck. His movements carried an unmistakable tension.
Joren's eyes narrowed.
Near Peter's hairline, at the base of his neck, a swollen red welt stood out. At its center was a tiny puncture mark. The surrounding skin showed a faint purplish discoloration.
Sweat streamed down Peter's forehead. His face had gone pale. His breathing was rapid and uneven.
A blonde girl noticed.
Gwen Stacy — student leader for the trip.
"Peter? Are you okay?"
Her voice carried immediate concern.
"You look awful."
Peter lowered his hand, startled. He forced a smile that resembled a grimace.
"I'm fine, Gwen."
His voice was hoarse.
"Maybe the air conditioning inside Oscorp was too cold. I think I caught a chill."
"Are you sure? You're sweating a lot. Should we go to a hospital?"
"No, really. I'll just go home and sleep."
He waved his hands, eager to end the conversation.
Joren looked away.
After the headcount, he turned and walked toward the subway.
Behind him, Peter hurriedly said goodbye.
"I should head home, Gwen. I feel dizzy."
"Be careful."
Waves of vertigo washed over Peter.
The world tilted.
Distorted.
He staggered toward the subway station on instinct.
Joren swiped through the gate and walked to the far end of the platform.
He preferred overlooked corners.
The train arrived.
He entered and took a seat in the corner of the carriage.
Just before the doors closed—
Someone stumbled inside.
Peter Parker.
He looked worse.
He clung to the handrail, panting heavily. His shirt was soaked through with sweat.
He didn't notice Joren only meters away.
The train departed.
Moments later, Peter slid down the pole and collapsed onto the floor.
His teeth chattered violently.
He hugged himself tightly, consciousness flickering between clarity and delirium.
Then darkness took him.
Joren pressed his palm lightly against the seat.
Golden ripples spread silently through the carriage.
He sensed it immediately.
An abnormal energy cascade inside Peter's body.
Cells dividing at accelerated rates.
Proteins restructuring.
Genetic sequences breaking apart and reassembling.
Foreign traits integrating with brutal efficiency.
This was not natural evolution.
This was forced adaptation.
Peter's body convulsed.
Joren sighed.
He increased the ripple output.
Gentle waves of life energy flowed into Peter's body, stabilizing the violent mutation process.
Gradually, the convulsions eased.
Peter's breathing steadied.
Joren withdrew his hand and waited in silence.
The train stopped at the next station.
Three middle-aged men stumbled aboard, reeking of alcohol and stale sweat.
Their loud laughter filled the carriage.
Passengers recoiled.
One of them noticed Peter curled on the floor.
"Hey, look at this kid."
He nudged his friend, grinning.
"Out cold."
The man in a stained vest chuckled and produced an empty beer bottle.
"Let's play a game."
He shook it.
"See if he notices."
Another man raised his phone.
"Record it. This'll get views."
The vest-wearing man crept closer and crouched, attempting to balance the bottle on Peter's head.
The phone camera blinked red.
Just before the bottle touched Peter's hair—
A hand seized the man's wrist.
He froze.
The grip was immovable.
He looked up.
A boy in a black hat stood before him.
The brim shadowed his face, revealing only a sharp chin and a tightly set mouth.
"What the hell? Let go!"
He struggled.
The grip did not move.
"Bullying a student?"
Joren's voice was flat.
"Pathetic."
"Who do you think you are?!"
The man twisted violently.
The hand remained like iron.
Crack.
A soft dislocation pop.
The man's face drained of color. Cold sweat formed instantly.
"Let him go," one companion muttered uneasily.
The other tried bravado and swung a punch.
A third lunged with a kick.
Joren released the wrist and shoved the vest man forward.
He collided with the attacker mid-punch.
Both tumbled.
Joren stepped left.
The kick missed.
His hand rose.
The edge of his palm struck the kicker's neck with surgical precision.
The man collapsed instantly.
Silence fell across the carriage.
Fear replaced drunken arrogance.
The remaining men dragged their unconscious friend away and fled into the next car.
Joren exhaled softly.
Trouble magnet.
Next stop: Ingram Street.
The announcement chimed.
Joren approached Peter and reached down to wake him.
Before his hand touched the shoulder—
Peter's eyes snapped open.
His arm shot upward.
His palm intercepted Joren's wrist with precise timing.
His other fist launched toward Joren's face.
It stopped one centimeter from his nose.
Another hand had caught it.
Peter blinked.
Fully conscious.
He saw Joren.
Saw his captured fist.
Felt an unfamiliar power humming beneath his skin.
He jerked his hands back, recoiling.
His breathing quickened.
"Awake?" Joren asked calmly.
The train doors opened.
"Then get off."