Cindy had left not long after lunch, waving me off at the bus station. She told me she would be back next week. The house felt too quiet after she was gone. Aunt May was humming downstairs while cleaning up the web off the ceiling. Uncle Ben was un-denting the fridge door. And I? I was pacing in my room like a caged animal. Restless. My head buzzed with possibilities that went nowhere.
Money. That was the problem. That was the gap between what I wanted to do and what I was able to do. The revolver from last night would have been perfect — scrap metal, springs, pieces I could have dismantled and reworked into something useful, maybe even the prototype of a device I'd had built in my past life. But the cops had returned, took it down from the webbed cocoon I left hanging above the kitchen ceiling, and logged it into evidence. They'd patted Uncle Ben on the back, congratulated him for keeping his cool, and then gone on their way. And me? I just stood there smiling like a dumb kid while inside I was screaming at myself. That gun was supposed to be mine.
Now I had nothing but the itch in my bones. It told me I needed to build, to prepare, to do. To do that, I needed money.
So I was at my computer, hunched forward, typing every desperate combination of words I could think of into the search bar.
"Quick money opportunities NYC."
"Freelance tech jobs are cash only."
"Underground work New York high payout."
That last one probably put me on five watchlists, but hey, desperate times call for desperate measures.
Scrolling through endless junk, my chin resting on my fist, I felt the edges of frustration clawing at me. Everyone online made it sound so simple—get a job, work hard, save up. Right. Like any corner store, it was gonna hire a kid who could accidentally crush the register drawer if he wasn't careful.
Then something tugged at my memory. Not from this life—my old one. A scene from the movies. Tobey Maguire's Peter Parker. The guy who cried, as if his face were melting, every time the camera got close. He'd strapped on a mask, walked into a wrestling ring, and made a quick payday just by tossing a dude around.
I sat up in my chair so fast it squeaked.
"No way…" I muttered, a grin tugging at my lips. "Would that actually work here?"
My fingers flew over the keyboard. I searched for fight clubs, boxing gyms, anything that paid. Most of it was lame—fifty bucks for amateur bouts, cheesy charity matches where you signed waivers saying you wouldn't sue if someone knocked your teeth out. Then one post jumped out at me.
Big bold letters.
BATTLE NIGHTS. Ten minutes. One ring. One Beast. Half a million if you last the bell.
Location: Red Hook Warehouse District. Entry: Open. Rules: None.
I blinked. My heart skipped.
"Half a million? Just for ten minutes?"
A laugh slipped out, too loud in the quiet room. "You've gotta be kidding me."
The reigning champ was called Battle Beast. Subtle. Probably some dude built like a refrigerator, with a shaved head and skull tattoos, fists like mallets. I pictured him snarling, flexing, doing the whole tough-guy routine. Against any normal person? Ten minutes would feel like an eternity. Against me?
I flexed my fingers, feeling the way strength coiled under my skin. The spider-sense buzzed faintly at the thought, like my body was already preparing. Reflexes sharp enough to dodge bullets, stamina to run rooftops without breaking a sweat. Ten minutes wasn't impossible. Ten minutes were gym class warm-ups.
However, the practical voice then kicked in. The risks stacked up fast. I'd be putting myself in front of a crowd. Cameras, probably. One bad move, one slip of the mask, and I'd out myself before I even got started. If Uncle Ben or Aunt May saw me on some underground fight video, they'd ground me for the next decade. And if Battle Beast was juiced on steroids or worse, I could still end up in a hospital bed—or worse, raising questions doctors couldn't answer.
I chewed my lip. Risk on one side, reward on the other.
Reward: half a million dollars. Not pocket change—that was gear. Materials. Tools. Web shooters. Custom suits. Lab equipment. Everything I'd need to stop playing catch-up and actually be ahead. Why crawl through the broken Peter Parker lifestyle when I already knew how the story went? Nah. Not this time.
My grin spread. "Yeah… screw it. I'm not playing poor Peter Parker 2.0."
I clicked the signup link. The form was barebones—name, contact information, and emergency number in case you were sent to the ER. I hesitated at "Name," then typed: The Arachnid. A little nod to comic history.
Contact number? Totally fake. Emergency contact? None.
Anonymous. Clean.
I hit enter. The confirmation screen blinked at me.
You're signed up for Battle Nights. Saturday, 11 PM. Red Hook.
I leaned back in my chair, heart thumping, a stupid grin plastered on my face.
This was it. No holding back.
A jolt ran through me, sharp enough to make my fingers twitch off the keyboard. My stomach knotted with that weird mix of nerves and adrenaline—the exact feeling I always imagined before a huge rooftop swing. Only this wasn't a daydream. This was real.
My phone buzzed, screen lighting up. CINDY.
Cindy: Hey. Are you alive? Or did you pass out drooling on your keyboard again?
I snorted, thumbs already moving.
Me: Alive. Just thinking about ways to make money. Do you have any ideas?
Her reply came almost instantly.
Cindy: Yeah, normal ones. Found some tutoring and babysitting jobs. The deli on 9th is also hiring. I don't want to guess whatever insane thing you're cooking up in that head of yours.
I laughed under my breath, glancing at the fight-night confirmation still open on my screen. If only she knew.
Me: I'll keep that in mind. Thanks, Moon.
The three dots popped up immediately.
Cindy: Don't call me Moon.
I smirked at the screen, tossing my phone onto the bed. The glow faded out, leaving me alone with the soft hum of my computer and my own racing thoughts.
The fight was in a few days. Just enough time to prepare. Enough time to figure out an outfit, a mask, something that would keep anyone from linking Peter Parker to the kid in the ring.
I leaned back in my chair, hands laced behind my head, staring at the ceiling. If I played this smart, this wouldn't just be some crazy stunt. It would be the first step toward everything.
"Ten minutes," I whispered to myself. "Just ten minutes. Half a million. Easy."
But even as I said it, I couldn't shake the feeling curling in the pit of my stomach — that my life was about to change again, in ways I couldn't quite predict.
🕷🕷🕷🕷🕷🕷🕷🕷🕷🕷🕷🕷
Several days blurred past in a restless haze of planning, excuses, and nerves. And now here we were—Cindy and me, standing shoulder to shoulder in the cracked streets of the Red Hook Warehouse District.
The night was thick with fog and the tang of salt off the river, broken by neon signs buzzing above warehouses that looked abandoned until you got close enough to hear the noise spilling out. Music, laughter, cheers—it all bled into the night air like a living thing.
Cindy tugged on my sleeve, glaring up at me with that mix of annoyance and disbelief she'd perfected over the years.
"I can't believe you actually signed up for this." Her voice was low. She hissed the words at me.
I shoved my hands into the pockets of my hoodie, shrugging like it was no big deal. "Half a million dollars, Cindy. Do you know what we could do with that? Gear, supplies, everything I'd need to actually make something out of this."
Her lips pressed into a thin line. She wanted to argue, I could see it in her eyes—but after a second, she just exhaled and muttered, "Yeah… okay. I hate that you're not wrong."
We followed the crowd—guys twice my size, women with muscles carved like marble, all of them moving with the kind of confidence you only get from breaking bones for fun. It was surreal, slipping among them like I belonged.
Inside, the warehouse had been gutted and reborn as something feral. Neon lights draped from the rafters. Floodlights blazed over the cage at the center, steel mesh glowing like a savage altar. The air choked with sweat, beer, and electricity. Every cheer rattled the concrete beneath my sneakers.
The registration desk was tucked off to the side, guarded by a woman in a headset who looked like she'd seen too many idiots walk in and limp out. Her eyes flicked up, sizing me up instantly.
"Name?" she asked.
I leaned forward just slightly. "The Arachnid."
Her fingers paused mid-type. She looked up again—this time slower, sharper—eyes narrowing at my face.
"…How old are you?"
"Sixteen," I answered, steady.
Her expression hardened like stone. She leaned back, folding her arms. "Move along, kid. This isn't some after-school boxing league. You step in that cage, you'll leave in pieces—if you leave at all."
Cindy jumped in before I could. "See? Even though she thinks this is insane. Let's go."
But I didn't budge. The heat in my chest flared. "I can handle it," I said, voice calm, steady. "Just give me the form."
The woman's laugh was short, humorless. "Handle it? That 'Beast' out there has put grown men in the hospital. Broken jaws, shattered ribs, concussions so bad they can't remember their own names. And you? You're a kid in a hoodie."
I didn't blink. "Form."
For a long moment, she stared at me—trying to decide if I was brave, stupid, or both. Finally, she let out a long breath through her nose, grabbed a clipboard, and slapped it down on the desk.
"Fine. But don't say I didn't warn you. Sign here, here, and here. Waivers cover injuries, permanent damage, and death. You know—the usual."
Cindy crossed her arms, shaking her head. "Peter, this is—"
I cut her a look. "Trust me."
She bit her tongue, eyes burning holes through me as I scribbled down the name, the signature. Each pen stroke felt like a lock clicking shut behind me. No turning back now.
When I slid the clipboard back, the woman pointed toward a dim corridor that ran under the stands.
"Locker rooms are to the right. Wait until you're called."
The roar of the crowd surged again, rattling through the walls. Cindy's hand brushed mine, just for a second. "You'd better know what you're doing," she whispered.
I swallowed the knot in my throat and forced a grin. "Yeah. Me too."
The corridor reeked of sweat, old beer, and disinfectant. My sneakers scuffed against the concrete as I followed the path deeper into the belly of the warehouse, weaving past fighters who looked like they belonged in comic books—huge, scarred, or tattooed head to toe. Some sat with towels over their heads, rocking silently like monks. Others shadowboxed the air, fists whipping so fast the sound cracked.
I wasn't supposed to be here. And yet here I was.
The locker room was a tight concrete box with rows of dented metal benches. Cindy trailed in behind me, refusing to leave. She sat down right across from me, arms crossed, glaring.
"You better not die," she muttered.
I cracked a half-smile, though my chest was tight. "I'll try to keep it to just broken bones."
Her glare didn't soften. If anything, it deepened.
The walls trembled suddenly, a booming voice thundering through the speakers, rattling the lockers.
"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!" the announcer roared, his voice smooth, deep, theatrical, like he was narrating the end of the world. "Welcome… to another NIGHT! OF! LEGEND!"
The crowd outside went wild, stomping their feet in unison, the vibration shaking dust loose from the ceiling.
"Tonight, YOU bear witness to the immovable, unstoppable force! The DEVOURER of hope! The SLAYER of souls! The ONE, the ONLY… BATTLE BEAST!"
The chant began instantly, primal and deafening.
"BEAST! BEAST! BEAST! BEAST!"
I crept to the doorway, peeking through the gap in the curtain. And there he was.
Battle Beast.
The nickname wasn't hype. He was a monster. Shaved head gleaming under the lights, body carved out of pure muscle and scars. His arms were thicker than my waist, veins bulging like cords.
In the center of the cage, he grabbed his opponent—a stocky guy who'd been grinning like a tough guy just seconds ago—and slammed him down so hard the floor rattled under my shoes. The guy didn't get back up.
The announcer circled the cage like a ringmaster in hell, every word feeding the frenzy.
"DOWN IN FORTY SECONDS! Another would-be warrior is broken! Another soul cast aside by the Beast!"
The medics dragged the poor guy off as the announcer's voice climbed higher, almost musical in its brutality.
"And who will step forward next? Who DARES to gamble their life against this god of war?!"
The crowd roared:
"FEED THE BEAST! FEED THE BEAST! FEED THE BEAST!"
One after another, challengers tried. Big men, brawlers, even a wiry guy with lightning-fast kicks. None of them lasted. Thirty seconds. Forty-five. A full minute at best before they were rag-dolled, pummeled, and left limp on the mat.
Then she arrived.
The announcer's voice shifted, reverent but cruel.
"Ah, yes! Our strongest challenger yet! The Iron Maiden herself—six-foot-two, muscles carved from granite, a titan in her own right!"
She charged him like a freight train, fists flying, her strength undeniable. And for a moment—just a moment—the crowd thought she might do it. She lasted longer than anyone else. Nearly three whole minutes before Beast caught her mid-swing, hoisted her clean over his shoulders, and drove her into the floor with a sickening thud.
The crowd lost its mind.
"THREE MINUTES! A RECORD! But still no match for the BEAST!"
The announcer's grin glistened under the lights, his voice a weapon. "There is NO challenger worthy! None who can withstand his wrath!"
In the locker room, my palms were slick with sweat. Cindy leaned forward, whispering harshly. "Peter, don't. Please. Look at what he does to them—"
Before she could finish, the announcer's gaze turned toward the tunnel, his eyes glittering like a predator's. His voice rose, theatrical, sharp.
"And now… ANOTHER hopeful emerges! Another brave—or foolish—soul who dares to step into the ring of annihilation! Tell us, boy, what name will we carve into your tombstone tonight?"
The spotlight swung into the tunnel, blinding me. My throat went dry. For a heartbeat, I thought about blurting out Peter Parker, but no—this wasn't about me. Not here.
I grinned, the word rolling off my tongue like it had been waiting for this moment.
"The Arachnid."
The announcer threw his head back and laughed, savoring it.
"THE ARACHNID! Do you hear it, people? Another insect for the Beast to crush! Another web spun only to be torn apart! Ladies and gentlemen—give it up for the one and only! Arach! Nid!"
The crowd howled, the cage rattling under their stomps. Cindy grabbed my wrist, her eyes wide, pleading. "Don't go out there."
I squeezed her hand back once, forcing a smile I didn't feel. "I have to."
And then I stepped forward, into the light.