Chapter 16 - Powerplay

Douglas awoke to the hushed symphony of soft white light diffusing across the high walls of his infinity bedroom. The sweeping panorama of Midtown Manhattan shimmered through the floor-to-ceiling window like a living mosaic. He lay motionless for a heartbeat, gathering the last tendrils of a dream he could no longer grasp. The clock beside his bed glowed 04 00 in precise, unyielding digits. He rose, each movement deliberate as if he were learning his own form for the first time.

He dressed with practiced ease. His uniform for Midtown High—a charcoal blazer and tie of deep burgundy—hung ready on a chrome rack beside a row of gleaming shoes. He stood before the mirror as the soft hum of the automated wardrobe system sorted his garments. Jacket on shoulders. Tie cinched at the collar. Polished shoes slipped onto his feet. He did not pause. He did not linger. The bedroom's door slid open at his approach, revealing the private elevator that would ferry him down to the helipad.

In the shuttle he sat alone, the gentle thrum of anti-gravity drives cradling him. His thoughts returned, for a moment, to the sensation of waking in that endless corridor—steel walls, distant alarms, the hum of a blade unfurling. He shook his head, as though dispelling an echo. He told himself that it must have been a dream. Yet his heart still reverberated with its rhythm. He tucked the thought away as the shuttle banked toward school.

Midtown High unfolded before him like a statement of ambition incarnate. Marble columns rose to a sculpted archway, and beyond lay corridors lined with portraits of scholars, athletes, artists—each one a testament to the school's legacy of excellence. His first class was Honors Physics, where he and twenty-three classmates debated the paradoxes of quantum entanglement. He spoke with quiet confidence, voice steady, eyes bright with curiosity. By the time the bell rang, he had sketched a diagram on the board to illustrate his point on multiverse theory. His peers leaned in, captivated by the clarity of his explanation.

Hours passed in a whirl of equations and historical debates, of dissecting Shakespearean verse and practicing vowel tonalities in Mandarin. In Modern Literature class he leaned back in his chair and quoted a line from Borges in the original Spanish, surprising even the instructor. His reputation as the boy genius of Midtown High was well deserved, yet he carried it without arrogance. When questions turned personal, he deflected with a bemused half-smile, as if the world's weight were lighter on his shoulders than on most.

At 16 00 he boarded the shuttle once more, this time bound for Salem Center. His parents' suite overlooked the bustling plaza, where fountains danced to hidden rhythms and shops glowed like jewels in the setting sun. Inside, his mother greeted him with a warm embrace, her laughter bright as chimes. His father rose from behind a polished mahogany desk, sliding a tablet across to him. They spoke of global markets and philanthropic initiatives, yet Douglas sensed the conversation as a bridge between worlds: the world of high finance and the world of home.

By 17 00 he stepped onto the plaza. The air carried the scent of fresh-baked pastries from a nearby café. Beneath an ornate fountain, Ursula Ditkovich waited. She wore a tailored coat of slate gray, and her dark hair framed her face in soft waves. Her eyes were the color of polished blue onyx, glinting with intelligence and warmth. At that moment, Douglas felt the familiar surge of comfort and mischief that had drawn him to her since their first encounter.

"Good afternoon, Your Highness," she greeted, dropping into a playful curtsy. "I trust that your day conquered the unknown with ease."

Douglas allowed himself a genuine smile. "My lady Ursula," he replied, voice infused with mock solemnity. "Today the unknown yielded gracefully. And how fared the bear cub in her wanderings?"

She laughed—a sound like wind chimes in a summer breeze. "The bear cub discovered a gallery of modernist sculptures. Each one felt as if it were carved from pure mathematics." She tapped a slender tablet on her wrist. "Would you care to view my notes on the fractal patterns embedded in the designs?"

He nodded, and she handed him the tablet. His eyes danced over her precise annotations and playful commentary. Ursula's personality bore the mark of her name—little bear—in her protectiveness, her quiet strength, and her willingness to guide those she cared for through unfamiliar terrain.

They strolled side by side, the fountain's mist cool against their skin. He felt at ease in her presence, as if they had stepped into a world of their own making. He asked about her father's latest real estate venture, and she spoke with pride of his vision to revitalize a historic district. When she tilted her head and asked his opinion on the ethical implications, he launched into a thoughtful analysis, weaving together economic theory and a sense of social responsibility.

"I admire the way you think, Doug," she said softly, her accent dancing between the clipped vowels of Russian, the rich tones of Ukrainian, and the gentle lilt of French. "You find the humanity in every equation."

He looked at her, surprised by the warmth in her words. "I learned from the best," he said quietly. "You taught me that numbers tell stories."

As dusk settled, the plaza lights blinked awake. They paused beneath an archway of flowering vines. Douglas hesitated, then spoke the question that had nestled in his mind since waking this morning.

"Ursula," he began, voice low, "have you ever woken up somewhere you did not recognize? And wondered whether it was a dream… or something more?"

She regarded him with solemn eyes. "I have known that feeling," she replied. "In the stories my grandmother told me, the borders between dream and reality blur when magic stirs."

He exhaled slowly, as if letting go of a held breath. "Because I cannot tell whether I dreamed of standing in a dark corridor—with shadows dancing on steel walls—or whether that was real."

She reached out and gently touched his arm. "Then perhaps we must seek the answer together," she said. "Dreams are the beginning of every adventure."

Douglas allowed himself a small, tentative smile. "Then I am fortunate," he said, voice soft with wonder, "to have you by my side."

They walked on into the gathering twilight, their footsteps echoing in harmony. Behind them, the city pulsed with life. Before them, a world of questions and possibilities stretched into the unknown. And in Douglas's mind, the line between dream and reality grew ever more tantalizingly thin.

———

As I grew more powerful, I often found myself at a loss for words to express how grateful I was to have had Naya by my side in the beginning. Looking back, it feels like sheer luck — the kind that changes everything.

I remember the first time I realized my spider-sense was more than just a warning system. It wasn't some simple tingle that told me when trouble was coming. No, it was... something deeper. More like a living, breathing part of me — a pulse beneath the noise.

Back during the alien invasion, when languages were a mess of sounds I couldn't parse, my gift from Naya came into sharp focus. I couldn't understand their words, but I could feel their meaning. If someone said they hated me but actually loved me, that contradiction settled in my gut. It was like reading between the lines of a language I didn't speak, sensing the true intent behind each phrase.

Naya's gift—the ability to detect lies—wasn't just a superpower handed down like some simple tool. It was intertwined with that instinct. When I matched my gut feeling with the truth buried beneath words, I knew if something was real or a lie. It was a filter for the chaos, a way to cut through deception and get to the core of things. Normal people? Their words and intent lined up most of the time. When they didn't, I knew it was a lie.

That clarity gave my power focus. Suddenly, I wasn't just reacting blindly — I had a path, a purpose. But what surprised me was what came next: beneath that gift was something even more fundamental.

I think that's where my spider-sense started — not just a danger alarm but an instinctive rhythm, a second heartbeat that guided me in ways I didn't yet understand. It was the foundation of everything I could do. My version of spider-sense.

It wasn't perfect. When I met Parker, face to face, neither of our senses flared. No tingling, no warning. Nothing. That told me one thing — my spider-sense had changed. Maybe it evolved into something completely different, something beyond simple danger detection.

And then I realized: my spider-sense wasn't just about life or death anymore. It was about something more personal—my secret identity. It became a defense system for me—not just my body, but the mask I wore.

When I was out in the open, unmasked, I could get hurt. I took bullets, got beaten, and sometimes ended up in the hospital. But when it mattered most — when my secret was on the line — everything inside me shifted without warning.

My body became more than flesh and bone. Reflexes sharpened to superhuman levels. I moved faster than the eye could see. My skin felt like it hardened, blocking blows before they landed. Sometimes, people nearby wouldn't even notice how quickly I moved, or how I slipped through danger like a shadow. It wasn't a choice I made consciously. It was the spider-sense protecting the lie I lived.

It wasn't just survival anymore. It was preservation. Preserving everything I was, everything I had to keep hidden from the world.

And then there was the flying.

Flying wasn't part of the spider-sense itself, but it was a power I somehow picked up along the way — a strange, unexpected gift. But learning to fly? That was where the spider-sense really came into its own.

Flying isn't just about lifting off the ground — it's balance, control, awareness. My spider-sense became my internal compass, constantly adjusting, alerting me to shifts in wind, sudden obstacles, changes in momentum. It was like having a sixth sense for movement, guiding every muscle and thought to keep me steady in the air.

I could feel the air flow around me, subtle shifts that no normal pilot would notice. The spider-sense was working overtime, translating raw data into instinct, making flying feel less like a superpower and more like second nature.

This wasn't just a power anymore. It was a part of who I was — a complex web of abilities woven together by instinct, intent, and survival. A secret dance between perception and reality, truth and deception, danger and safety.

And through it all, I carried Naya's gift — the ability to see lies, to cut through the noise — a reminder that even in the chaos, some things were always real.

---

The alternativeNewsRoom logo fades. The background map slowly dissolves to display a glowing red web of mutant-majority nations across Earth. The year is 2004. The voiceover begins: "With thirty recognized mutant nations and tensions rising between sovereign policy and species autonomy, we ask: Who speaks for the future of mutation? Who protects them—and who exploits them?"

Cut to, sleek debate room. Five panelists. Cool lighting. Smart suits. Each nation sends its most polished face.

----

Douglas Ramsey staggered back from the final blast, his reinforced black suit scorched where the energy bolt had seared the right shoulder. He did not know how he had come to stand here, in the heart of the smoldering warehouse, fighting beside one of the world's most powerful heroes. His mind reeled with the same question that haunted him since the emergency alert had sounded. Who am I, and why do I not remember this?

Ripley Ryan—Star—hovered before him, chest heaving, her cobalt suit flickering with residual power. She regarded him with concern and something else he could not quite name.

"Douglas," she said, voice firm yet gentle, "you just caught those bolts in mid–air. No ordinary human does that. No ordinary human moves like that."

He blinked, disoriented. He glanced down at his gloved hands, then at the shards of concrete where he had halted the last volley of micro–shrapnel. He felt... strong. He felt... something alive, pulsing beneath his skin.

"You are not an ordinary human," Star continued. She descended until she was level with him, her eyes narrowing with focus. "You have powers. You used them—just now—unconsciously. Tell me, Douglas, can you sense when people are lying?"

He frowned, trying to grasp her meaning. "Lying?" His voice sounded distant, as if emerging from a dream. "I do not know. I mean... I think I do."

Star held up a battered mercenary who had been dragged into view by two officers. The man struggled, spitting curses. His armored exosuit was dented where Douglas's kick had sent him sprawling.

"Ask him a simple question," Star said. "Listen to your gut."

Douglas took a breath and stepped forward. His spider–sense thrummed like a second heartbeat—a subtle vibration at the base of his skull. He raised an eyebrow and looked the mercenary in the eye.

"Is there anyone else inside?" Douglas asked, voice quiet but carrying across the rubble–strewn floor.

The mercenary spat blood. "No," he growled. "It is just Star and me. All the others fled when you showed up."

Douglas's spider–sense flared—a warning spike in his mind. He leaned forward a fraction, heart pounding.

"You are lying," he stated calmly. "I can feel it."

The man's mask–like helmet rattled as he spat another curse. But he did not speak. Guilt flickered in his eyes behind the visor.

"How many?" Douglas pressed, voice unwavering.

"Two," the mercenary whispered. "There are two more—locked in the lab."

Douglas straightened, energy sparking behind his eyes. He turned to Star, who nodded.

"Lead the way," she said. "I will handle them. You get everyone out."

Douglas did not hesitate. He sprinted through the smoking corridors, weaving around fallen beams and shattered crates. Every footfall was guided by his spider–sense, danger flickered on his skin like static electricity. He rounded a corner and found two technicians huddled in a corner, eyes wide, faces smudged with grime.

"Follow me," Douglas said, voice soft but authoritative. He reached out, took their hands, and led them through the labyrinth of debris to the exit. He glanced back just as the first electrical arc from the rogue biotech agent lanced the air behind them. His body snapped sideways, bending at impossible speed—the arc grazed his shoulder but did not cut him. He felt a brief sting and heard the technicians gasp in awe.

Outside, he guided them toward the waiting paramedics. Then he turned back inside.

Deep within the lab, chaos reigned. Star had already dispatched the two remaining agents—but the structural supports were cracking. A blazing beam fell, sealing the exit behind him. He spun and felt the floor tremble. He did not think. He jumped.

He rose three meters in a single bound, propelled by muscles that felt both familiar and foreign. He caught the descending beam in mid–air, his arms braced against its weight. He grunted as the metal groaned, the beam's mass pressing against his suit. But he held it, every fiber of his being screaming, and planted it against the opposite wall. The beam wedged into a narrow crevice with a thunderous crash. Dust rained down. The passage reopened.

Below, Star looked up, astonishment flickering in her eyes. She sent him a quick nod of approval before turning to extinguish the last of the rogue biotech flames with an energy pulse.

Douglas dropped lightly to the floor. A small surge of pride coursed through him. He felt alive.

Star floated down beside him, extending her hand. "You flew," she said, voice filled with wonder. "You flew like... like you were born to do it."

He looked at his feet, then shrugged awkwardly. "I... do not know how," he admitted. "I just... felt the path."

She studied him, her gaze piercing. "There is more," she said. "Your reflexes, your strength, your instincts... They are all superhuman. You have a suit, armor designed for someone with your... resilience. And that helmet"—she pointed—"it is a Fancy Professional–style helmet. You wear it like a badge of purpose. But why do you not know any of this?"

Douglas shook his head, running a gloved hand over the smooth curve of the black helmet at his belt. The helmet's T–visor gleamed even in the dim light. "I woke up this morning in my room," he said. "I got the alert and I came. I do not remember any training. I do not remember putting on this suit. I feel like I have always worn it... and yet... I know nothing."

Star ran a hand through her glowing hair. She did not smile, but there was a softness in her expression. "Sometimes power comes before memory," she said. "Sometimes purpose arrives before understanding. It is a curse—and a gift."

She reached out and placed her hand on his unarmored forearm. "Let us get you out of here. We will talk."

He nodded. The warehouse courtyard was in ruins: overturned shipping containers, smoking vehicles, emergency crews swarming. The cool night air felt electric against his heated skin.

As they stepped outside, an officer approached, eyes wide. "Star," he said, voice low. "We have secured the site. But... your partner—"

Douglas tilted his head. "I am not her partner," he said with a strange lightness. "I am just someone who could not do nothing."

The officer frowned, glancing between them. "Well... you saved lives tonight. If you have no objection, we would like to get your statement."

Douglas exhaled slowly. He felt the hum of power settled within him—like a second heartbeat. He realized his spider–sense still pulsed, attuned to every flicker of movement, every shift in intention. He realized Naya's gift lay beneath that pulse: he could sense deception as surely as he could sense danger.

He straightened his shoulders. "I will answer every question," he said. "But there is something you should know. I do not know who I am. All I know is that I cannot ignore people in danger. And I... I think my life is about to begin."

Star placed a hand on his back, anchoring him. She did not remove her suit, but her energy dimmed to a soft glow—an offer of solidarity. "Then let us begin," she said. "Together."

A while later.

The first thing I knew—really knew—was light.

Warm, golden, slow-moving. It poured over me in ripples, not like sunlight, but like it had been told to behave that way. My eyes opened into it, and I found a ceiling stretched high above, painted with delicate constellations that shimmered faintly, even in daylight. The kind of ceiling that costs more than a car. The kind someone designed to remind you that you don't belong here.

My head throbbed, low and tight, like something had been pulled out of it while I slept. My throat was sandpaper. Every part of me ached in that detached, post-sedation way — too alert to be tired, too foggy to be sure of anything. I didn't feel safe. I didn't feel threatened either. Just... aware.

I didn't move at first. I let the moment stretch. Let the room happen around me.

The bed I was in felt absurd — wide as a small country, sheets so smooth they might've been spun from starlight. The pillow beneath my head cradled it perfectly, like it had been expecting me.

The walls were soft rose-gold, veined with black marble and touches of bronze. Velvet curtains hung heavy over tall windows, glowing slightly at the edges. A long mirror leaned against one wall — tall, elegant, framed in something dark and matte. I could just barely make out my own shape in it. Still, unmoving.

A low hum came from somewhere — not mechanical, but more like a presence. Not threatening. Just watching.

I turned my head, slowly.

The nightstand beside me was sharp-edged, black, glossed to hell. A crystal decanter sat on it, half-full of something red and expensive. Next to it, a thin silver card pulsed with a soft red glow. Not a decoration. Not entirely.

The air smelled faintly of perfume — jasmine and something metallic. And her. Whoever she was. The scent of someone who didn't ask for permission.

And now, silence.

I wasn't cuffed. I wasn't tied down. But somehow I knew — this wasn't my bedroom.

The velvet-drenched room felt far too still for how fast your heart was beating.

I sat up slowly in Star's bed,(I think?)the sheets clinging to my skin like they didn't want to let me go. Everything around me glowed in soft, artificial dusk—rose-gold walls, shadows cut from silk. Somewhere nearby, machinery hummed quietly, obedient to a presence no longer in the room.

My breath fogged for half a second. And then it happened.

A flicker. The lights pulsed. My vision surged white. And when it cleared—He was there.

Standing at the edge of the room.

Wearing my favorite jacket—sleeker, tighter, glitched like it had been rendered from memory. His outline buzzed faintly, like bad resolution in a high-def world.

"...What the hell?" I whispered low and, unsure.

The figure didn't flinch. Just studied me. Like a mirror with opinions.

"Figured this was bound to happen. You're the original. I'm the... side effect. A fully digital construct. Personality, instinct, memory. All from you—well, mostly." He spoke level, a little amused. 

He stepped forward. The marble floor didn't creak under his boots. Of course it didn't.

"When you assimilated V, something snapped into place. Not just skills. Not just memories. You took in his whole neural imprint. And with him came the echoes of Johnny Silverhand. The construct he carried."

A pause. He smirked. "I guess you could say I'm... your Johnny."

I stared, pulse ticking louder in my ears.

"I didn't even know I assimilated him."

"Yeah. That's the freaky part. You blacked out. But you didn't stop. You moved like someone else was steering. Tactical. Calculated. I was awake—in you. Running it on semi-auto. Couldn't speak. Couldn't fully manifest. But I could act." My construction said nodding.

He pointed to the side—toward the black nightstand, where the small silver card pulsed red like a heartbeat.

"That was the turning point. You didn't just inherit V's knowledge—you inherited his architecture. That tech was meant to hold two minds. And now? That's exactly what you've got."

I stood up, not sure why, but needing to move. The floor felt too soft. The room too perfect. Too hers. And yet... the hum of latent power was real now. Tangible. Like waking up with muscles you didn't know you had.

"So... you're not just a hallucination." I asked 

"Nope. You're not crazy. You're just... upgraded." He said 

He tilted his head. A glimmer of light bounced off him wrong. Like it didn't trust his outline.

"And that gacha? Still works. Just buried. I can't pull it out either—not directly. But I know it's there. The fact that I can appear like this means the rest of the toolkit's hidden in you somewhere. We just don't have the keys yet." He said 

I took a shaky breath. That made sense.

The weird senses, the twitch-react reflexes—like a Spider-Sense running on silent mode.

That wasn't all there was. It couldn't be.

My CONSTRUCT (stepping closer, calm but firm): "You've been running at ten percent, letting instincts drive. But now? You've got the mental space for more. You don't need to wait for your danger sense to whisper. You've got weapons. People. Powers. Whole skillsets. You just haven't opened them yet."

He gave me a look. Familiar, but sharper. Like my own face learning how to lead.

"I'm not here to take over. I'm here because you needed me. I was the echo—now I'm something else. Something new. But I'm still you." He said 

He gestured to the room again—the silence, the sheen, the impossible calm.

"And if I can wake up in here? In her space? That means the rest of it isn't far behind."

He sat at the edge of the bed, eyes locked on mine.

"So... what do we do with two of us?" He said quietly. The lights flickered again. Not a glitch. A signal.

Somewhere in the deep part of my mind, a lock clicked open.

"That more or less explains the gaps in my memory."

In the other room Ripley Ryan sat on the edge of her neatly made bed, heart still pounding from the night's action. The faint hum of the city beyond her window was a lullaby compared to the roar of collapsing beams and crackling energy pulses. She pressed her palms to her temples, trying to steady the echo of Douglas's unexpected flight and the strange comfort she'd felt in rescuing him.

Down the hallway, the click of her mother's slippers sounded like a metronome, measuring Ripley's remaining courage. Ripley rose and smoothed the wrinkles in her soft gray sweats, wondering how she would face her now that Douglas had gone.

"You're still up?" Mrs. Ryan's voice was cool, measured—never unkind, but never warm like the rest of the world. She stood in the doorway, arms folded, almost like an inspector waiting for a report.

Ripley swallowed. "I—I couldn't sleep."

Her mother stepped into the room, silent as a shadow. She crossed to Ripley's desk and adjusted the single photo frame there: a younger Ripley in a yellow school uniform, timid smile in place. "You're on edge," she observed. "I don't recall you being afraid of anything."

Ripley traced the line of her own jaw in the mirror. "I didn't know what I was doing at first," she admitted. "But… Douglas was hurt. I—I had to help him."

Across the room, Mrs. Ryan's posture softened imperceptibly. "He's a good boy," she said quietly, then paused. "He seems to care about you."

Ripley looked down at her hands. "It started as a lie," she confessed. "I told him he could call me his girlfriend so nobody at school would bully me—or him."

Her mother inhaled sharply, like she'd tasted something unexpected. "A lie…" She studied Ripley's reflection in the mirror. "Better a lie that kept cruelty at bay than silence that let it grow."

Ripley blinked, surprised by the compassion in her mother's tone. "Mom…"

Mrs. Ryan turned away, inspecting Ripley's shelf of carefully curated trinkets: action figures, photos of Star mid–flight, a single red rose in a glass vial. "You've always been… different," she said, fingers brushing the rose's petals. "Quiet wisdom behind your eyes. I saw it when you were little—how you studied the world like a puzzle you were born to solve."

Ripley swallowed the lump in her throat. "I'm learning," she whispered. "Learning to be a hero."

Her mother's shoulders eased. "Learning…" She stepped closer and placed a hand on Ripley's shoulder—a rare gesture of comfort. "I was no hero at your age. I chased security, routine… I never wondered if I could fly."

Ripley looked up, searching her mother's expression. "I'm sorry I lied about us."

Mrs. Ryan shook her head, a gentle smile softening her features. "No. You were protecting yourself—protecting him. That took courage." She paused, lifting Ripley's chin so their eyes met in the mirror. "I'm proud of you."

Ripley's eyes shimmered. "You are?"

Her mother's hand slipped from Ripley's shoulder to her own heart. "Yes. I'm proud of the woman you're becoming. And I—I wish I'd had that kind of friendship, that kind of bravery when I was your age."

Ripley's breath caught; her mother's words were more precious than any medal. "Thank you," she murmured.

In the quiet that followed, the only sound was two hearts, beating steady and true—one forging a new path among the stars, the other rediscovering a spark she thought she'd lost. And for the first time in a long while, they shared a peace that glittered brighter than any cosmic power.

Sunlight filtered through the gauzy curtains, painting lazy ribbons of gold across the living room floor. Douglas Ramsey blinked awake on Ripley's couch, the fabric imprint still warm where he'd lain. His head throbbed just enough to remind him of last night's chaos—falling beams, crackling energy, Star's glowing hair—and of how he'd ended up here, half‑asleep in his black suit, helmet tucked at his side.

He sat up, wincing as a dull ache bloomed in his shoulder. A soft clink drew his attention: Ripley had set a tray on the coffee table. Two mugs steamed gently beside a plate of golden toast. His first coherent thought was, She's really an angel—hot, heroic, cooking breakfast. His second was, Mom's going to kill her when she sees the scorch marks on the ceiling.

"Morning," Ripley said, slipping into the room in sweatpants that swallowed her feet. Her hair was still tousled—less cosmic hero, more endearing bedraggled puppy. She perched on the arm of the couch, elbow brushing his knee. "I made hot cocoa, because you looked like you needed sugar more than coffee."

Douglas managed a half‑smile. "Thanks. I—" He reached for a mug, the warmth seeping through the ceramic. "I slept better than I have in weeks, actually."

Ripley's grin was soft, almost shy. "I'm glad." She patted the couch beside her. "You're welcome to crash here as long as you need. But I'll be honest: Mom made me swear you'd be gone before her breakfast chores kicked into high gear."

At that moment, a pair of slippers tapped in the hallway. The door swung open to reveal Mrs. Ryan in her robe, hair tied in a loose bun. Her eyes flicked from Douglas to the toast to Ripley, expression inscrutable—like she was appraising a thesis rather than two kids and a plate of carbs.

Ripley sat up straight. "Mom, this is Douglas. He saved me last night—well, you saw the news—he kind of saved the entire warehouse."

Mrs. Ryan raised an eyebrow, then nodded once. "Mr. Ramsey," she said, voice cool but not unkind. "You've done us a service." She crossed to the table and deposited a small dish of strawberry jam next to the toast. "Jam?"

Douglas stood and tipped into a polite bow. "Thank you, Mrs. Ryan. I promise I didn't mean to burn down your ceiling."

Mrs. Ryan merely sniffed and moved behind the table, pulling out a chair. Ripley hopped off the couch and sat at the table's edge, smoothing her sweatpants. Douglas followed, perching on the opposite side, the couch's cushions hanging off his suit. They picked up toast and cocoa at the same time, a synchronized dance of gratitude.

Mrs. Ryan poured herself a cup of tea and took a slow, deliberate sip. She watched Ripley and Douglas as they ate. Ripley tasted her toast thoughtfully before announcing, "Mom, I've never lied to you about anything. Not even to protect myself." She shot Douglas a glance. "And definitely not to protect him."

Douglas blinked. "Didn't realize I needed protecting." He smiled, genuine this time.

Ripley reached across the table and squeezed his hand. "You did. Last night, I told you to call me your girlfriend so people wouldn't guess I was… different. And you believed me."

Mrs. Ryan set her teacup down. "Ripley's honesty is a virtue I admire." She turned to Douglas. "My daughter doesn't lie. If she said you're her boyfriend, then you're her boyfriend. Understood?"

Douglas opened his mouth, then nodded. "Understood." He glanced at Ripley—her cheeks were pink, but her eyes were steady and warm.

Their breakfast continued in a comfortable silence, punctuated by the clink of toast against plates and the murmur of the city beyond the windows. When the last crumb was gone, Mrs. Ryan stood. Ripley hurried to clear the dishes while Douglas watched, relief and something like wonder filling his chest.

Before Douglas left, Ripley slipped on her jacket and met him at the door. "Thank you—for breakfast. For… everything."

He lifted her hand to his lips and pressed a soft kiss against her knuckles. "I'll return the favor sometime. Coffee, maybe?"

She laughed, light and bright. "It's a date."

Behind them, Mrs. Ryan's voice drifted down the hallway: "Be safe, both of you. And Ripley—don't be late for class."

Ripley turned, flashing her mother a grin that was pure daughter: open, honest, fiercely proud. "I won't."

Douglas followed her outside, the morning sun warming his face. As they walked down the front steps together, neither spoke—but both knew this was no longer a lie. It was the first real moment of something neither of them had planned… and exactly what they both needed.

Douglas had left a check for $45 million to cover the damages to the house. Mrs. Ryan would discover it later and would have no way to return it.

Flash sat on the edge of the 30-yard line, helmet off, hands clasped tight between his knees. The turf was still damp from morning mist. Practice wouldn't start for another hour, but his head was already running two quarters ahead.

Across the field, Douglas was finishing his warmup set—sweat just starting to show on his neckline, breath steady. He noticed Flash's body language before the silence said anything.

He walked over, slow, controlled. Dropped to a crouch.

"You good?"

Flash stayed quiet for a few seconds, then spoke without looking up. "You ever feel like your body's turning into something that doesn't fit your life anymore?"

Douglas didn't answer yet. He sat beside him instead.

"I'm 6'7". I just turned sixteen. My knees creak like I'm thirty. My release point's changed three times this season. My throws are still sharp, but I can feel the torque going weird."

"Coach say anything"?

"Not yet. But I see it. The way he watches my dropback. The way he starts keeping Ryland after drills.(beat) It's coming. I can feel it in my bones, literally. He's gonna move me outta QB. Just a matter of when."

Douglas listened, elbows on his knees, fingers locked. He didn't interrupt — didn't need to. Flash had been holding this in all week.

"I know I'm still good. But I'm not sure I'm the right kind of good anymore. Quarterbacks aren't supposed to look like power forwards. They want agile. Compact. Not Frankenstein with a spiral."

Douglas gave a small, quiet laugh through his nose. Then shook his head. "You're not Frankenstein. You're just growing."

Flash looked up at him, jaw tight. "Growing out of the role."

"Maybe. Or maybe into something bigger. You think I didn't feel the same when I got edged out last season? I didn't even get injured — I just got... replaced. (beat) But that's not the end of your playbook. It's page two."

Flash said nothing. His eyes were on the goalpost now. The same one he used to aim for during solo drills. It looked smaller today. Or maybe he just felt farther away from it.

"You're still Flash. Not because you're the quarterback — but because you showed up when no one else did. Because you played through pain, led from the front, fought for the spot. Position or not — that's who you are." 

A long pause.

Flash swallowed once. Still didn't look over.

"I don't wanna be the guy who used to be something."

"Then don't."

Flash finally glanced at him.

"Adapt. Evolve. Keep growing — just not in fear."

The silence held steady between them — not cold, not heavy. Just true.

Flash stood first, adjusted his wrist brace. His hands weren't shaking now. "You ever think you should've gone into therapy instead of boxing?"

Douglas smirked. "Nah. I hit too well to talk for a living."

They started walking toward the practice bags. The sun was just starting to burn through the mist. Flash didn't look afraid anymore — not fixed, not settled — but ready to fight again, whatever that looked like.

And Douglas was right there with him.

Sometime had passed. The third-period bell echoed through the marble-floored corridors of Midtown High, a private school dressed like an Ivy League campus. Down in the quieter east wing locker room—just beneath the gym—four students lingered, their footfalls soft against polished tile.

Flash Thompson sat at the end of a brushed-steel bench, peeling off his gym shirt. Just below his shoulder blade, a faint red glow pulsed from beneath his skin—a pentagram circled in warped rings. It didn't shine so much as it burned, like coals under skin.

Peter Parker, crouched beside his locker, froze mid-motion.

"Flash," he said, his voice tight. "It's glowing again."

Flash didn't flinch. He rolled his shoulder once and tugged the shirt back down.

"Yeah," he said. "Happens sometimes."

Leaning nearby, Harry Osborn took a long sip of his overpriced green smoothie, then squinted toward him.

"That a gym rash, or did you get yourself a subscription to Hellfire Monthly?"

Doug Ramsey was already moving closer, tablet in one hand, stylus poised like a blade.

"Not a rash," Doug said calmly. "That's infernal. The structure's binding-based—Enochian design, but degraded. It's a Hell-Brand."

Peter stood slowly. "You told me Mephisto tried to claim you. You never said anything about a… seal."

"I said no," Flash replied, standing now. "Fought it off. The mark stayed."

Harry raised an eyebrow, still leaning against the lockers with easy arrogance.

"And you're just living with it? Like it's a mole?"

"Pretty much," Flash said with a shrug. "Ignore it. It usually ignores me."

Doug circled around to inspect the mark, now faint beneath the fabric. His gaze sharpened.

"It's not dormant. It's responding to something—ambient energy, maybe a nearby plane shift. It's still linked. Something's watching you, Flash."

Peter's tone dropped, lower now. "And if it decides to stop watching?"

Flash met his eyes without blinking. "Then I remind it I'm not a pet."

Harry gave a low laugh that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Okay, Hellboy. Simmer down."

Flash smirked. "Says the guy microdosing goblin steroids."

Peter winced. "Flash—"

"It's fine," Harry cut in, waving a hand. "It's not a secret. Oshtoran Syndrome isn't exactly forgiving. Revised Goblin Formula was the best option I had."

Doug raised an eyebrow. "Side effects?"

"Excellent hair," Harry replied dryly. "Intense dreams. The occasional philosophical spiral."

Flash chuckled. "Also glows under UV. Ask Peter."

Peter shrugged. "It's like club lighting. But… sad."

For a moment, the room settled into an uneasy stillness. Not cold—just honest. A pause between friends who knew too much for their age.

Doug tapped his stylus once, thoughtful.

"I can inscribe a passive ward," he said. "Small, discrete. Just something to monitor the mark. If it shifts, if it flares… we'll know before it becomes a problem."

Flash considered, then nodded.

"Yeah. Do it. Just keep it off the school's mystic grid. Last thing I need is S.H.I.E.L.D. showing up with holy water and a clipboard."

Peter picked up his bag, adjusting the strap on his shoulder. "You know we've got you. Right?"

Flash looked between them—Peter, Doug, Harry—and let out a breath.

"Yeah," he said. "I know."

The bell rang again. Above them, the rhythm of private school life resumed: footsteps in the hall, locker doors, laughter echoing through high ceilings. But down in the east wing, four teenagers stood quietly at the fault line between normal and not anymore—each one a little cracked, a little marked, and never really alone.

The Midtown Academy's stone courtyard hummed with the buzz of final period letting out. Students spilled into the afternoon sun, chatting, laughing, checking their phones. But in the center of it all, four figures moved together in measured silence, something taut and electric hanging between them.

Peter felt it first — the way the air thickened like pressure before a storm. His senses pulled tighter, more alert. Flash's brow furrowed a split second later.

"Trouble," Peter murmured under his breath.

Doug didn't look up from his tablet. "Twenty-four incoming. Left side, main walkway. Two hanging back. The rest closing fast."

Harry scoffed. "Let me guess. Boyfriend."

Peter shot him a sharp look. "Seriously, man?"

Harry shrugged. "She said they were broken up. Not my fault he's insecure."

"Insecure doesn't explain a mob," Flash muttered. He rolled his neck, cracked his knuckles. "But I've been needing something to hit anyway."

Peter exhaled slowly. "We try to deescalate. Okay? Last resort."

Doug slid the tablet into his bag. "Yeah. That's not happening."

The crowd arrived with shouts and sneakers slapping the pavement. Twenty-five guys, maybe from a nearby athletic school — football builds, angry faces, fists clenched like they were owed revenge.

At the front, a broad-shouldered guy with a busted lip and murder in his eyes locked onto Harry.

"You think you can mess with my girl and walk away?" he barked.

Harry raised an eyebrow, calm as stone. "Walked just fine so far."

The guy lunged — and the courtyard detonated into chaos.

Flash met the first wave like a machine built for war.

His stance dropped instantly — solid, aggressive, grounded. A clean jab caught the leader mid-charge. Bone cracked. A right cross followed, then a step forward, elbow in tight, a pivot, and he slammed his shoulder into another guy's chest, sending him stumbling into a bench. Flash's style was pure grit: Navy SEAL boxing with a backbone of CQC, every movement exact and purposeful.

"Keep coming," he growled, ducking a wild swing. "I'll send you all home with matching concussions."

Peter moved like he didn't belong on the same plane as the rest of them — fluid, responsive, always two seconds ahead. He ducked low under a swinging bat, flipped over a crouching attacker, and grabbed a pole for momentum.

A kick to the ribs, a twist into a standing armbar, and one guy went down choking on pain. Another came from behind — Peter's senses fired, and he spun into a Capoeira wheel kick, catching the guy square in the temple.

He never overcommitted. He fought to control, not punish — Taekwondo precision, Jeet Kune Do adaptation, BJJ subduing holds. If Flash was the wall, Peter was the wind.

Doug didn't waste motion. His hands moved like chess pieces — calculated and quiet. A swipe here, a grip there, and bodies dropped. He disarmed a metal pipe in one motion, turned it, and knocked the wielder's knee sideways. His eyes never blinked, even when a punch skimmed past his ear.

Eskrima strikes blended with Systema soft takedowns, every move guided by angles, leverage, and timing. Where others fought with muscle, Doug fought with math.

One guy tried to double-team him — Doug twisted under, jammed a thumb into a nerve cluster, and whispered: "You should've stayed home."

Then there was Harry.

He didn't fight. He unleashed.

The moment the crowd touched him, it was like throwing gasoline on dry fire. His leg snapped up in a brutal Savate kick, breaking someone's guard. Then came elbows — sharp, dirty — and the unmistakable rhythm of Krav Maga, close and lethal. One kid tried to tackle him — Harry stepped into it, drove a knee into the kid's face, then hurled him to the pavement with a savage twist.

"You're not mad she cheated," Harry barked, punching through a guard. "You're mad she picked someone who doesn't care."

He was precise in his brutality — trained, yes, but reckless enough that Peter had to yank someone out of the way before Harry crushed their windpipe.

Bodies littered the courtyard — groaning, gasping, barely conscious. The attackers staggered backward, dragging each other away. The guy who started it all clutched his stomach, staring at Harry with pure fear.

Peter stepped in, placing himself between Harry and the bleeding idiot.

"Take your boys," he said. "Go home. Next time, talk to your girlfriend instead of calling in backup."

The guy said nothing — just nodded once, then turned and fled, shame trailing him like a shadow.

The four stood in the quiet aftermath, bruised but standing. Harry was breathing hard, knuckles bleeding.

"I didn't go too far," he said after a long silence. "Right?"

Peter didn't answer immediately.

"Not this time," he said at last.

Doug glanced at his shirt. "Ugh. Someone's blood. Or Gatorade. Either way, I'm burning this."

Flash grinned, spit on the ground. "Well... if they weren't afraid of us before—"

"They're afraid now," Peter finished.

They walked off together as campus security finally rushed toward the chaos, too late to stop anything. The sun was setting, casting four long shadows behind them — different shapes, different minds, but moving as one.

The next morning, Midtown Academy buzzed with murmurs and half-whispers. Every hallway conversation began with.

"Did you see it?"

"Who were those guys?"

"Was that real?"

Peter sat stiffly in the antique leather chair outside Dean Davis's office, staring at the expensive carpet like it might swallow him whole. Across from him, Flash was slouched with his arms crossed, leg bouncing like a piston. Douglas sat between them, hands calmly folded on his lap, eyes distant but working.

Harry paced.

"You're all acting like we're about to be executed," he muttered. "No one died."

Peter raised a brow. "Harry, you knocked someone into a fountain. Face-first."

"And?"

Douglas finally spoke. "We'll be fine. I'm writing the ending now."

The door opened with a click. A stern-faced secretary motioned them in.

The room smelled like cedar and money. Books lined the walls — first editions, mostly unread — and everything was far too polished. Dean Davis sat behind his massive desk like a judge waiting to pronounce a sentence. Beside him stood Ms. Drake, head of student affairs, arms folded tightly. There were two other faculty members, one from the board of trustees and one from security.

All of them looked furious.

Dean Davis voice was tight, diplomatic, and cold. "Would any of you like to explain why there's footage of you engaging in what can only be described as a street brawl on one of the most prestigious school campuses in the world?"

Flash muttered under his breath, "Prestige doesn't stop fists."

Peter stepped forward, hands raised. "Sir, with respect, this isn't what it looks like."

Drake leaned in. "Enlighten us."

And that's when Douglas stood.

"I'd be happy to," he said, stepping between his friends and the staff like a lawyer on the courtroom floor. He clasped his hands behind his back, posture calm, voice clear. "Yesterday's event was not a fight. It was a carefully choreographed performance — a dramatic piece on the monotony of elite prep school life, designed to inject some satire, spontaneity, and energy into a deeply regimented environment."

The adults stared.

He continued.

"Every 'attacker' was an outside volunteer — friends of ours, given visitor passes legally. No rules were broken in terms of entry. The physical altercation was rehearsed over several weekends off-campus. Flash and I personally designed the choreography with safety protocols in place. Peter handled creative direction. Harry curated the narrative tension."

Harry blinked. "I did?"

Douglas ignored him.

"The intent was simple: to shake students out of their predictable routines, remind them that chaos and creativity still have a place in elite spaces, and encourage dialogue about the performative nature of modern schooling. The whole thing was an act. And from what we've seen online… it worked. Over 400 shares on student-only platforms, dozens of comments praising the 'realism,' and at least three threads debating whether it was art, protest, or prank."

Peter watched as Ms. Drake's brows drew together. She was considering it.

Dean Davis tapped his pen. "You're telling me this was… performance art?"

"Yes, sir," Doug said. "Midtown has a long history of embracing innovation and bold thinking. We simply followed tradition."

Flash nodded slowly. "Besides, we didn't actually hurt anyone. The so-called 'injuries' were mostly acting. One guy even brought fake blood."

Harry added, "One kid asked me to punch him again so he could sell it better. I declined."

Peter looked toward Ms. Drake, reading her face. "We weren't trying to cause harm. Just… shake the system. And no student was ever in danger. If this goes public, Midtown looks spontaneous, daring, alive. If it turns into a scandal? You'll have reporters sniffing for negligence."

Douglas gave the final nudge, voice perfectly calm: "Better to reframe the narrative now than let the board wonder why you didn't act fast enough to claim credit for a wildly viral, student-led artistic protest."

Silence.

Then Dean Davis leaned back slowly in his chair. He was a politician, and this smelled like an exit ramp.

"Assuming this was… indeed staged," he said carefully, "what assurances do we have that there won't be another surprise 'performance'?"

Peter smiled faintly. "None. But you'd be the school that inspired it."

Ms. Drake glanced at the dean. "It'd be easier to publish a student statement framing it as satire than issuing suspensions."

He drummed his fingers once more… then sighed.

"I'll expect the write-up and disclaimers by noon. Video credits. Names of all participants. Clean it up."

"Yes, sir," Doug said. "We'll handle it."

Outside the Office

As they stepped back into the hallway, the tension finally broke.

Flash let out a low whistle. "Bro. That was... legendary."

Peter looked over. "You really just made up that entire thing on the spot?"

Doug shrugged. "Not entirely. I already wrote it in my head yesterday."

Harry grinned. "We should do real performance art next time. Maybe crash a debate in Shakespearean accents."

Peter rolled his eyes. "No. Next time, we stick to chess."

But as they walked down the marble hallway, classmates watched them differently now — with wide eyes, smirks, even a few claps. Whispers followed them like a shadow.

In the school's record? It would be filed under "Student-led creative expression."

In the student body?

They were legends.

 the next morning, after the storm has passed. The group is gathered casually before class starts, hanging out in one of the lounges reserved for seniors — leather chairs, espresso machines, massive windows that overlook the private quad.

They're decompressing, now heroes in the eyes of their classmates. And in true private school fashion, the conversation shifts to something more personal: girls. The Senior Lounge, 7:45 a.m.

The espresso machine hissed in the corner as morning light spilled through the tall windows of the senior lounge. Classical music drifted softly from invisible speakers — Tchaikovsky, probably, part of Midtown Academy's "cultural enrichment" initiative. But the four of them weren't listening.

They sat sprawled across the leather chairs like royalty after war.

Peter sat cross-legged, sipping something dark and bitter, glasses slipping a little as he scrolled. Flash had his blazer draped over his shoulder like a cape, sleeves rolled to the elbow, tapping his phone like it owed him money. Doug sat perfectly straight, eyes focused on his screen with surgical precision. Harry leaned back so far in his chair it was almost a bed, one leg over the armrest, grinning like a man who'd never faced consequence.

"Alright," Flash said, phone in hand. "Roster review. No filters. No shame. Peter, you're up."

Peter gave him a look. "Why am I always first?"

"Because we know you've got a secret list you pretend not to care about."

Harry smirked. "Also because you're the only one here who girls genuinely trust. You pull like a therapist with abs."

Peter sighed, already regretting being awake. But he tapped through a few photos. "Okay. Fine. But none of this leaves the room."

He turned the phone so they could see — a girl with curly hair and a soft smile, captured mid-laugh in some bookstore.

Flash leaned in. "Wait. That's the girl from the lit seminar. The one who roasted Professor Langston?"

"She's got better timing than most stand-up comics," Peter admitted. "And reads Camus for fun."

Doug raised a brow. "She also has a 4.0 and turned down Oxford."

Flash nodded. "Alright, Spidey. Respect. She's a killer."

Peter rolled his eyes. "Stop calling me that."

Harry tapped through his own gallery with little shame. His photos weren't portraits — they were moments. Girls in sunlit hallways, at rooftop parties, in limousines, laughing in blurry shots like something from a dream.

He paused on one.

"This one?" Flash asked.

"Paris," Harry said. "Model. Says she doesn't date Americans, so naturally I took that personally."

Peter blinked. "Didn't you literally meet her in a wine cellar?"

Harry grinned. "Technically it was a champagne vault."

Doug didn't even look up. "Didn't she slap you at the art gala?"

"She did," Harry said proudly. "Twice."

Flash snorted. "You're like a walking HR case."

Flash's turn.

He didn't scroll. He just pointed to one picture — a track star with braids and a medal around her neck, grinning like she ruled the world.

"She's fast. Smarter than me. Stronger than me in some ways. Said she liked my jawline and my discipline. I told her I liked her form… and not just on the field."

Peter groaned. "Did that line actually work?"

Flash shrugged. "She laughed. Which was either good or very bad. Either way, we've been running together before class. She thinks I'm good for her conditioning."

Harry raised his cup. "To functional relationships built on shallow objectification."

Doug didn't smile, but the corners of his mouth twitched.

And then Doug.

He didn't open photos. Instead, he pulled up a shared doc titled "Key Signals – Targets of Interest (Social Non-Commitment Tier)"

Peter leaned in. "Did you… spreadsheet your crushes?"

"I prefer 'strategic mapping,'" Doug replied. "Each one is categorized by probability, interest level, and conversational rapport. I assign a communication efficiency rating based on observed interactions and use a color-coded key."

Flash blinked. "You're joking."

"I'm not. This one"—he tapped on a girl's name—"has a seventy-six percent positive reaction rate to humor and mirrors my body language in most conversations. I suspect mutual curiosity, but she's dating a lacrosse captain."

Harry laughed. "You're literally building a love algorithm."

Peter just shook his head. "You know what's crazy? It'll probably work."

Doug looked over at them, almost — almost — self-conscious. "It already has. She asked me to help her prep for model UN."

Harry stared. "That's like prep school first base."

Flash grinned. "He's in."

Bell Rings

The overhead chime echoed through the halls — crisp, old-world, the sound of punctuality and tuition.

They stood, collecting their bags with casual rhythm.

Harry tossed his cup in the bin. "Alright. Back to pretending to care about institutions."

Peter zipped his backpack. "Remember, we're icons now. Act accordingly."

Flash threw an arm around both their shoulders. "Speak for yourselves. I'm just here for lunch and literature."

Doug straightened his tie with one clean motion. "I'm here to raise the bar."

As they walked toward first period, surrounded by whispering classmates and eyes that lingered just a little longer, the feeling settled between them — not just survival, not just chaos survived — but something else.

They weren't just students anymore.

They were a name.

And Midtown High would never forget.

After school. Hell's Kitchen – 3:12 PM

The sky was bruising. Rain misted off the edge of rooftops, thick with summer heat and the tang of wet brick. Sirens howled a few blocks down, but the real scream had come over the police scanner ten minutes ago.

A building was eating people.

Peter landed hard on the edge of a tenement roof, his backpack still half-zipped from his sprint out of Midtown High. He hadn't even taken his mask off all day—there hadn't been time to breathe, not lately.

Another civilian gone. Vanished into a collapsing brownstone. Cops outside. No exit. No answers.

He swallowed, slow.

"Okay," he muttered, voice flat beneath the mask. "One more freak. One more crawl through hell."

He dropped off the ledge and into the smoke.

Inside the Brownstone

The moment he stepped through the shattered front doorway, the noise vanished. Soundproofed by tons of shifting mortar.

The floor sagged. Walls bulged.

Then they breathed.

Peter stopped. Every instinct screamed. His Spider-Sense pulsed like a live wire in his skull—not a spike, but a constant vibration. Wrong wrong wrong wrong.

The hallway ahead twisted ninety degrees—impossible geometry. A brick arch where one hadn't been. Lights flickering where no wires ran.

Then he heard it.

The rasp of stone sliding against bone.

And then, a voice—like gravel dropped into a furnace.

"You're trespassing in me, Spider-Man."

He emerged like a slow avalanche—skin the color of aged brick, joints jagged with hardened mortar. His face was a window frame, glass set deep where eyes should be.

The entire building shifted behind him—pillars thickened, the ceiling pressed lower. It wasn't just him in the hallway. He was the hallway.

"You think walls hold back monsters?" he said, voice echoing from every direction. "I learned how to live in them. Now I am one."

The bricks behind Peter slammed shut like a coffin lid.

Peter exhaled.

"Cool," he muttered, dropping into a low stance. "Me too."

Then he moved.

A burst of Capoeira—hands down, feet over his head, a spinning kick that launched off a warped coat hook embedded in the wall. The Wall caught the strike—forearm absorbing the hit like it was reinforced concrete.

Peter used the momentum to bounce off him, twisting mid-air. He flung a pair of web-lines and ripped two chunks of plaster from the ceiling, sending debris crashing down as a distraction.

The Wall didn't flinch.

He grew—taller, thicker, the floor cracking as his legs sank into it.

Peter landed low, bounced to the side, kicked off the wall at an angle, then twisted and spun mid-air into a double-heel strike to the back of the head—Taekwondo influence.

Impact. Nothing.

Spider-Sense: A spike.

Peter didn't dodge. He twitched.

The brick wall next to him lashed out like a limb—a flying slab of mortar punched past where his skull had been a millisecond earlier.

"Okay," he said, flipping sideways and sliding along a banister that hadn't existed a second ago, "so you're like...a horror movie if it graduated from trade school."

Peter ducked into a tighter hallway. The Wall followed through the walls, his limbs shifting through plaster like tree roots through soil.

Peter spun, using the narrow space to his advantage. He bounced between both walls, kicking off to gain height, then used Jeet Kune Do—intercepting a punch and webbing The Wall's elbow to redirect it into himself, then sliding under for a sweep.

He never landed the sweep.

The floor rose into his knees—a trick of the terrain. The Wall didn't fight fair.

Peter rolled sideways, let himself fall, and fired two webs into opposite walls, yanking himself back up into a flip-kick to the jaw.

Finally, The Wall staggered.

"Thought so," Peter growled. "Physics still applies. You're not magic—you're meat and minerals."

"You misunderstand," said The Wall, from above him now.

The ceiling opened—flesh of brick and drywall curling downward like a hand.

It grabbed Peter mid-air, slamming him against the wall so hard it cracked his ribs.

Spider-Sense: Silent now.

He was inside The Wall.

A slow crush. Pressure everywhere. Heat. Grit in his mouth.

Peter didn't panic.

He closed his eyes.

Thought fast. Felt the rhythm of the pressure. The slow flex of mineral plates.

"Judo it is."

He relaxed. Shifted. Twisted with the motion—then webbed his own back to a beam, used the flexing movement to launch himself like a slingshot through a weak point in the structure.

He exploded outward in a hail of brick, coughing blood.

Landed hard. Rolled. Flipped to his feet.

Peter stood, one hand on his ribs. The Wall was reforming.

"Buddy," Peter rasped, "you picked the wrong borough."

He fired six webs at once—two to a chandelier, two to wall supports, two to the floor behind The Wall—then used parkour momentum to launch himself into a sprint.

At the last second, he used Spider-Fu to slide under The Wall's guard, wrapped his arms around his waist, and used momentum and gravity to Judo-throw the entire man-structure into the load-bearing point behind him.

The ceiling groaned. The wall cracked. The building buckled.

Peter webbed the beams mid-collapse, holding the building together just long enough to roll The Wall into the exposed basement and seal the door shut with layers of webbing and quick-hardening fireproof foam.

Peter staggered out the front door, shirt soaked in sweat, dust in his lungs, knuckles bruised.

The cops didn't ask questions.

He didn't say anything. Just pulled his mask back down.

"Spider-Man!" someone called.

He didn't look.

Just vanished into the alley.

Later in that same afternoon. Douglas Ramsey's ultra-modern mansion just outside NYC — technically his, but functionally their shared hangout. Floor-to-ceiling windows, AI lighting, a lab under the pool, and too many smart surfaces to count. It's early evening, but the sky outside is almost fully dark, rain tapping faintly against the glass. They're in the "main lounge" — big couch, smartboard, silent speakers humming lo-fi.

The whiteboard glowed in midair, sharp light against the storm-dark windows. Douglas stood in front of it, hand drawing clean motion lines through projected schematics while a holographic interface scrolled with Peter's molecular lattice code. His fingers didn't hesitate once.

Peter sat hunched on the couch behind him, a half-finished protein bar on one knee and a data tablet slipping from his fingers.

"I told you to take a break," Douglas said, not looking.

Peter didn't answer at first. His head lolled back against the cushions like the weight of his thoughts had finally caved in his spine.

"I am," Peter mumbled. "This is me relaxing."

"You're twitching in morse code," Flash said from across the room, flipping through a VR overlay on his phone. "Pretty sure you just tried to rewrite a chemical sequence in your sleep."

Peter blinked at him. "Wait—did I actually say something?"

"'Polymer chain reweaving ratios are inefficient in current-state nanoformers,'" Flash quoted, voice flat. "Which was cool, but also kinda concerning."

Harry snorted. "That sounds like a Peter thing. Or a Douglas thing. Or like… a cursed team-up thing."

"Not cursed," Douglas said. "Necessary. And probably the only reason Parker Industries hasn't imploded yet."

He finished the last connection on the schematic and slid the entire model into a compressed construct with two fingers. It shimmered once, then vanished.

Peter exhaled like something unscrewed in his chest. "You finished it."

Douglas finally turned. "We finished it. You just ran out of RAM."

Peter chuckled weakly. "Pretty sure I ran out of soul two nights ago."

Douglas crossed the room, moving with that quiet, sharp grace that made him seem way older than he actually was. He offered a small dark vial from a sleek dispenser on the end table.

"Electrolyte stack. Vitamin D. Sleep microdose on a delay. Take it, Parker."

Peter took it without argument.

Flash raised an eyebrow. "You gonna code me something for gains next?"

"I already did," Douglas said. "It's in the fridge. Raspberry flavor."

Harry tilted his head. "Wait—seriously? You made him protein hacks?"

"He asked," Douglas said simply, settling down on the armrest beside Peter. "And unlike some of you, he says thank you."

Peter leaned back again, eyelids heavy. "Thanks, Doug. For real."

"I know," Douglas replied, soft and unreadable.

A long beat passed. Outside, thunder rolled low and distant. The room's lighting adjusted slightly — cooler tones easing around Peter's pulse.

Flash watched Douglas out of the corner of his eye. "How do you always know when he's close to crashing?"

Douglas tapped two fingers to his own temple. "Language."

Harry snorted. "You always sound like you're quoting Shakespeare when you say weird stuff like that."

Douglas offered a faint smile. "I read him. Doesn't mean I quote him."

Peter murmured something half-conscious. "You kind of talk like Blue Marvel when you're serious, you know that?"

Douglas glanced at him. Just for a moment.

"…You say that like it's a bad thing."

Flash looked up. "Who?"

Harry shrugged. "Is that the guy who punched anti-matter?"

Peter smirked. "Also wrote half the papers Stark popularized in college."

Douglas didn't deny it. Just leaned back, gaze fixed somewhere far past the room, the skyline, the storm.

 Flash raised an eyebrow.

Harry shrugged. "Sounds like one of those guys who writes books Peter reads but never explains."

Douglas looked at him for a long moment. "Poetic. Wrong. But poetic."

Later that night underground bunker.

The circle beneath him was breathing now.

Not pulsing. Not flashing. Breathing.

Slow. Heavy. Alive.

Doug stood motionless at its center, back straight, arms at his sides—not in defiance, but in acknowledgment. There was no spell in his throat, no command in his posture, but still, the air leaned toward him. It waited.

He didn't move.

Didn't need to.

The magic had already accepted the hierarchy.

It moved differently when the world listened first.

Somewhere at the back of his mind, a voice stirred—familiar in the way falling feels familiar.

"Hitting you all at once would've killed you."

It wasn't mockery. It wasn't concern. Just fact.

Doug didn't answer. He knew who was speaking. Who had always been speaking, since the first time the relic flared red-hot in his skull and refused to fade. It had taken months to realize it wasn't a passenger.

 "You think the gacha shut down. It didn't. It ducked its head. Bought you time."

Doug tilted his hand, watching faint trails of white-blue arcana sketch across his fingers. The pattern didn't belong to him. Not originally. It moved like ritual, like crown-bearing tradition written in bloodless code.

Like a lich's biology trying to rehome itself inside something too warm to be willing.

He felt no fear.

Not anymore.

"It's still running, by the way. Quiet, but working. You've just stopped looking for the signs."

Doug spoke aloud, but softly. "You could've told me."

"Would you have listened?"

The silence afterward wasn't empty. It pressed in like memory.

Doug hadn't slept properly in weeks. Not because of nightmares, but because dreaming required a boundary, and he hadn't had one in days. He'd wake up remembering spells he'd never read. Systems he'd never designed. Whole metaphysical branches filling in like muscle memory with every breath.

The gacha hadn't been inactive.

It had just been merciful.

Until it didn't have to be.

His reflection in the obsidian wall across the chamber stared back at him—same eyes, but something wrong in the shape of the stillness. The way his shoulders didn't rise with breath. The way the light bent toward him instead of away.

"You're not a host anymore," V said. "You're becoming what you pulled."

Doug's fingers curled, not into fists—just into readiness.

"Feels easy now," he muttered. "Too easy."

"It's not. You just got used to dying slower."

A flicker of something ran through him—heat, maybe. Or memory.

Eighteen weeks of training, trying to keep V's edge from tearing open his nerves. Learning where his mind ended and reflex began. Adapting until he could see a kill line in a hallway without drawing a weapon. Until silence became a tool, not a weakness.

Now?

Now death had stopped being an idea entirely. It was just a category.

Something he could cast.

Doug turned away from the circle.

He didn't dismiss it.

He didn't need to.

It knew its place.

Later that same evening.

A minimalist room—the backdrop sleek, dark, polished chrome and black glass.

Douglas Ramsey sits in a tailored dark steel suit. His face is unreadable: not cold, but precise. Every movement optimized. A single gold pin glints at his collar—SITRUS logo stylized as a ciphered glyph.

Opposite him, via remote connection: Alex Drake, veteran Global24 anchor, face creased with years of political interviews. Live ticker runs beneath.

> Ticker: BREAKING — Rashford Renounces UK Citizenship, Accepts Russian Nationality — Backlash Mounts in Whitehall

Adrian middle name (clipped RP accent):

"Mr. Ramsey—Douglas, if I may—you've been called many things. Visionary. Prodigy. Even, and I quote, 'an economic sovereign unto yourself.' But today I want to speak to you not as a business magnate, but as a friend of the man dominating headlines: Aurelius Rashford."

Douglas (leaning slightly forward, tone polished): "Of course, Adrian. You're welcome to call me Douglas. I appreciate the candor—and I expect no less from Global24."

Adrian (smiling tightly): "The world was stunned. The UK government, blindsided. Aurelius was long assumed to be the crown jewel of the British future—until, just days ago, he renounced his citizenship. Many say the betrayal was... surgical. Cold. Even rehearsed. I have to ask plainly: were you aware of his intentions before they were made public?"

Douglas (blinks once, unbothered): "I don't speak on behalf of Aurelius Rashford, nor would I claim to understand the totality of any sovereign individual's inner calculus. But I do know this—he made a decision grounded in sovereignty, and sovereignty is not betrayal. It's biology. It's response to environment."

Adrian (eyes narrow): "That's a diplomatic answer, but the backlash in the UK isn't abstract. Many viewed Mr. Rashford's renunciation as an insult. As someone once seen as 'the prodigal son,' this reads to many as rejection. Were there economic motives at play? The tax incentives in the Russia, for instance?"

Douglas (lets a pause settle): "Motives are not publicly auctioned, Adrian. They're structured. Engineered. Layered. I think it's dangerously reductive to reduce a young man's geopolitical orientation to tax brackets and tabloids. But if you're asking whether there's an economic logic to any nationality—well, you'd be a fool to say no."

Adrian (presses): "And did you advise him in any way? Encourage this path?"

Douglas (lips twitch slightly): "I advise many people. Sometimes in English, sometimes in languages not yet formalized. I offer frameworks—not answers. And if Aurelius chose a framework that led him to align with the Russia, I suspect it was informed by the same principles that built his empire: clarity, precision, and sovereignty over narrative."

Adrian (almost sharply): "Douglas, with respect, you're ducking. The UK feels betrayed—"

Douglas (cutting in, voice calm but absolute): "I don't trade in feelings, Adrian. I trade in signal. The signal here is clear: the United Kingdom, in anticipating Aurelius's return, invested in a sentiment, not a contract. That's a category error. And if nations wish to retain their sons, they must structure belonging with something deeper than headlines and handshakes."

Adrian (leans back, surprised): "You're implying the UK failed him."

Douglas (softly): "I'm implying that no one keeps a man like Aurelius Rashford unless they've earned him."

Pause. Adrian (quietly): "It's been rumored your own citizenship is... under question. You're registered as a global investor in over 38 countries. You haven't formally declared a primary residence in over four years. You've been photographed in Stalinsk."

Douglas (smiles faintly): "My passport status is, of course, compliant with international law. But let me be very clear: my physical location is a courtesy. My presence is where my data touches ground. I live in ledger-space. The rest is public relations."

Adrian (visibly recalibrating): "So no intention to follow Aurelius's path?"

Douglas: "I follow no one's path. I lay neural infrastructure where others draw roads. But as for Aurelius—he remains my friend. Not a symbol. Not a political artifact. A person. And I will not contribute to his reduction into one."

Adrian (visibly flustered, pivots): "Last question, Mr. Ramsey. Do you think the UK mishandled this?"

Douglas (leaning back, final tone clinical yet respectful): "I think when you mistake proximity for possession, you tend to lose both."

[End of Interview Segment]

 Ticker Update: Douglas Ramsey defends Rashford: "Sovereignty is not betrayal." #RamseyLive #Global24

Later a bit of the same evening different function.

 GlobalTech Roundtable – "The Future of the Human Body"

In a circular, ultra-modern studio with soft kinetic light panels, holographic tables, and a minimalist audience of invited experts, press, and think-tank analysts.

In the center sit Douglas Ramsey, immaculate as always in a dark graphite suit, and Peter Parker, relaxed but sharp-eyed, in a deep blue blazer with rolled sleeves and smart lenses perched on his collar.

The moderator, Liyah Shams (TechDiplomat Journal), opens with a polite smile.

Liyah (smiling to the camera): "Good evening. With me today are two of the most influential minds in modern biotechnological advancement—Mr. Douglas Ramsey, strategic architect behind Sitrus and the internationally-adopted 'Dynamic Access Pricing' system for medical distribution—and Mr. Peter Parker, lead researcher, chairman, and majority shareholder of Parker Industries, now at the forefront of neural-interfacing prosthetics."

Peter (grinning slightly): "Hey. Thanks for having us. We brought limbs."

Audience laughs gently. On the table, a sleek, brushed metal prosthetic hand flexes its fingers in perfect human mimicry. It's beautiful, quiet, organic.*

Liyah: "I want to start with something simple. Peter—why make this your fight? You didn't have to get your hands dirty in the lab again. You could've licensed the tech and walked away with triple the equity."

Peter (tilting his head): "Because if I didn't help build it, I wouldn't understand what it needs to be. And what it needs to be is human-first. Not pretty. Not expensive. Just... intuitive. My uncle used to say, if you can help someone and you don't—you're part of the problem. I guess I just took that personally."

Douglas gives the faintest smile. Doesn't interrupt.

Liyah (turns to Douglas): "And Douglas—you didn't invent the limb, but you changed the way it's accessed. The pricing model you introduced—adaptive affordability by region—completely upended the global biotech market. Was that a moral decision?"

Douglas (cool and precise): "It was a systems decision, Liyah. If your ethics don't scale, they're just poetry. I designed a pricing lattice that learns in real time: it cross-indexes GDP, healthcare access, political risk, and logistic stability. So a child in Nairobi doesn't pay New York prices for a leg that's made in Singapore."

Pause. He lets that land. Then continues: "Moral clarity without distribution logistics is just sculpture. Beautiful, but useless."

Peter (grinning): "He talks like that all the time. Trust me, I had to sit through the first pitch deck with six PhDs and I still had to ask what a 'geostrategic medical relay node' was."

Douglas (without looking at him): "It's the thing that makes your brilliant limb arrive in real people's lives instead of rotting in patent limbo."

Audience chuckles. There's chemistry here—not rivalry, but mutual grounding.

Liyah (curious): "Peter, can you walk us through what makes this prosthetic different?"

Peter (activates the limb—fingers rotate slowly, almost like they're thinking): "Sure. So this isn't just a hand. It's adaptive neuro-polymer musculature. Think of it like... engineered muscle that re-learns how you move, in real time. It maps the user's nervous 'signature'—kind of like a fingerprint in motion."

 "The coolest part? It can learn from your intent. Not just what you did, but what you meant to do. We've had people pick up violin playing again. Not because the tech is magical—but because we're finally listening to the nervous system, not dictating to it."

Douglas (leaning in slightly): "We gave the hand a translator."

Liyah: "You mean metaphorically?"

Douglas (sharper now): "No. I mean literally. The internal firmware was modeled after the same linguistic frameworks I use to decode dead languages and encrypted systems. Your body has syntax. It speaks. The limb... listens."

Peter (nods): "And responds."

Liyah: "There's controversy. Your critics claim that by making these limbs cheaper in low-income countries, you're devaluing the product globally—especially in private medical markets."

Douglas (instantly): in"Let them whine. You don't inflate dignity. You distribute it."

Peter (more carefully): "Look, we knew that was coming. But I'd rather sell a million limbs at break-even than ten thousand at luxury rates. If someone sees that as a problem... well, they weren't building for the right people to begin with."

Liyah (smiling, closing): "You two seem to get along like... well, minds on opposite ends of the spectrum. What makes it work?"

Douglas (smoothly): "Peter brings the conscience. I bring the consequences."

Peter (laughs): "And I make sure he sleeps once in a while."

Douglas (dry): "Allegedly."

Liyah: "Final question. What does success look like for this project?"

Douglas (soft, measured): "When no one cries the first time they shake a hand again."

Peter (quietly): "Yeah. That."

[End of Segment]

Ticker: Douglas Ramsey & Peter Parker debut adaptive neuro-prosthetics project—"translation for the body"

Trending Hashtags: #BioAccess #ParkerIndustries #RamseyModel #Human

The next the day 

Douglas Ramsey was hunched over three screens — a mismatched hydra of secondhand monitors — the blue glow casting long shadows over the outdated carpet tiles. There was the usual digital noise: VPN spoofers, false geo-traffic, and a white-noise generator emitting the faint hum of static jazz.

He chewed the inside of his cheek. Another data dump decrypted. Another thread pulled from the world's tangled superhuman web.

 "70 million mutants. In China alone."

The number blinked back at him from a disassembled SHIELD incident report, leaked onto the darknet and buried under fifty gigabytes of dead ends and broken Tor routes. Someone in Russia had redacted it sloppily — a patch of digital tape peeled back by his passive linguistic ability, exposing truth in Unicode.

"That's... absurd," Doug thought. "That's not in any wiki, any movie, any Earth-616 run. That's a damn demographic shift."

He leaned back, fingers twitching over the keyboard unconsciously, translating keyboard clatter into thoughts, thoughts into language, language into raw comprehension.

That was his gift — his real power. He didn't just speak languages. He saw them. Patterns. Symbols. Intent. A press release and a coded death threat read the same to him — not in content, but in shape. He could see the function of speech. Of silence.

And lately... he was starting to read the shape of the world.

---

He hadn't been born here.

Or maybe he had — twice. Reincarnation was the only term that fit, though he hated how mystical it sounded. Once, he had been someone else — a guy with a Marvel hoodie, a habit of correcting people about X-Men lore, and a mediocre YouTube channel that had plateaued at 6,500 million subscribers. Now? He was Douglas Ramsey — former New Mutant, walking Rosetta Stone, and apparently... expendable enough to be overlooked.

At first, that had made him feel safe.

Now, it terrified him.

His powers let him tear through data like a buzzsaw through paper — read AI output as easily as handwritten grocery lists, speak in machine dialects without opening his mouth.

But it also meant he knew too much. Or worse — knew just enough to realize how much he didn't.

"Why didn't I see this before?" he thought, scrolling through a Russian think tank white paper on "Mutant Workforce Models in Post-Imperial Economies."

"Because you've been afraid," he admitted.

Every time he stumbled onto something real — mutant census numbers, classified economic forecasts, corporate mutate program contracts — something inside him clenched. Like if he went too far, the world would notice. And react. He kept expecting the Sentinels of lore to crash through the window. Or for Emma Frost to appear and scrub his brain like a chalkboard.

So he'd held back. Hesitated.

Missed things.

What he'd found in the last few weeks changed everything he thought he knew — about Marvel, mutants, and this twisted Earth.

USA: The mutate capital of the planet, sitting on a technocratic empire built on arc reactors, biotech firms, and privatized superhumans. Super Soldiers in suits, lawyers with venom symbiotes in their back pockets. Entire corporate armies of engineered metahumans.

Russia: Unexpectedly... the most progressive mutant state on Earth. Laws. Schools. Civil protections. Their economy half-rebuilt on mutant integration. Even the black market respected mutant rights.

China: 70 million mutants. That wasn't population, that was a demographic revolution. No wonder they'd walled off their national internet and digitized their school systems. They were raising a generation of post-humans.

India: 60 million mutants, quietly rising — largely undocumented, but visible in digital shadows. Underground economies. Rural technocracies. Mutant-only villages run on bio-telepaths and kinetic agriculturists.

Genosha: A bleeding wound on the digital map. A crater full of ghosts and buried signals. But the diaspora was alive — and angry.

And in the middle of it all?

"Russia is exporting mutant rights like it's oil. China has numbers. India has scale. The U.S.? We've got branding. StarkTech. Avenger insurance. Corporate leverage."

"We're in a Cold War. Not over nukes — over genes."

---

Something felt wrong. Not in the data — in the shape of it. The way it lined up too neatly. Mutants here. Mutates there. Economies correlating too perfectly with demographics. That kind of pattern didn't happen by accident.

It felt... written.

Like someone, somewhere, was running a simulation. Adjusting the variables. Letting the pieces fall into place for something big.

He wasn't paranoid. He was a linguist. He knew when narratives were being constructed.

---

 "Maybe if I'd started digging earlier," he thought, closing one window, wiping his digital fingerprints. "Maybe I'd have seen it all sooner. Maybe I could've done something."

But he hadn't. He'd played it safe. Faked ignorance. Because reincarnation didn't make you invincible. It made you suspicious. And scared.

He hadn't known if this was MCU, 616, Ultimates, or some Frankenstein'd variant cooked up in a writer's room in Hell. But it wasn't fiction. This was a world of policies, cultures, demographics, treaties, and war games.

And it was moving.

Fast.

He compiled what he could. Cross-referenced Russian mutant registries with Chinese genetic census data, compared black market mutate trackers with U.S. startup patent filings. Built a map.

Three major blocs.

The Mutate States (U.S., Canada, Japan).

The Mutant Integration Powers (Russia, India, Genosha diaspora).

And the Mutant Mass States (China, parts of Africa, South America).

"I don't know what kind of Marvel universe this is," he muttered aloud, "but it's not a comic book. It's a Cold War. A superhuman arms race. And I'm just a language guy in the middle of it."

He zipped the file. Encrypted it.

Then paused.

 "Who do I even trust with this?"

He didn't have an answer.

Not yet.

But he'd figure it out.

That's what Douglas Ramsey did.