The car rolled to a smooth stop in the school's parking lot.
I shut off the engine, the faint hum dying away as silence settled. Through the windshield, the building loomed over the lot—red brick walls, tall white columns, and the endless rows of windows staring down like watchful eyes. A school like any other, yet nothing like the schools I remembered from my first life.
I sat for a moment, my hand still resting on the steering wheel, feeling the unfamiliar weight of this life pressing down. Then I exhaled, unfastened the seatbelt, and stepped out. The crisp morning air brushed against my face as I closed the door behind me.
The crowd of students was already flowing toward the entrance. Voices blended into a dull roar of chatter, laughter, complaints about homework, and weekend plans. I slung my bag over one shoulder, falling into step with them. The straps settled against me naturally, like this body remembered every inch of the weight.
For all the noise and movement around me, I felt apart—an observer rather than a participant.
I adjusted my pace, letting the rhythm of the crowd carry me inside. The school's entrance opened into a wide hall, lockers lining both sides in neat rows. Bright lights hummed overhead, reflecting faintly against the polished floor.
And then I saw him.
Peter Parker.
The face was familiar—the parallel self had seen him countless times in these halls, just another student among the crowd. Backpack over one shoulder, fidgeting absently with the strap, eyes restless and sharp. That was how this life remembered him.
But my eyes saw something else layered over the ordinary.
Back on Earth, in my first life, I had seen that same face countless times on a movie screen. Tom Holland—the boy who played Spider-Man. The resemblance was uncanny, down to the exact awkward determination in his stance. Two sets of recognition collided inside me—the parallel self's mundane memory of a classmate, and my own awareness of the hero hidden behind that ordinary frame.
Beside him stood Ned. Shorter, broader, with a round face and a casual hoodie. His arms were crossed, and his expression was clear as day—a mix of curiosity and irritation.
Peter's brows furrowed slightly. "Why didn't you reply? I sent you a message last night."
I slowed my steps, shifting my bag against my shoulder, before answering lightly. "I forgot to send a reply. My bad."
Ned tilted his head, eyes narrowing at me. "Wait a second… did you dye your hair?"
His voice carried more surprise than accusation, but it made me pause.
I brushed a hand casually over my head, letting the golden strands catch the light for just a moment. "Yeah. Got bored of keeping it black all the time. Thought I'd change things up."
It was a simple answer, nothing unusual in a city where half the students experimented with their looks every other week.
Ned raised an eyebrow, but he didn't push further.
Peter's gaze, however, didn't linger on my hair. His attention was already shifting, practical as always. "Did you complete your assignment?"
I met his eyes and gave a short nod. "Yeah, I did."
Relief flickered across his face. He adjusted the strap of his backpack, his voice softening. "Okay, buddy. Meet in class."
With that, he turned, Ned falling into step beside him. Their conversation faded quickly into the noise of the hall, the two of them absorbed into the moving crowd.
I remained where I was for a moment, the silence pressing differently against me now.
There it was—the truth revealed in the smallest of interactions.
I wasn't close to Peter. Not truly. Not in this world, not in this body. Whatever connection my parallel self had with him, it was thin, the kind of acquaintance that lingered at the edges of friendship but never stepped fully inside.
And as for me?
I wasn't here for assignments. I wasn't here for exams or school life. Those were the routines of my parallel self, the cover left behind for me to step into. A degree was the mask, the excuse to blend in.
But the real reason I came here was Peter Parker himself.
Spider-Man.
The hero hidden behind the quiet face I had just spoken to. The boy who carried a burden no one else around him could see.
Shaking off the thought, I turned back to my locker. The metal door creaked faintly as I spun the combination and pulled it open. Books, folders, papers—all the mundane evidence of a student's life spilled into view.
I picked out the finished assignment, the one my parallel self had already completed before I ever arrived. Holding it in my hand, I felt the strangeness of it all. He had prepared this. He had lived these routines. And now, I carried them forward.
I closed the locker and walked down the hall toward the classroom.
The bell rang, sharp and insistent, driving the flow of students into place. I slipped into the room, the rows of desks stretching neatly beneath the wide windows. The air was filled with chatter as everyone settled, books slamming onto desks, chairs scraping faintly against the floor.
I chose a seat near the middle, neither too visible nor hidden away. The desk felt cool under my hands as I placed the assignment on top, ready for collection.
The teacher entered moments later, carrying an armful of papers. His voice filled the room, brisk and practiced, as he began the day's lecture.
I leaned back in my seat, my eyes drifting toward the window. The city stretched faintly in the distance, alive with movement. The words at the front of the room blurred, the lecture melting into meaningless noise.
This was what I expected. Boring. Predictable. A repetition of everything I had already lived through once before.
And yet, I remained.
The classroom buzzed faintly around me—pens scratching against paper, the low monotone of the teacher's voice drifting in the air, punctuated by the occasional cough or whispered conversation. I leaned slightly forward, my chin resting against my palm, and let my gaze drift lazily across the room.
Peter Parker sat diagonally ahead of me, his posture attentive, though his fingers fidgeted with the edge of his notebook. He leaned into his notes with quiet focus, that same awkward determination present in both the memories of my parallel self and the image I carried from my old world. Watching him like this, ordinary yet extraordinary, felt almost unsettling—yet grounding at the same time.
But Peter wasn't the only one.
A few rows away sat Michelle Jones. MJ. Her expression carried that same subtle sharpness I remembered—eyes that seemed to miss nothing, posture relaxed but mind constantly at work. Her face… it was undeniably Zendaya's.
I let my gaze linger for a moment, not out of attraction but recognition. The familiar faces of my old world's fiction were now my reality. And here they were—ordinary students in this classroom, breathing the same air, unaware of the chaos that lay ahead of them.
I leaned back in my seat with a faint sigh.
Boredom pressed against me like a weight.
The teacher's words washed over me, meaningless echoes of knowledge I had already consumed in my first life. Equations, definitions, dates—none of it held value to me anymore. I wasn't here to learn. I wasn't here to compete for grades or accolades.
I was only here because the degree gave me cover, a disguise to move unnoticed. That was the surface.
But beneath it, my real purpose never changed. Peter Parker. Spider-Man.
My focus lay elsewhere.
The gifts I had received—the Kavach and Kundal, indestructible and eternal, and the golden Bow of Astras, capable of unlocking divine powers every six months. Already, I had glimpsed the first of them: the Agni Astra, fire that could grow endlessly, swallowing the world if I willed it.
But I hadn't tested it. Not fully. Not properly.
The thought pulsed at the back of my mind like an itch I couldn't scratch in this cramped classroom.
When the bell finally rang, sharp and metallic, slicing through the monotony of the lecture, I didn't hesitate.
I rose instantly, pushing back my chair, the legs scraping faintly against the tiled floor. My hand gripped the strap of my bag, and without so much as a backward glance, I strode straight toward the door.
The suddenness of my movement drew attention. Heads turned.
It wasn't like me—or rather, it wasn't like the Ansh who had lived in this body before me. He had never been the first to leave a class. He blended quietly, followed patterns, never sought to stand out.
So when I pushed through the doorway ahead of everyone else, a ripple of surprise followed me. I could feel their eyes on my back, their murmurs threading through the room.
But I didn't stop. I didn't explain.
Why should I?
The life that belonged to this body no longer bound me. I had no need to justify myself to them.
The hallway was brighter, sunlight spilling in through the tall windows and painting the floor in golden streaks. I walked with steady steps, my pace faster than before, my mind clear.
As soon as I was out of sight, the faintest smile tugged at my lips.
It wasn't for the class — it was because out here, I finally felt like myself.
I tightened my grip on the strap of my bag as I stepped outside, the cool air brushing against me. The noise of the school faded behind, swallowed by the wider hum of the city. Cars moved steadily along the streets, horns blaring faintly in the distance. People walked briskly, carrying on with their lives, unaware of the storm brewing at the edges of this reality.
I exhaled slowly.
Now, I thought, a spark flickering behind my eyes, let's go check my Astra. And this city.