The next morning.
Joren walked through the gates of Midtown High School.
The hallway crowd parted instinctively as he passed. Whipers resumed only after he moved on.
Thompson still hadn't returned.
Rumors had multiplied into a dozen variations.
The newest version claimed Joren carried a malevolent curse — anyone who crossed him met misfortune.
Thompson was cited as Exhibit A.
Joren had no interest in rumors.
He reached his seat, hung up his bag.
Sunlight streamed through the window at a perfect angle.
As he opened his bag to retrieve Introduction to Marine Biology, a figure appeared at the classroom door.
Peter Parker.
His thick black-rimmed glasses were gone.
Without them, his features looked sharper — almost unfamiliar.
Several classmates gathered around.
"Peter, where are your glasses?"
"I switched to contacts," he replied simply.
His voice was calmer.
More grounded.
He brushed past them and took his seat.
He did not look at Joren.
No questions. No analysis. No probing curiosity.
Joren appreciated the silence.
He opened his book to the chapter on octopuses.
Three hearts.
Copper-based blue blood.
Remarkable intelligence.
He read quietly.
The following days passed in rare tranquility.
Peter did not approach him.
Thompson and his teammates remained absent.
Joren enjoyed the stillness.
Graduating quietly from Midtown High suddenly seemed possible.
Three days later.
Evening.
Butter sizzled in the frying pan.
Joren placed a thick filet mignon into the pan.
The instant the meat touched heat, aroma filled the kitchen.
He turned the black pepper grinder.
Nothing.
He checked the spice cabinet.
No spare.
…Unfortunate.
He turned off the stove and transferred the steak to a plate.
Dinner rituals could not be compromised.
He removed his apron, grabbed his coat and wallet, and stepped outside.
Night had fallen.
Queens shimmered beneath scattered lights.
A cool breeze drifted through the streets.
Joren walked toward the nearby 24-hour supermarket.
He reached an intersection when a sharp argument cut through the quiet.
"Give me the keys! Now!"
Two men in hoodies were dragging an elderly man from the driver's seat of a yellow taxi.
The old man clung desperately to the wheel.
"This is my car! You can't take it!"
"Let go!"
One robber drew a handgun.
"I said let go!"
Joren stopped at the corner.
Trouble.
More trouble.
He was about to detour—
BANG
The gunshot shattered the night.
The old man jerked violently and collapsed against the driver's seat.
Blood spread across his shirt.
The robbers froze in shock — then fled into the darkness.
A figure sprinted across the street.
"Uncle Ben!!"
Peter Parker.
He saw his uncle slumped in blood.
Saw the wound.
His mind emptied.
He dropped beside the taxi.
"Uncle Ben! Look at me! Uncle Ben!"
Ben Parker's eyes fluttered.
His breathing was shallow.
Broken murmurs escaped his lips.
"No… no…"
Tears blurred Peter's vision.
He pressed his hands against the wound.
Blood seeped through his fingers.
Warm.
Sticky.
His world collapsed inward.
"Someone call an ambulance!"
He screamed into the night.
Then—
A calm voice behind him.
"Move."
Peter froze.
He knew that voice.
He turned slowly.
Joren Joestar stood behind him, his silhouette blurred by the dim streetlight.
Peter tried to speak.
No sound came.
Joren knelt beside Ben Parker.
Ben's fading awareness seemed to sense the presence near him. His trembling hand lifted weakly.
Joren took it gently.
His expression softened.
"It's alright," he said quietly.
He placed his other hand over the wound.
A soft golden light radiated from his palm.
Not bright.
Warm.
Steady.
Alive.
Ripple energy flowed into Ben's body.
Peter stared in shock.
The bleeding slowed.
Color returned faintly to Ben's face.
His breathing deepened and steadied.
Peter forgot to breathe.
This wasn't first aid.
This wasn't medicine.
This was something beyond both.
Joren withdrew his hand.
Ben Parker slept peacefully, chest rising in slow, steady rhythm.
Alive.
Saved.
In the distance, ambulance sirens grew louder.
Peter exhaled for the first time.
His legs gave out.
He collapsed onto the pavement, trembling from shock and relief.
He looked up.
Joren had already stood, returning to his usual calm detachment — as if nothing extraordinary had happened.
"Th… thank…"
Peter's voice was raw.
"Thank you."
Joren said nothing.
He simply lowered the brim of his hat.
Sirens approached.
Lights reflected off the taxi windows.
And for the first time since the gunshot, Peter Parker felt the crushing despair inside his chest begin to loosen.