The shower is better than I could have hoped for. The hot water splashing against my skin feels great, and my muscles are loving it. I get finished and step out of the shower, wrapping a towel around my torso. Heading back to my room, I find Peter's best clothes that don't look horribly geeky. It's honestly a t-shirt with long sleeves under it, with brown cargo pants. Spectacular Spider-Man cartoon style, I can dig that.
The fabric's stiff from sitting in the drawer too long—creased at the sleeves, a little too new-smelling, like laundry detergent trying to cover up disuse. I tug it on anyway. The mirror catches my eye and I glance at it, catching the drip of water down my neck. My hair's a mess—just damp enough to be annoying, not wet enough to look intentional. There's no point in trying to fix it, Peter's hair is unruly anyway.
But it does work for him. I'll give him that.
I look at the glasses, and lift them to where I can gaze through the lenses. I know, I can see perfectly fine without them, but I'd like to see if it's that drastic of a difference. The lenses make everything a bit blurrier, like there's a faint haze, everything's slightly out of focus. That's a headache waiting to happen.
Laying them back down, I head for the door. At least I won't have to worry about needing glasses from now on. I never did like wearing them too much, even if it helped prevent my migraines.
Downstairs, the smell of breakfast hangs in the air—eggs, toast, something vaguely cinnamon if I'm not imagining it. The table's already set, and May smiles at me as I slide into the chair like I haven't just been out running halfway across Queens.
No one says much. Just the quiet sounds of silverware tapping ceramic, Ben rustling the paper, and the occasional clink of a glass being set down. It's… peaceful, honestly. Like they're giving me space without realizing it. Or maybe they do realize it.
The only thing May says—lightly, without judgment—is, "Would've been nice to know you were going out, sweetheart. Just so we knew."
I nod, mouth full, and give her a quick thumbs-up. That's enough for now.
Afterward, I help bring the plates to the sink. I barely finish drying my hands when there's a knock at the front door. One of those casual three-beat knocks—light, but not shy. I already know who it is.
I open it to find Harry standing there, hands in his jacket pockets, grinning like we're about to get away with something.
"You ready to go?" he asks.
I roll my eyes, chuckling.
"Good morning to you, too."
"Is that Harry, I hear?" May calls from the kitchen.
Harry steps in just as she rounds the corner, and the way his face softens says he's been here before—maybe not often, but enough to remember the smell of May's cookies or the shape of the furniture.
"Mrs. Parker," he smiles, pulling her into a quick hug.
"Dear, you should come over more."
"I plan on it," he says, meaning it. "I've been busy lately." He glances toward me. "Speaking of which, Pete and I got a big day ahead of us and not a whole lot of time, so maybe we can catch up sometime next week?"
"Of course, sweetheart," May nods. "You two behave."
"Define behave," I mumble, and Harry's already dragging me out the door.
"Alright, so you got a style in mind or do I get a chance to mold you into my Michelangelo?" Harry asks, putting his hands out toward me like he's already mentally pinning me into a turtleneck. Which, ew. Turtlenecks? They cling to my neck too much. I like to breathe.
"Uh, I was hoping to just kind of wing it. Nothing flashy, but not what I had before."
"So you're not dressing to kill. Got it." He gives me a side glance, one eyebrow cocked like I just walked into a courtroom without a lawyer. "There a reason you want to do this?"
I keep walking.
"You're not trying to impress this MJ girl, are you?"
"HA! Shut up!" I laugh, already shaking my head as we make it to the car. "Please, can we not mention her while we're still on the property line?"
"Oh, I smell a development. What happened?"
"I went for a run this morning and I—"
"Wait, you went on a run? You, Peter Parker… went on a run?"
"I regret it, yes, but that's beside the point."
"But you went on a run..." He's staring at me now like he expects me to pull off a mask and reveal I'm actually a shapeshifter.
"I know, I know," I sigh. "The world's ending. Dogs and cats are living together. The nerd ran."
He snorts.
"You sure you didn't hit your head this morning?"
As I sit down and buckle my seat belt, I press my tongue against my cheek trying to avoid my usual sarcastic comments, because frankly they come off a bit too brass for some people's liking.
"I wish. It'd explain a lot. But do you want me to tell you what happened or are you going to focus on the fact I willingly exercised?"
"Okay, okay… you went on a run and…"
"Thank you," I mockingly bow.
Bernard starts the car and we take off for the city.
"I ended up at the waterfront," I say, watching the houses blur past through the window, "and she ended up being there too."
Harry doesn't jump in right away. He gives it a second, just long enough for me to think maybe he's going to let it slide. But no.
"Total coincidence, or...?"
I shrug. Knowing how Peter is practically destined to meet MJ at one point in his life, it certainly wasn't a coincidence.
"I didn't know she'd be there. I was trying to burn off energy—to do something productive that wasn't in a book."
"So you did it for stress relief? I thought your version of that was homework?"
No, it's not. I hate homework, but Peter… I guess he might like that.
"Still is," I mutter. "Just trying to add cardio."
That gets a short laugh from him. I lean my head back against the seat, feeling the coolness of the window through my hair. The scent of leather seats, faint cologne—Harry's, not mine—and the quiet hum of the engine settle between us for a beat.
"Alright, Fabio… continue on with the story." Harry motioned toward me.
"Right," I straighten my back. "I was relaxing on a railing when she showed up, nearly running into me."
"Classic," Harry grins. "Were you shirtless and glowing from the workout or was this more 'sweaty gremlin crouched on a pier' energy?"
"Definitely the latter," I deadpan. "I was half a second away from heaving into the river."
"So you met her as your best self. Good strategy."
I give him a slow blink. "Anyway… we started talking. Just small stuff. I didn't even realize who she was at first. She mentioned an aunt who lives in Queens and then it clicked."
Harry lifts an eyebrow but doesn't say anything, just nods like he's filing the info away somewhere behind those rich kid sunglasses.
"That MJ," Harry says.
"Yeah," I nod. "That MJ."
The city skyline's getting closer now—buildings creeping taller, traffic inching thicker. Bernard's gliding through it all like it's just background noise. I watch as we pass a street vendor with a cart of roasted nuts, and the smell somehow seeps through the closed windows, warm and sugary.
"She was cool though," I add, maybe a little too quickly. "Like, actually cool."
"Is she pretty?"
I don't answer, mostly because the thought of commenting on an underage girl's appearance makes me sick to my stomach.
"I don't know," I manage. "I was out of breath, about ready to throw up. I didn't pay that much attention."
"You gonna see her again?"
I open my mouth, then pause.
"I don't know, maybe? We didn't exchange numbers or anything."
"Oh, come on… you chickened out?"
"I did not chicken out!"
"You totally did!"
"Harry, I wasn't trying to get her number! I was trying to not die!" I retort, raising my voice slightly just to the point it cracks. I fucking hate puberty… I take a breath, and continue. "But she and I walked back together. She went into her aunt's place, so I'm guessing there's a good chance we'll see each other again."
Harry lets out a low whistle, not mocking—more like he's genuinely impressed.
"Well look at you, Pete. Going for a run, surviving it, and getting a casual walk home with a girl? You're evolving."
"Yeah, if I keep it up, I'll unlock the ability to speak in full sentences without sounding like my voice box is short-circuiting."
Harry laughs as Bernard takes the next turn, the city finally swallowing the last bits of suburbia behind us. The noise level picks up—car horns, a siren somewhere distant, and the rhythmic bass of a stereo from a passing car vibrating through the window.
I shift in my seat, still feeling a little damp in places the towel didn't quite get. My shirt sticks to my back a little. Gross. I subtly peel it away without drawing attention.
"So… you feeling nervous?" Harry asks, tone casual, but I can hear the real question under it. The unspoken what are you trying to become, exactly?
I glance out the window again. "About shopping?"
"About everything."
I give a half-shrug.
"I just don't want to look like I did before. Doesn't feel like me anymore."
Harry doesn't say anything right away. I half-expect him to crack a joke, but instead he nods like he gets it—like he actually understands what it's like to outgrow your own skin.
"Well," he finally says, leaning forward to look out the windshield as we turn down a tighter street, "lucky for you, I know just the place. Low pressure, good fits, solid prices."
"Wait—are we not doing one of your high-end brand places?" I tease. "No gold-leaf silk jackets or imported Parisian leather?"
Harry grins.
"I figured we'd start you off in the kiddie pool before I take you to the deep end."
Bernard pulls up to the curb in front of a storefront that's wedged between a barber shop and a bubble tea place. The windows are tinted just enough that you can't fully see inside, but the clean lines of mannequins in the display window scream "not cheap" without being obnoxious.
I unbuckle my seatbelt and stare at the door for a second, heart starting to thump a little harder than I expected.
Harry's already halfway out when he leans back and says, "Come on, man. Let's get you upgraded."
As we step inside, I can already hear Roy Orbison faintly in the back of my mind—"Pretty Woman" looping on imaginary speakers while I picture myself trying on clothes I have no business being seen in. Knowing Harry, he'd be thrilled to do the full montage. Hell, he might have brought the soundtrack himself.
Honestly? I might just lean into it. For the bit. The workers probably won't appreciate me treating their job like a sitcom gag, but I've got some residual post-run serotonin bouncing around. Let's see how I feel after a shirt or two.
We don't get more than a few feet in before a woman at the counter greets us with that kind of customer service smile that says she's prepared for anything—up to and including a teenager trying on six coats just to leave without buying a single thing.
"What can I do for you gentlemen today?" she asks, polite but sharp-eyed, already clocking Harry's expensive watch and my decidedly not expensive cargo pants.
Harry doesn't miss a beat.
"My friend here is undergoing a full-blown fashion renaissance."
I shoot him a look.
"That's a little dramatic."
"He's evolving," Harry continues, gesturing to me like I'm a museum exhibit titled Before Style. "We're hoping to find him some looks that say, 'I'm cool but not trying too hard,' and also, 'No, ma'am, I don't work for Geek Squad.'"
The woman's smile doesn't fade, but I see the glint of amusement behind her eyes. "Got it. No polos, no khakis, and we'll burn any sweater vests on sight."
"You're a saint," I mutter.
"Let me grab someone from the floor to help you two out," she says, already reaching for a headset. "Make yourselves comfortable."
As she walks away, Harry claps me on the back.
"Alright, Peter. You ready for your fashion redemption arc?"
I glance at the racks of clothes, the mirror-lined walls, and the faint scent of cologne, pressed cotton, and overpriced ambition hanging in the air.
"As long as I don't end up in a deep v-neck or anything leather, I think I'll survive."
He grins.
"No promises."
We go through it all.
There's the skater look—oversized tee, plaid overshirt, sneakers too white to trust. I don't hate it, but it doesn't feel like me. More like a persona I'd try on and then leave folded on the floor of someone else's life.
There's some retro 80s look Harry tries to pitch, complete with loud patterns and sunglasses that look like they belong on a synthwave album cover. Hard pass.
Eventually, we narrow it down. I find a rhythm. A style that actually clicks.
Darker colors. Deep maroons, charcoal grays, navy blues. Layers that feel like armor, but not too heavy. A fitted thermal henley under a broken-in brown jacket, something with structure but not stiffness. A couple tank tops for working out, and shorts that don't look like I stole them from a sixth grader.
Running sneakers—sleek, black-and-white, lightweight. Black K-Swisses for everyday wear. And, against all odds, a pair of combat boots that just feel right. Heavy enough to matter. Like they're made to last.
The woman helping us—who's been pretty patient through the whole montage—raises an eyebrow at the boots with the rest of the outfit.
"Bit of a mixed signal," she mutters.
Harry grins.
"That's his brand."
I change one last time and step out. Harry gives me a once-over, hand on his chin like he's about to cast me in a cologne commercial.
"Okay," he says, "this is working. You look good, Pete."
I nod slowly.
"Thanks."
"But there's something missing," he adds, eyes narrowing slightly. "It's clean. Sharp. But it doesn't feel… you."
He's right.
It takes me a second, but I feel it in my chest—this tiny itch of memory, like I've left the oven on somewhere back in a life that technically isn't mine.
The necklace.
I used to wear one. Silver pendant, black cord. Assassin's Creed insignia. A piece of who I was before all this. I didn't wear it often, thanks to the metal detectors at work always flagging me for secondary screening. But still, it was mine. Simple. Meaningful.
Do they even have Assassin's Creed in this world?
If they did, did they ruin it after 3 like I remember? Did Ubisoft go full corporate greed and never look back?
Not the point.
I stare at my reflection in the mirror—new clothes, new body, new world—and realize I need something. Something simple. A marker. A totem. Something quiet but grounding.
"Maybe a necklace," I say aloud, almost more to myself than Harry.
He perks up.
"Yeah? Like what—dog tags? Chain? Cross?"
I shake my head. "Nothing loud. Just… something personal."
He nods.
"There's a vintage spot a few blocks from here. We can swing by after this, if you want."
I glance down at the boots again, flexing my toes inside the thick leather.
"Yeah," I say. "Let's do that."
The shop is tucked between a laundromat and a bakery that smells like heaven dipped in powdered sugar. The kind of place you'd miss if you blinked—or if Harry wasn't actively dragging me toward it with the determination of a personal stylist on a mission.
A little bell jingles overhead as we step inside.
It's… cluttered. But intentionally so. Every surface feels curated in that chaotic "organized mess" way, like a museum run by fandom goblins. The air's thick with dust, faintly sweet—incense, maybe vanilla or patchouli—and there's soft jazz humming from a tinny speaker tucked behind the register.
The necklace display is a rotating rack jammed with every kind of chain you can imagine. Leather cords, beaded strands, braided hemp, polished metals. I spot a silver Imperial crest from Star Wars, the One Ring replica dangling from a fine gold chain, and more Deathly Hallows pendants than anyone in 2025 should reasonably still be selling.
Harry spins the rack idly, raising an eyebrow at a tiny plastic Poké Ball on a string. "You sure this is your vibe?"
"I'm looking," I mutter, fingers brushing over a dragonfly, an alien head, a miniature cassette tape.
Then I see it.
Bright. Silver. Shaped like a wolf's head.
Not cartoonish. Not stylized to death. It's got an edge—angular lines, eyes narrowed, ears back. Predatory but noble. Like something that'd sit around the neck of someone who walks alone but isn't alone.
I reach for it instinctively.
It's heavier than I expected. Not hollow. The cord it hangs from is a dark gray leather, already broken in and soft from use. The metal's cool against my fingers, but it doesn't feel cold.
Harry leans in.
"A wolf?"
I turn the pendant over once, letting the silver catch the light. It looks a little like the Witcher symbol from the Netflix show—less snarling, more regal. Clean lines. Like it was carved by someone who gave a damn.
"It's my favorite animal," I say quietly.
He studies me for a beat, then just nods.
"Good pick."
I loop it around my neck and feel the weight settle at the base of my throat. It feels… right. Like a name you didn't know you'd forgotten until someone said it.
"Let's check out," I say.
The outfits aren't far off from what I imagined Peter would wear anyway. That kind of layered, slightly rumpled confidence. The TASM vibe is strong—hoodies under jackets, sleeves pushed up, jeans that actually fit. It's practical. It's clean. It's… me.
Or, it's the version of me I always wished I could be.
Back then, clothes like this felt like fiction. Something that lived on mannequins and actors, not on guys like me. I was always just a little too broad in the shoulders, a little too soft around the middle. I wore what fit, not what I wanted.
Now, though—now it fits.
We climb back into the car, shopping bags in the trunk, and the necklace still resting warm against my chest like it's been there forever.
Harry glances at me as Bernard pulls away from the curb, heading back toward Queens. He looks me over once—not obnoxiously, just enough to catalog the change—and nods, satisfied.
"Definitely an improvement," he says.
I just smile—not anything big or dramatic. We ride the rest of the way in comfortable silence, the city bleeding into suburbs again as the afternoon light slants longer across the pavement.
As I carry everything in, I can already feel the weight of their stares before I even make it past the front door.
Ben's eyebrows creep up so high they practically touch his hairline. May just stands there in the kitchen doorway, dish towel in her hand, looking like I've brought home a small furniture set instead of a few bags of clothes.
To be fair… it is a lot. Definitely more than I planned.
I set the bags down by the table and drop into the nearest chair with a sigh, half from exhaustion, half from knowing what's coming next.
"You had a busy day," Ben says, eyeing the haul like it might start multiplying. "Please tell me they were cheap."
"Cheap-ish?" I offer, wincing slightly. "Harry took care of everything."
May gasps softly, and I immediately regret phrasing it like that.
"Peter!" she scolds, stepping forward. "You shouldn't have had Harry do that."
"I didn't!" I sit up straighter, hands out defensively. "I swear, I didn't ask him to buy it all. I just wanted help picking something out that didn't look like it came from a clearance bin."
She crosses her arms, her look somewhere between concerned mother and disappointed tax auditor.
"I'll pay him back," I add quickly. "Even if it takes me until I'm thirty."
Ben chuckles under his breath.
"Something tells me you'd be owing him money for a lot longer than that, kiddo."
He catches sight of the necklace resting against my chest. It gleams slightly in the kitchen light—silver catching amber like a sunset on metal.
"That part of the shopping trip too?"
"Yeah. It was like ten bucks," I say, fingers brushing it instinctively. "You like it?"
"It's nice," Ben nods. "Looks like it means something."
"It does. Sort of." I don't really know how to explain that yet. But I feel the weight of it in a way I didn't expect—like a small anchor in a sea of change.
May's expression softens, but not all the way.
"Just promise me you won't rely on Harry for financial aid, dear. Or Norman," she adds with a subtle frown. "We can manage just fine without their help."
"I know," I say, and I mean it. "I didn't go looking for a handout."
She sighs, then leans over to press a kiss to the top of my damp hair. "We just don't want you to feel like you have to accept help when you've got us."
"I don't," I say. "I've got you guys. That's all I really need."
Ben leans back, satisfied.
"Good. Now go put those clothes away before I start thinking you're about to open a boutique upstairs."
"Don't tempt me!" I beam as I grab the bags and start hauling them upstairs. At least in Peter's body I have a way better center of balance. Hauling things upstairs has never been so easy!
I make it to the bedroom and kick the door shut behind me with my heel, dropping the bags onto the bed with a soft thud. There's a ridiculous amount of stuff—folded jeans, jackets layered over shirts, sneakers in their boxes. I stare at the pile like it personally offended me.
The closet groans when I open it, like it knows what I'm about to do. And yeah… it's not great in there. A graveyard of old shirts, oversized sweaters, and pants that probably never fit right in the first place. Most of it looks like it was bought with coupons and settled into, not chosen.
And now I've got to figure out where all this actual clothing goes.
I sigh and scrub a hand through my hair, already knowing I'm gonna make this worse before I make it better. I'm not what you'd call "organization-minded." My method has always been more… geological. Layered piles. Erosion over time.
Still, I pull everything out of the closet and start going through it. Some stuff I fold neatly on the bed. Some I just toss aside without ceremony. There's a pair of khakis in here that feel like they've personally wronged me.
Eventually, I make a dent. The new clothes start taking up space on the hangers, arranged mostly by color because that's the easiest system I can fake. A few pairs of shoes line up under the hanging clothes. The necklace's silver glint catches in the mirror as I move.
I pause, meeting my reflection again.
I don't look completely like Peter anymore.
I look like me.
Or… maybe like the version of me that's been waiting to be let out. Confident. Comfortable. Just a little bit worn in.
"Not bad," I mutter, nodding at myself. "Still not folding the socks, though."
The lazy bastard in me smiles, having clutched a small victory.
I collapse backward onto the bed, arms outstretched like I've just completed an Olympic triathlon. The fresh scent of fabric softener clings to the bedsheet, mixing with the faint metallic scent of the necklace still pressed against my chest.
It's quiet up here. Just the faint creak of the house settling and the occasional car rolling past outside. I let the moment sit—just me, the calm, and a small mountain of receipts I probably don't want to look at.
The ceiling doesn't look any different from the one in my old room, but it feels different. Like this room has potential. Like it could be mine, not just Peter's. I'm slowly starting to carve out the difference.
I shift, hand brushing over the necklace again, thumb tracing the edge of the wolf's snout. There's something solid in it. A reminder of the person I still am beneath all this, wrapped in another person's skin.
If I get a couple movie posters, a new paint job, and some new books, this will feel a lot more like home.
Most importantly, I need to be able to write. Get my thoughts out before they start turning to static. The laptop'll do just fine for that. It's old, a little sluggish, but it boots up and types, and that's all I really need. I've got things I want to say—some to myself, maybe some for someone else down the line.
Today was good.
Not perfect. Not painless. But good. The kind of good you feel in your chest, like a knot that finally let go. I'm not fully comfortable yet—not in this house, not in this skin—but it doesn't feel like I'm trespassing anymore.
That's a good start.
The weekend goes by quicker than I would have liked, but it was productive. I woke up, went for a morning run to the waterfront and back. It's still just as terrible as I remembered it being the other morning, but unlike the casual walk back with MJ, I force myself to run back both days. After the shower, I studied my ass off.
It's genuinely amazing how everything is sticking now. I know Peter was smart, and since I have his brain now, the neurons are firing faster. I don't have his intellect, but I feel like there's a chance now that one day I could have it.
It's actually fun, I hate to admit it. I'm scribbling down notes, recalling my Auto Body class from high school, minor things like that and finding ways to apply it to what I'm learning. Hell, I bet Ben and May think I'm bouncing right back to where Peter was before the coma.
I help cut the grass, assist May in cooking dinner, and even work with Ben to fix a leak in the basement. The energy I have is astonishing. I don't know how to describe it other than I want to move. I have a drive now…
Like something under my skin's caught fire and decided it's not going out anytime soon.
I'm not bouncing off the walls or anything. It's not hyper, not manic. It's just this low, persistent hum—like a car engine idling in my chest, waiting for green lights. I used to wake up dreading the idea of doing anything, but now I'm pulling open textbooks before I even brush my teeth.
On Sunday night, I actually look forward to school.
Let me say that again for the people in the back: I'm looking forward to school.
I know that's what Peter was about. Always pushing himself, always hungry to learn. And now I get it. I'm not him, but I've got the scaffolding in my head that lets me climb higher than I used to. Every equation I solve, every scientific term I recall, it's like I'm rewiring my own expectations in real time.
And the crazy part? It's not pressure. It's possibility.
The world feels wider now. Like the limitations I lived with before weren't real—they were just familiar.
I even enjoy helping out around the house. Cutting the grass, fixing a leak with Ben, dicing vegetables while May walks me through an old family recipe like I've done it a dozen times. The scent of garlic, the hum of a lawnmower, the cold copper smell of damp basement air—it all hits differently now.
Beyond that, though… I am noticing one thing that's lacking that I wish I had more of: the powers.
I know how ridiculous that sounds. I'm living in a dream scenario. I've got Peter's life, his family, his brain, his shot. And yeah, it's amazing. But the part that made him more than just some smart kid with a good heart—that part's been quiet.
Too quiet.
I shouldn't be upset that I'm not there yet. It's not like I've been bitten, blacked out, and woke up crawling on the ceiling. I know the timeline. I've got a little longer to go before the changes really kick in.
But I want to know what the rest of it feels like.
The Spider Sense only flared up once—but since then? Nothing. No sixth sense whispering in the back of my skull, no danger tingling on the edge of awareness. I keep waiting for it to show up again like a rerun, but all I get is silence.
Still… I can feel something brewing. It's subtle, but it's there.
My reflexes are sharper. I've started catching things before I realize I'm reaching for them. I move quicker. Turn corners faster. It's not much—but it's something.
And maybe that's what makes it harder. The taste of it. The hint.
It's like the universe is dangling the powers just out of reach, waiting to see what I'll do next.
I'm not going to chase after it if I don't have to, but it doesn't mean that I don't want it. I want to know.
So, maybe that's why when I noticed my hands felt grittier than normal as I was sitting at the desk Sunday night, I stopped what I was doing. They didn't feel dirty, but they didn't feel smooth like they normally did.
It was like I had calluses on my hand, but it was barely there, like fresh scratches made from sandpaper.
I rub my thumb across my palm, then over the pads of my fingers. There's a texture there that wasn't there before—like microscopic grit under the skin. Not rough, exactly. Not painful. Just... different. New.
Like something's trying to grow out of me without breaking the surface.
I lean in closer, holding my hand under the desk lamp. My skin looks the same, mostly. No bulging veins, no webbing, no sci-fi nonsense pulsing under the surface. But it feels different. My fingertips feel like they've been... sharpened. Not literally, but there's a kind of edge to them now. A quiet resistance when I drag them across the woodgrain of the desk, like I could grip it a little too hard if I really wanted to.
I press two fingers down on the desk and try to lift without grabbing—just friction and intention.
The sensation of the wood against my fingers as I lift almost feels like a piece of paper sticking to my hand when I'm sweaty. I don't know exactly what I'm supposed to be feeling, but the grit in my skin feels like something is happening.
The wood creaks, just a little, but it's enough to startle me. Whatever that sensation was disappears instantly and my hand yanks back like I just touched a hot stove. I stare at it for a moment, and realize that part of the panelling had stuck to my fingers. Once I remove them, I flex my hand. The sensation fades just a bit. Still there, but buried again, like it's shy.
It's like… static. Or a radio signal I'm not quite tuned to yet. Still faint, still distant, but unmistakably there.
I press my palm against my thigh just to feel something familiar. That soft friction's back again—not enough to stick, but enough that I can tell it wasn't just in my head.
I look at the desk. There's a faint line where my fingers lifted the paneling, splintered ever so slightly. Barely noticeable unless you're staring straight at it.
Which I am.
I lean back in my chair and exhale through my nose, the breath slow and uneven. My heart's beating harder than it probably needs to, and I'm trying to figure out if that's excitement or anxiety. Both, probably.
This is happening.
I stand up, glancing at the ceiling like it's suddenly turned into Everest. There's a pause—a beat where I'm pretty sure my better judgment is trying to drag me back into the chair. But the rest of me? The rest of me is buzzing.
If it works, I'm gonna have to physically stop myself from screaming out loud in excitement.
If it doesn't… well, I'm probably hitting the floor with a very loud thud and screaming for a much dumber reason.
Either way, I'm making some noise, dammit.
"Okay... let's do this."
I bend my knees and jump, pressing both hands flat against the ceiling above me.
And to my shock—no, not even shock—something deeper than that. Astonishment. Awe. Something—I stick.
I'm hanging. From. My. Ceiling.
My legs swing under me, and there's a good three feet between my feet and the floor. I stare down at them like they belong to someone else.
I tighten my core and swing up, slow and clumsy, but it works. I bring my feet up to the ceiling and press them down.
They stick too.
I clap a hand over my mouth just in time to muffle the laugh before it turns into something loud and uncontrollable. It bursts out anyway, sharp and breathless behind my fingers, like I can't even believe myself.
I'm on the ceiling. I'm on my fucking ceiling.
And it's not a fluke. I twist just slightly, testing how much weight I can shift without falling. My fingers grip tighter instinctively. It's like having extra muscles I didn't know existed—ones that are somehow hardwired to know what they're doing even if I don't.
The ceiling creaks above me, wood groaning like it's trying to figure out what the hell I'm doing up here. Same, buddy.
I glance down. It's a six-foot drop—nothing major, but it's enough to make my stomach flip if I think about losing grip.
Then again… I don't feel like I will.
That's the wild part. The security of it. My body knows how to do this. Like it's been waiting for the right moment to show me the manual.
I let go with one hand, just to see if I can. I hang there for a second, one hand and both feet keeping me steady. My heart leaps into my throat. My brain's screaming what are you doing, but the rest of me is too high on adrenaline to care.
I slap the hand back down before gravity changes its mind.
Another laugh bubbles up—quieter this time, but just as giddy. This is nuts. Completely, gloriously nuts. I'm upside down, and it doesn't even feel like it. No dizziness, no blood rushing to my head, no weird pressure behind my eyes. Just a sense of... balance. Like my body knows which way is up, even if gravity disagrees.
Guess that's the equilibrium part of the powers kicking in.
I grin.
"Okay," I mutter under my breath. "Let's see how far this goes."
Carefully—like I'm testing ice—I shift my weight forward. My hands release, fingers spreading wide in case I need to catch myself, but I stay upright. Or… ceiling-right?
Either way, I'm standing on the ceiling now.
My giggle turns into something more like a laugh—still hushed, but no less wild. This isn't just sticking anymore. I'm moving.
I take one cautious step. Then another.
My feet cling like it's nothing. Like they were made for this.
I walk across the ceiling like it's the floor, arms out slightly for balance even though I don't need it. The room's flipped upside down around me—the bed, the dresser, the desk lamp that suddenly looks a lot dustier from this angle—and I can't stop smiling.
I'm walking on the ceiling.
I'm walking on the freaking ceiling.
And it's officially the coolest thing I've ever done in my life.
I stop halfway across the ceiling and blink.
Wait.
How the hell do I get down?
I turn around slowly—still sticking like a pro, thank you very much—and glance at the floor like it's a twelve-foot drop instead of, you know, six feet. It suddenly looks way farther than it did five minutes ago. Like the kind of fall that ends in a very loud thud, a bruised tailbone, and a May Parker panic attack.
I crouch a little, testing the angle, like maybe if I just… peel off gently, it'll be fine. Except now my feet really don't want to let go. They're locked in, like my body's saying, "Oh, we live here now."
"Okay. Cool. Sticking very well. That's good," I mutter, trying not to sound as panicked as I feel. "Now maybe… let's try unsticking just a little bit, huh?"
I bend one knee and try to lift my foot. Nothing.
Shift a little more weight.
Still nothing.
"Oh come on—" I grunt, giving a solid yank that finally breaks the suction with a soft pop. My shoe peels off the ceiling like Velcro, and I wobble, one foot still clinging while the rest of me starts to tilt.
"Bad idea! Bad idea!"
I throw my hands up and catch the ceiling again, heart pounding. Okay. Definitely not graceful. But hey—progress.
I hang there for a second, legs dangling like some weird ceiling bat, and think it through. Okay. Okay. I've seen this before. Into the Spider-Verse. Which, I admit, doesn't make me an expert. But still.
In the movie, Miles kept sticking because he was panicking. He had to relax to stop.
So maybe… maybe that's it. Maybe the key to un-sticking is just not trying so hard.
"Alright," I mutter under my breath, shifting my grip slightly.
I close my eyes and exhale slowly, letting my arms loosen just a little, letting the tension bleed out of my fingers.
And like magic—actual magic this time, not metaphorical self-help stuff—my hands slip free. Just enough.
I drop with a surprised yelp, hit the bed with a bounce and sprawl out on my back, laughing like an idiot as the ceiling returns to its rightful place above me.
"Relax to unstick," I say, grinning at the ceiling like we just made a deal. "Noted."
But man, I gotta work on the landing.
Either way… that was awesome.