Crack!
With the sickening sound of bone snapping, the neck of the previously arrogant robber tilted at an unnatural angle, and he stopped breathing.
Peter stood there for a moment, his enhanced hearing picking up the rapid patter of footsteps echoing down the alley. He looked back just in time to see the white woman who'd been robbed disappear around the corner without so much as a backward glance or a word of thanks.
Sigh, people these days...
After muttering this complaint under his breath, he turned his attention back to the now-dead robber crumpled at his feet. The guy's mask had slipped, revealing a face that couldn't have been older than twenty-five. Young. Stupid. Dead.
Peter felt... nothing. No guilt, no horror, no churning in his stomach. Just a cold, practical assessment of the situation he'd created.
After a moment's hesitation, he crouched down and reached into the man's jacket pocket, fishing around until his fingers closed on a cheap plastic lighter. The kind you could buy at any gas station for a dollar.
He flicked it open, struck the wheel, and watched the small flame dance in the darkness. Then, methodically, he set fire to the robber's clothes, starting with the sleeves where he'd grabbed him, then moving to the chest and legs.
The fabric caught quickly, flames spreading with an almost eager hunger.
Since this whole thing had been a spur-of-the-moment decision, he wasn't wearing any kind of suit or disguise, and he'd already left his fingerprints all over the body—on the guy's arm when he'd blocked the gun, on his throat when he'd snapped his neck.
He didn't want to get tangled up in a police investigation because of such a rookie mistake.
Even more importantly, he absolutely didn't want Uncle Ben and Aunt May worrying about him, wondering why their nephew was being questioned about some dead thug in an alley.
The thought of Aunt May's concerned face, of Uncle Ben's disappointed eyes if they thought he was involved in something dangerous—that bothered him more than the corpse currently burning in front of him.
Watching the flames quickly consume the body, Peter felt disturbingly calm. His heartbeat was steady, his breathing even. There was no panic, no wave of nausea, none of the typical reactions you'd expect from someone who'd just committed their first murder.
But then again, what kind of "good person" pulls a gun and fires without hesitation at an unarmed teenager?
The bastard had tried to kill him. Had wanted to kill him, just for interrupting a simple mugging.
Putting him down was simply doing the world a favor. One less predator on the streets. One less person who'd victimize someone's daughter, someone's mother, someone's sister.
Peter wasn't like his predecessor—that "boy scout in pajamas" who'd clung to a strict no-kill rule like it was some kind of moral high ground.
As someone who'd lived an entire previous life, who'd seen how the world really worked, he knew the harsh truth: "Cutting the grass without removing the roots means it'll grow back with the spring breeze," and more importantly, "Kindness to your enemies is cruelty to yourself and those you love."
Not to mention this messed-up country, which didn't have anything resembling a fair and transparent judicial system!
The rich bought their way out of anything. The connected walked free. The prisons were revolving doors. He'd seen it in his previous life, and nothing had changed in this reality.
In the original Spider-Man stories, his predecessor had shown mercy at every turn. He'd webbed up villains, left them for the cops, felt good about himself for "doing the right thing."
But what were the results?
Which of those supervillains had ever truly repented? Ever actually reformed?
Not a single damn one.
They were caught over and over again, only to be bailed out by wealthy benefactors or escape from laughably insecure prisons, coming back to cause trouble for his predecessor time after time.
And they didn't just target Spider-Man—they made life absolutely miserable for everyone associated with him. Aunt May, terrorized in her own home. Gwen, thrown off a bridge. Mary Jane, kidnapped more times than anyone could count.
All because Peter Parker was too "noble" to do what actually needed to be done.
Peter admired Spider-Man's sense of justice and courage—he genuinely did. The selflessness, the dedication, the willingness to put yourself in harm's way to protect strangers... that was real heroism.
But that didn't mean he agreed with his predecessor's naïve concept of never crossing that final line.
If being a "true hero" meant letting monsters live to hurt people again and again, then screw being a hero.
Instead of becoming some squeaky-clean superhero standing in the sunlight, basking in public adoration while his loved ones suffered, he'd rather be an anti-hero like Venom or Punisher.
Someone who did what was necessary. What was effective. What actually kept people safe.
As the old saying went: Forgiving sinners is God's job. His job was to send these people to meet God as efficiently as possible.
The flames were dying down now, having consumed most of the evidence. The smell of burning fabric and something worse filled the alley, but Peter's enhanced senses had already adjusted, filtering out the worst of it.
After one last look at what remained on the ground—barely recognizable as human anymore—Peter turned and strode away, his mind already moving past the kill and onto more practical matters.
As he walked, he began mentally reviewing his performance in that brief "battle," cataloging his mistakes with the same analytical approach he'd use for a failed chemistry experiment.
First and most obviously: he wasn't sufficiently prepared. If he was going to make a habit of this—and he suspected he would—he needed proper equipment. A costume, a mask, something to ensure his public identity remained completely separate from his vigilante activities.
He couldn't let the police track him down, and he definitely couldn't let the supervillains who'd inevitably appear figure out who he was. The moment they connected "Peter Parker" to whoever he became at night, Uncle Ben and Aunt May would have targets on their backs.
Second, and almost as critical: his complete lack of real combat experience.
That pathetic excuse for a fight had made it crystal clear that possessing superhuman power and actually knowing how to use it effectively were two completely different things.
His physical abilities had completely outclassed the mugger—he could've torn the guy apart with his bare hands if he'd wanted to—and yet he'd still almost gotten his head blown off by a single bullet.
If word of that got out in the superhero community, he'd be a complete laughingstock. "Oh yeah, that's the guy with super-strength and super-speed who nearly died because some random mugger got lucky with a pistol."
Embarrassing didn't even begin to cover it.
He needed to fix this, and fast. He needed systematic, efficient combat training—techniques that would let him push his physical advantages to their absolute limits while minimizing his exposure to danger.
Maybe something from the System Shop? Or he could try to find a teacher... though finding someone who could actually train someone with his level of physical capability would be tricky.
Then there was the third major problem: his total lack of proper equipment.
As the old saying went, "No matter how high your kung fu, you're still afraid of a kitchen knife."
His physical fitness was now way beyond normal human limits, sure, but he hadn't reached the level of genuine immortality or invulnerability.
A regular 9mm pistol probably wouldn't kill him anymore—his enhanced durability and the Horse Talisman would see to that—but what about a Barrett .50 caliber sniper rifle? What about a mortar shell? An RPG?
And what about the energy weapons that various aliens and advanced tech villains would inevitably bring to bear?
He'd seen enough of the MCU to know that Earth was going to become a battleground for increasingly powerful threats. Chitauri, Ultron, Thanos...
He needed to be ready.
He needed equipment that could keep up with his abilities and protect him from threats his body alone couldn't handle.
Captain America's Vibranium shield, for instance—nearly indestructible and perfect for both offense and defense. Or Wolverine's Adamantium skeleton, literally unbreakable. Thor's Mjolnir, though that came with some annoying "worthiness" requirements. Or maybe something like Black Panther's nanotech suit or one of Iron Man's armors.
Hell, he'd settle for a really good Kevlar vest and some web-shooters at this point.
Fortunately, there were potential solutions to all these shortcomings.
Peter's consciousness sank inward, focusing on the virtual panel that only he could see, floating in his mind's eye like a video game interface.
[Sacrifice Points: 3000 points]
Three thousand points. Not a fortune, but not nothing either.
Now it was time to put them to good use...
Meanwhile, on the rooftop of Midtown High School, a slender figure landed as lightly as a cat, making absolutely no sound despite the three-story drop.
Gwen pulled off her hood, revealing a face filled with confusion and growing unease. Her blonde hair was windswept, her cheeks flushed from exertion and adrenaline.
She looked around carefully, her newly enhanced senses trying to pick up anything unusual. The empty rooftop was eerily quiet under the moonlight, with nothing but the whisper of wind and the distant sounds of traffic.
That heart-pounding feeling—that overwhelming sense that she was about to lose something incredibly important—had mysteriously vanished just as she'd been about to arrive.
Her Spider-Sense, which had been screaming at her with the intensity of a fire alarm, had gone completely silent.
"How is that possible?"
Gwen muttered to herself, feeling like an idiot who'd just been pranked. She'd pushed herself to her limits getting here, making jumps that should've been impossible, and for what?
Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
She began searching the campus methodically, carefully checking every corner she could access. The courtyard, empty. The fire escapes, clear. She even got down on her hands and knees, using her enhanced vision to scan for footprints, scuff marks, blood—anything that might indicate there'd been some kind of confrontation.
But she found absolutely nothing. Forget signs of a fight—there wasn't even an extra footprint in the dust, no disturbed gravel, no broken glass.
It was like whatever her senses had been screaming about had never existed at all.
She couldn't figure it out. The Spider-Sense was supposed to be reliable, wasn't it? That's what all those weird genetic memories seemed to suggest.
Gwen sat down dejectedly on the edge of the rooftop, letting her long legs dangle over the side four stories up—something that would've terrified her just yesterday but now felt completely natural.
The evening breeze blew through her blonde hair, and she suddenly felt very small and very alone.
She sat there for who knows how long, watching the security guard below make his rounds, eventually settling into his booth and nodding off. Finally, she sighed helplessly and decided to just go home.
Maybe her control over this new power was still too weak? Maybe she was getting false alarms because she didn't know how to properly interpret what her enhanced senses were telling her?
That was the only explanation that made any sense, however unsatisfying it was.
Still filled with doubt and frustration, Gwen pulled her hood back up and began making her way home, darting and leaping between buildings with increasing confidence.
But this time, without the urgent alarm of her Spider-Sense driving her forward, Gwen actually paid attention to what was happening in the city below her.
Her original intention was just to appreciate the New York night scene—something she'd never really taken the time to properly observe before. The lights, the energy, the life of the city after dark.
But when she actually focused on the concrete jungle spread out beneath her, what she saw wasn't beauty or excitement.
It was crime. Everywhere.
In the less than ten minutes it took to get from Midtown High School to her neighborhood, she witnessed—and stopped—at least six robberies and incidents of assault.
A woman being followed into a parking garage. A teenager being shaken down for his phone. An elderly man being pushed around by three guys outside a convenience store.
Each time, Gwen dropped in, used her superior strength and speed to subdue the attackers, and vanished before anyone could get a good look at her.
This experience made her think about her father in a way she never had before.
George Stacy. Captain George Stacy, of the NYPD.
She'd always felt, in some vague, teenage way, that he didn't spend enough time with her. That he cared more about his job than his family. That he was always choosing the city over his own daughter.
But it wasn't until tonight, seeing what was happening in just these few blocks of New York, that she truly understood what her father was facing every single day.
He was using his own flesh and blood—putting his actual life on the line—to protect the peace of this city.
And now she had power far beyond anything he could ever dream of. Strength, speed, instincts that warned her of danger...
A thought began to grow in her mind, taking root and spreading like wildfire.
I can do more than this.
I have to do more.
After knocking out the last group of would-be criminals—three guys who'd been harassing a woman outside a bar—Gwen slipped through the shadows and quietly pushed open her bedroom window, climbing inside.
She stood there in the darkness for a long moment, still wearing her improvised hood, just thinking.
Then, decision made, she walked to her desk, turned on the lamp, and spread out a fresh sheet of white paper.
She picked up her colored pencils and began to sketch, her hands moving with surprising confidence. Soon, several heroic figures began to take shape on the page—athletic builds, white hoods, dynamic poses suggesting movement and action.
Beside these costume design sketches, she started roughing out more technical drawings. Complex mechanical devices, spring-loaded mechanisms, chemical formulas...
Today's experience had made something very clear: she was missing a crucial element of her abilities.
If she'd inherited the abilities of a spider, why couldn't she produce webbing? That was literally one of the most iconic spider abilities.
So she began designing a device that could fire high-strength spider silk based on her knowledge of actual spider biology and materials science. Something compact enough to wear on her wrists, powerful enough to support her body weight, precise enough to aim...
The web-shooters were already taking shape in her mind.
The birth of Ghost-Spider was counting down.
Peter would never have imagined that his quick decision to save himself by leaving the scene, while successfully changing his own fate, had unintentionally guided Gwen onto the same nearly predestined path of heroism that she'd been meant to walk all along...
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