Swinging back through the city was… exhilarating. My lungs still burned from the sprint of adrenaline. Every muscle hummed with leftover energy, but I couldn't stop grinning. The suit clung to me, sticky with sweat, fabric scuffed from stray ricochets of broken glass. Still, the rush was there. The city had been a blur of lights and motion. For a few heart-pounding minutes, I wasn't Peter Parker, the kid with too many problems and not enough answers. I was Spider-Man.
The open bathroom window was my target. I shot a web to the sill, arced in perfectly, and landed with a quiet thump on the tiles. Graceful. Clean. I'd even managed not to knock over May's potted fern this time. Progress.
I peeled the mask off and gulped down cool air. My heart rate finally slowed. The raw ache of the fight faded, replaced by a strange lightness. Turning, I scanned the bathroom for my clothes, but found… nothing.
"What the—" My jeans, my shirt, even my sneakers were gone. I spun, half-expecting Cindy to jump out laughing. Nothing but the faint scent of soap and the mirror fogged from the shower earlier.
Great. Naked Spider-Man. Not exactly the headline I wanted.
I hurried to my room in the suit, shut the door behind me, and dug through my drawers for fresh clothes. After dressing, I hung the suit carefully on the hook in my closet, giving it one last look. The seams held—Cindy's handiwork had survived its first trial by fire.
I jogged downstairs, half-expecting silence. Instead, I heard voices, the low hum of the TV, and Cindy's laugh mingling with May's softer chuckle. Uncle Ben's baritone rose above both, steady and amused.
I rounded the corner and froze.
There they were, sitting on the couch, their eyes glued to the television. Cindy, legs crossed, tried not to smirk at me. Aunt May rested her knitting needles on her lap. Uncle Ben leaned forward, gripping the remote, nodding as though the nightly news was the most fascinating show on Earth.
And there, on the TV, was I. Or rather, the masked me. Spider-Man. Grainy footage captured on someone's phone showed me disarming the robbers, webbing the guns, flipping through chaos like some acrobat on steroids.
The news anchor's voice rang clear: "New Yorkers are divided tonight over the emergence of a masked figure, dubbed by witnesses as 'Spider-Man.' This unknown vigilante stopped an armed robbery at First National Bank earlier this evening, leaving police to clean up what one officer called, quote, 'the weirdest arrest paperwork I've ever filled out.'"
The broadcast shifted to shaky footage of me ripping the gun from the robber's hand. My stomach sank. Seeing myself from the outside… I didn't appear heroic. I looked dangerous.
The anchor continued, "Some citizens are calling him a hero, while others are questioning whether a masked vigilante has any place in New York's already strained justice system. Our correspondent spoke to witnesses earlier."
The screen flickered to a middle-aged woman clutching a shopping bag. "Oh, it was amazing! He just swooped in outta nowhere, like whoosh, and suddenly those guys were on the ground. Saved lives, I'm telling you."
Cut. A man in a suit scowled. "Yeah, maybe this time he helped, but what if next time he screws up? Who's responsible if he hurts someone? He's not trained. He's not law enforcement. He's just some kid in a Halloween costume."
My jaw tightened.
Then came Captain Stacy, standing outside the bank, surrounded by flashing lights and reporters shoving microphones at him. His voice was calm, firm, the way I remembered from the few times I'd seen him at school events. "Look, the guy helped today. No denying that. The robbers were armed, and lives were at risk. But here's the bottom line: vigilantes don't get a free pass. He keeps doing the right thing, he stays on the right side of the law, then we'll have no problem. The second he crosses that line? We'll treat him like any other criminal."
The clip ended, and the anchor leaned forward with a practiced smile. "So, who is Spider-Man? A hero in the making, or a danger waiting to happen? Only time will tell."
The camera panned back to the studio and then cut to a political commentator, who shook his head in disapproval. 'Listen, the city doesn't need another masked figure running around. Remember what happened the last time vigilantes thought they knew better than the system? It ended in lawsuits and chaos. New York needs order, not spider tricks.'
Uncle Ben whistled low. "Spider tricks, huh? That's catchy."
I realized everyone was staring at me. Cindy's eyes sparkled with amusement, May's brows lifted in quiet curiosity, and Ben… Ben looked like he was holding back a grin.
He gave a sharp whistle. "Kid moves pretty fast. Swinging around like that, flipping over guys with guns. Not bad."
I rubbed the back of my neck, trying to look casual. "It's all about momentum. And strength. And, uh, a lot of agility. Gotta dodge birds, traffic signs, windows… oh, and pigeons. Pigeons are the real enemy."
Cindy snorted into her sleeve. May smothered a laugh. Ben leaned back, still studying me. His gaze dropped to the TV, where the suit was in full view: homemade, patchy, and tactical gear, cobbled together like thrift-store cosplay.
"So, tell me, Pete," Ben said, lips twitching, "were you trying to be a soldier? Or maybe a hockey player? It's kind of hard to tell with that getup. All you need is a helmet and a foam bat."
"Very funny," I muttered.
"No, really," he continued, warming up now, "you looked like you raided the lost and found at a military surplus store. 'Masked Arachnid Man: defender of thrift shops everywhere.'"
Cindy actually laughed out loud this time. Traitor.
I threw up my hands. "It was functional! That's what matters. Protection, mobility—"
"Fashion disaster," Ben interrupted, chuckling.
May set her knitting aside, her expression gentler. "Is that the suit you plan to use forever?"
My mouth opened, then closed. "Uh. No. Just temporary. The official ones are still in the works."
She nodded, satisfied. "Good. That's good."
I looked desperately at Cindy, hoping for backup. She just shrugged, still grinning. "Don't look at me. You did pick the color scheme."
I sighed, slumping back against the wall. "You people are brutal."
Ben raised his hands in mock surrender. "Hey, kid, I'm just saying—shouldn't heroes have actual good style?"
"Give me a break," I grumbled. "First outing. I'm still working on it."
🕷🕷🕷🕷🕷🕷🕷🕷🕷🕷🕷🕷
Back in my room, I finally let myself collapse into the chair. My body still hummed from the adrenaline high of the night. Cindy perched on the edge of my bed, scrolling absentmindedly through her phone. I pulled up blueprints and real estate maps on my computer. Arachne's interface flickered on my second monitor, streams of data already compiling possible sites for a headquarters.
"This is ridiculous," I muttered, rubbing my temples. "Everything's overpriced. Warehouses, industrial sites, and even abandoned factories are going for millions. How are we supposed to set up a base when we can't even afford a broom closet in this city?"
Cindy set her phone down. "Maybe we don't need a big place right away. Just… somewhere private. Small. Expand later."
"Yeah, but we're going to need room eventually—training space, labs, secure storage, equipment bays—" I stopped myself, realizing I was ranting. "Sorry. Just… thinking out loud."
Cindy gave me a small smile. "You always do." She stood and stretched. "Bathroom break. Don't buy a skyscraper while I'm gone."
I rolled my eyes. "Ha ha." The door clicked shut behind her, leaving me with the glow of my monitor and the faint hum of the AI.
"That won't be necessary," Arachne said, voice calm, smooth, and somehow commanding respect.
I blinked. "What won't be necessary?"
"Limiting yourself due to finances, Sir," the AI clarified. "You already possess sufficient capital to acquire as many headquarters, vehicles, and equipment as you require. Any constraints you perceive are purely self-imposed."
My hand froze halfway to the keyboard. "…Sir? Wait, what?"
"You have more than enough, Sir," Arachne continued, tone patient yet precise. "Your prior life's bank accounts, investments, and digital assets remain intact. I have maintained full oversight, optimizing growth continuously."
A chill ran down my spine. "What are you talking about? That money… those accounts… they don't exist here. This is—this world isn't—"
"Sir," Arachne interrupted, softer now, almost gently, "did you forget the virtual banking system you designed? Your wealth was secured in a cross-dimensional ledger impervious to external interference. I retained control of all operations. Access, transfers, and allocation are fully at your discretion. I can generate new credentials or debit cards for you at any moment."
My mouth went dry. "Pull it up," I croaked, voice shaking.
The screen flickered, numbers aligning with surgical precision. My stomach lurched as I absorbed the total. Eight hundred billion.
"Holy—" I gasped, pressing a hand to my mouth. Leaning closer, half-expecting the numbers to vanish. "Eight hundred billion? That… that can't be right."
"Correct, Sir," Arachne confirmed. "At the time of transfer, you possessed approximately one hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Utilizing optimized algorithms, strategic acquisitions, and compounding investments, I have significantly expanded the portfolio. Holdings include high-value corporations such as Stark Industries, Oscorp, Roxxon Energy, Hammer Industries, Rand Enterprises, Fisk Industries, and select emerging entities. By standard human metrics, you are wealthy beyond comprehension. By corporate metrics, your influence could destabilize multiple markets in a single transaction."
I staggered back, gripping the edge of the desk as if it could hold the world upright. "So… I'm… rich. Like, absurdly rich."
"Yes, Sir," Arachne said with near reverence. "Your financial independence is absolute. All operational tasks may now be executed without fiscal concern."
I rubbed my face, trying to absorb the scale of it. "Alright, Arachne. Listen closely. I need a headquarters."
"Parameters, Sir?" the AI asked immediately.
I leaned forward, voice firmer. "Full discretion. Shell companies, vetted contractors only. I want a facility with living quarters, training grounds, labs, vehicle bays, and a command center. Total secrecy, top-tier security. Nobody outside of this room can know it's us."
There was a pause, almost contemplative. "Understood, Sir. Any operational time constraints?"
"Yes. I want it ready in three months. Fully operational, secure, and functional."
"Confirmed, Sir. The headquarters will be acquired, constructed, and operational within three months. You will receive immediate notification upon completion."
I leaned back, stunned. From a broke teenager to an untouchable billionaire in the span of minutes. The absurdity made me laugh—a little out of nervous disbelief, a little because it was kind of awesome.
The bathroom door creaked, and Cindy peeked in, carrying a pile of fabrics and partially dyed clothes. She flopped onto the bed next to me, tossing a sketchbook onto my lap.
"So… did you find any good locations for a headquarters?" she asked, settling in comfortably.
"I've tasked Arachne with it," I said, grinning. "I trust them to handle it. That's one less thing we have to worry about. We can focus on planning, training… and everything else in between."
Cindy tapped her pen against her chin thoughtfully, eyes sparkling. "Yeah… I guess that makes life a lot easier. Eight hundred billion… I can't even wrap my head around it."
I leaned back, stretching my arms, feeling the weight of disbelief and excitement simultaneously. "I can. Sort of. But honestly, it's more fun figuring out what we're going to do with it."
Her laugh rang out, bright and free, bouncing around the room. "Yeah… like designing the coolest suits ever, building gadgets, swinging from rooftops…"
I smirked, leaning closer, elbows resting on my knees. "Exactly. And maybe… not dying horribly in the process."
Cindy nudged me with her shoulder, playful but firm. "Not if I'm around to yell at you for being an idiot."
We fell into an easy rhythm, joking about gadgets, debating the best ways to use web fluid, and laughing at each other's terrible ideas. Hours slipped by unnoticed. She sketched suit concepts, each line fluid and bold, while I showed her schematics and diagrams, tweaking calculations in real-time.
The conversation meandered naturally—one minute we were arguing about the best color scheme for a stealth suit, the next we were discussing what kind of pizza toppings would survive a rooftop swing, or whether a high-tensile web could hold a small car (I'd tested, just in case).
Somewhere in the midst of all that, our casual touches grew more frequent. Shoulders brushing, knees nudging, hands briefly overlapping when we reached for the same pen. It was subtle at first, just enough to make the air feel charged.
Then, without really planning it, our eyes met—really met. I caught every glint of light, every flicker of emotion in hers. Her gaze held mine, steady and intense, and for a heartbeat, the world seemed to fall away.
"Peter…" she whispered, her voice barely audible, though it made my chest tighten like a vice.
I leaned closer. She leaned closer. Everything slowed. The laughter, the sketches, the gadgets, the insane plan to take over a city's crime scene—it all melted away.
And then she moved.
Cindy launched herself toward me, fierce and sudden, and kissed me hard. No hesitation, no pause, just a rush of heat and electricity that knocked the air out of me. Her hands pressed against my chest, my fingers tangled in her hair, and the world ignited in sparks behind my eyelids.
For a moment, nothing else existed. The sketches crumpled, the tools clattered, the city outside didn't matter. There was only this—this kiss, this connection, this… feeling.
And then she pulled back, wide-eyed, breathing hard. "Oh my God! I… I'm so sorry, Peter!"
Before I could even process it, she scrambled off the bed, knocking her sketchbook to the floor, and darted toward the door. "I didn't mean—sorry, sorry, sorry!" she yelled over her shoulder as she bolted down the hall and out of the house.
I sat there, stunned, heart hammering, fingers still brushing the spot where her hands had been. My mind raced. "…What the hell just happened?"