The conference room hummed with the low thrum of the building's ventilation system, fluorescent lights casting harsh shadows across the polished mahogany table where the Genesis Alliance documents lay scattered like blueprints for revolution. The scent of fresh coffee lingered in the air, mixing with the sterile smell of new leather from the chairs and the faint metallic tang of the city drifting through the windows.
"Ahem!" Harry coughed twice, the sound cutting through the comfortable silence. His fingers drummed once against the table's surface as he subtly gestured to the leather bag of cash sitting like an elephant in the room, its zipper gleaming under the overhead lights.
The Genesis Alliance had just been formed, and the issue of compensation was a tricky one—like walking a tightrope between generosity and obligation. Harry's throat felt dry as he caught John's eye across the table. He and John had discussed it beforehand in hushed tones over late-night phone calls; it was better for John to be the one to handle this delicate dance.
John's chair creaked as he leaned forward, the sound sharp in the quiet room. He picked up the bag, its weight substantial in his hands—the physical manifestation of their nascent alliance's first investment. The leather was smooth and cool against his palm. "I almost forgot." His voice carried the slight rasp of someone who'd been talking business for hours. "Our initial funding isn't massive, so for now, this is just to help improve everyone's living conditions. Fifty thousand dollars each."
He sighed, the sound heavy with the weight of future responsibilities, his shoulders sagging slightly as he set the bag back down with a soft thud. "We can talk about official salaries and profit distribution later. Honestly, that stuff gives me a headache." He rubbed his temples, the gesture unconscious but telling.
The seasoned doctors sat with the practiced stillness of men who had seen fortunes won and lost in the span of a heartbeat. Their faces remained impassive, masks of professional composure. They weren't particularly moved by the money—their expensive suits and confident postures spoke of comfortable lives already established. A fifty-thousand-dollar bonus would have been nice before, sure, but compared to the revolutionary concepts outlined in the documents they now held with reverent care, the crisp paper whispering between their fingers, it was trivial. They understood the real purpose of this initial payout with the wisdom of experience, exchanging knowing glances that spoke volumes.
For Peter and Gwen, however, it was a different story entirely.
Peter's breath caught in his throat, his eyes widening as he stared at the neat stacks of bills visible through the bag's open zipper. His hands trembled slightly in his lap, fingers curling and uncurling as his mind struggled to process the magnitude. The number seemed to echo in his head like a mantra: fifty thousand, fifty thousand, fifty thousand. His enhanced senses picked up every detail—the sharp scent of fresh ink on the bills, the sound of his own racing heartbeat thundering in his ears like a drum solo. They had never seen so much money in their lives.
Gwen's face had gone pale, a flush creeping up her neck as she stared at the bag. Her perfectly manicured fingers—a small vanity she allowed herself despite their family's struggles—gripped the edge of her chair until her knuckles went white. The magnitude of it was overwhelming, like staring into the sun.
Seeing them hesitate, their youth and inexperience written clearly across their faces like open books, John's expression softened. His voice took on an almost paternal tone, warm and insistent. "Peter, just take it." He reached across the table, the gesture bridging the space between generations and experiences. "What's there to be shy about? And Gwen, I've already set aside your share."
The words hung in the air for a moment, mixing with the distant sounds of traffic seventeen floors below and the soft whisper of papers being shuffled by nervous hands.
Peter finally accepted the bundle of cash, his fingers brushing against John's briefly—the older man's skin warm and slightly rough with calluses. The weight of the money in his hands felt surreal, substantial and life-changing. His mind raced like a supercomputer processing impossible calculations: rent payments, grocery bills, Uncle Ben's back medication, Aunt May's worry lines smoothing away. With this, Uncle Ben and Aunt May wouldn't have to work so hard anymore. The thought sent a warm rush of relief through his chest, followed immediately by a complicated tangle of guilt and gratitude.
Gwen, however, looked at John with a hint of resentment, her jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. The fluorescent lights caught the moisture gathering at the corners of her eyes—not tears, but the precursor to them. She had only just joined, barely contributed more than her presence and potential, and hadn't contributed anything tangible yet. Even though no one else seemed to mind, their faces showing nothing but acceptance and even approval, it made her feel deeply uncomfortable. The money felt like charity, and charity had always tasted bitter in the Stacy household.
"If there's nothing else, you're all dismissed," John announced, his voice carrying the finality of a gavel. He straightened in his chair, the leather creaking softly as he restored his authoritative posture. "Let me know if you need anything. Meeting adjourned."
His words were punctuated by the soft scrape of chairs against the floor as people began to stand, the rustle of papers being gathered, the soft conversations beginning to bloom in the suddenly less formal atmosphere.
And with that, the first meeting of the Genesis Alliance came to a close.
The city blurred beneath Peter as he swung between buildings, his web-shooters singing their familiar mechanical song as they fired and retracted in perfect rhythm. The fifty thousand dollars sat heavy in his backpack—heavier than its actual weight, dense with possibility and responsibility. Fifty thousand! The number blazed in his mind like a neon sign, impossible to ignore or diminish.
The evening air whipped past his face, carrying the scents of street food from vendors below, exhaust fumes from the endless stream of traffic, and that indefinable smell of New York—concrete and ambition and life lived at breakneck speed. His enhanced senses caught every detail: the way the setting sun painted the glass facades of buildings in shades of gold and amber, the distant sound of a saxophone playing jazz from some high-rise apartment, the feel of his costume's fabric rippling against his skin as he moved through the air with fluid grace.
He had never felt so exhilarated in his life, every nerve ending singing with joy and anticipation. It was the first time he had ever earned this kind of money on his own—though he knew, with the analytical part of his mind that never quite turned off, that John was the main reason for it. He was smart enough to realize this payout was mainly for his benefit; the others didn't really need it, their lives already comfortable and secure in ways his had never been.
But that didn't diminish the electric thrill coursing through his veins as he approached his neighborhood, the familiar sights of home growing larger with each swing: the corner bodega where he'd bought penny candy as a kid, the fire escape where he'd first tested his powers, the small patch of green that optimistically called itself Midtown Park.
He landed on the fire escape outside his bedroom window with practiced silence, the metal barely vibrating under his feet. Through the thin walls, he could hear the familiar sounds of home—Uncle Ben's old radio playing softly in the background, the clatter of dishes as Aunt May prepared dinner, the comforting domestic symphony he'd grown up with. The scents of home cooking drifted up through the heating vents: pot roast and vegetables, the smell of family and safety and love.
Peter quickly changed out of his costume, stuffing it into his hiding place behind his old textbooks with movements that had become routine. His civilian clothes felt strange after the fitted perfection of his suit—looser, more mundane, like stepping back into his former life. He ran his fingers through his hair, trying to tame the wild tufts that his mask always left behind, then grabbed the backpack containing his future and headed downstairs.
He burst through the front door of his house, the hinges squeaking in their familiar way, a wide grin splitting his face like sunrise. The warm yellow light from the living room spilled over him, carrying with it all the comfort and security he'd ever known. "Hi, Uncle Ben, Aunt May!" he called out, his voice pitched higher with excitement as he spotted his uncle Ben sitting at the dining table, reading glasses perched on his nose as he reviewed what looked like insurance paperwork, and his aunt May emerging from the kitchen, carrying a steaming dish that made his enhanced senses water with anticipation. "Uh, I have a surprise for you!"
The house smelled like home—that indefinable mixture of May's cooking, Ben's aftershave, old wood, and the lavender sachets Aunt May tucked into the linen closet. Family photos smiled down from the walls, chronicling years of birthdays and holidays and quiet moments of love.
"Hi, honey, you're just in time for dinner," Aunt May replied with the warm smile that had been a constant in his life since he was six years old. Her silver hair caught the light from the chandelier—a garage sale find she'd polished until it gleamed—and her eyes crinkled at the corners the way they always did when she was happy to see him. "What's the surprise?"
Peter's hands shook slightly as he reached for his backpack, adrenaline making his movements jerky and uncertain. This was it. This was the moment everything changed for them. "Look!" he said, pulling the thick stack of bills from his bag, the money rustling like autumn leaves as he held it up like a trophy. The bills were crisp and new, smelling faintly of ink and possibility. "Fifty thousand dollars! I earned it!"
The words hit the room like a physical force, sucking all the warmth and comfort out of the air in an instant. The smiles vanished from his aunt and uncle's faces as if someone had erased them with a cruel hand, replaced by expressions of concern and growing alarm. Uncle Ben's newspaper rustled as it fell forgotten to his lap. Aunt May's dish wavered in her hands, the ceramic ringing softly as her grip tightened.
The silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating. Peter could hear his own heartbeat thundering in his ears, could smell the sudden sharp scent of worry-sweat beginning to form on his uncle's brow. The cheerful atmosphere of moments before had curdled into something tense and uncomfortable.
"Peter," Uncle Ben said slowly, carefully setting his reading glasses on the table with a soft click that seemed to echo in the suddenly quiet room. His expression was serious, the lines around his eyes deepening as he studied his nephew's face. "Maybe we should talk."
The words fell like stones into still water, sending ripples of unease through Peter's chest. This wasn't how this was supposed to go. Where was the joy? The relief? The pride in what he'd accomplished? "What about?" Peter asked, confusion coloring his voice as he clutched the money tighter, the bills crinkling in his grip.
"We haven't really talked in a long time," his uncle continued, rising slowly from his chair. The old wood creaked under his shifting weight, and Peter could see the careful way he moved—like a man walking through a minefield, choosing each word with deliberate precision. His voice carried the heavy weight of accumulated worry. "Your aunt and I... we don't feel like we know who you are anymore."
The words hit Peter like a physical blow, stealing the breath from his lungs. He could see the pain in Uncle Ben's eyes, could smell the faint scent of Aunt May's tears beginning to form though she hadn't shed them yet.
"We know you haven't been going to school," Uncle Ben continued, his hands clasped behind his back in that familiar gesture he made when delivering difficult truths. "Your teacher called; said Harry Osborn arranged a leave of absence for you both. You leave early, you come home late, and we have no idea what you're doing."
Each word felt like an accusation, though Peter could hear the love and concern underneath the frustration. The house suddenly felt smaller, more confining, the walls pressing in around them as family dinner transformed into family intervention.
"I'm doing something very important," Peter said defensively, his voice rising slightly as he took a step back. But even as he said it, he knew how empty it sounded. How could he explain? How could he tell them about spider powers and secret alliances and responsibilities that most adults couldn't handle? Knowing he couldn't explain made the frustration burn hotter in his chest, a physical ache that made his hands clench and unclench at his sides.
"Peter, listen," Uncle Ben said, his tone softening slightly as he took a step closer, his weathered hands reaching out in a gesture of connection that Peter wanted to accept but couldn't quite bring himself to. "When I was your age, I wanted to earn money too. I understand that drive, that need to contribute." His voice carried the weight of personal experience, of his own youthful mistakes and hard-learned lessons. "But the most important thing for you right now is your education. That money..." He gestured at the cash still clutched in Peter's hands, his expression growing more troubled. "It's from Harry, isn't it? You should return it. What kind of job can a boy your age get that pays this much?"
The implication hung in the air between them like smoke, acrid and choking. Peter felt heat rise in his cheeks, his enhanced hearing picking up the way his uncle's heartbeat had sped up with anxiety and his aunt's soft, suppressed gasp from the kitchen doorway.
"No! I earned this! I deserve it," Peter said angrily, his voice cracking slightly on the words. The money crumpled further in his grip as his enhanced strength responded to his emotional state. He was furious that his uncle would assume the money was ill-gotten, that years of trust and love could evaporate the moment something seemed too good to be true. Couldn't they see that he was trying to help? Couldn't they understand that he was finally in a position to give back after years of taking?
"You don't deserve this!" Uncle Ben's voice rose for the first time, the sound sharp and jarring in the small house. His face flushed with his own frustration and fear, his silver hair catching the light as he shook his head. "If you accept this kind of money now, you'll accept other money later. You need to be careful of what you might become!"
The words hit Peter like a slap, leaving him breathless and reeling. His spider-sense wasn't tingling, but every other enhanced sense was screaming at him—the smell of his uncle's aftershave mixed with worry-sweat, the sound of Aunt May's quiet breathing from the kitchen, the taste of his own anger bitter on his tongue.
"Are you worried I'll become a criminal?" Peter shot back, his frustration boiling over into something hot and reckless. The money in his hands felt like evidence in a trial where he was already guilty. "You don't need to worry about me so much! I'm not a kid anymore. You can't just lecture me like this!"
His enhanced hearing caught the way his words made Aunt May's breath hitch, could smell the salt of tears she was fighting to hold back. But he was too angry, too frustrated, too tired of being treated like a child when he'd been carrying adult responsibilities on his shoulders for months.
"You're so much like your father," Uncle Ben said, and suddenly his voice changed completely. The anger drained out of it, replaced by something deeper and more painful—a weary kind of love mixed with desperate concern. His eyes grew distant for a moment, as if he was seeing someone else entirely, someone lost to time and tragedy. "He always stuck to his principles. He believed that if a person has the ability to do good for others, then he has a moral obligation to do those things."
Peter could see his uncle's hands trembling slightly as he spoke, could smell the complex mixture of emotions rising from his skin—grief and love and fear all tangled together. The house felt charged with unspoken history, with the weight of a father Peter barely remembered but whose shadow had shaped his entire life.
"That's what's at stake here," Uncle Ben continued, his voice filled with a pained sincerity that cut through Peter's anger like a blade. "Not a choice. Responsibility."
The word hung between them like a bell that had been rung, its echoes reverberating through the small house and lodging somewhere deep in Peter's chest. But his teenage pride and frustrated anger wouldn't let him hear the wisdom in it, wouldn't let him see past his own hurt feelings to the love that motivated every word.
"That's a great speech, really," Peter scoffed, his voice dripping with the kind of casual cruelty that only family can inflict. The money in his hands felt heavier now, less like salvation and more like the evidence of some crime he hadn't meant to commit. "But you should trust me instead of just lecturing me!"
"I don't want to lecture you, Peter." Uncle Ben's voice broke slightly, and Peter's enhanced hearing caught the way his uncle's throat constricted around the words. The older man's shoulders sagged as if carrying an invisible weight. "I know I'm not your father."
The admission hung in the air between them, vulnerable and raw. Peter could see the pain in his uncle's eyes, could smell the salt of tears his uncle was too proud to shed. And in that moment of vulnerability, in that space where love and understanding could have flourished, Peter's anger chose the cruelest possible response.
In a flash of anger and hurt pride, the words tore themselves from his throat before his brain could stop them: "Then don't pretend to be!"
The silence that followed was deafening. Peter could hear everything in the painful quiet that followed—the hum of the refrigerator from the kitchen, the distant sound of traffic, his own heartbeat thundering in his ears, and most horribly, the sharp intake of breath from his uncle as the words hit home like arrows finding their mark.
The words hung in the air like a curse that couldn't be taken back, their cruelty made worse by the fact that Peter could see exactly how much damage they'd done. Uncle Ben's face went through a series of expressions—hurt, shock, disappointment—before settling into something that looked like a man who'd just been punched in the stomach by someone he loved. The lines around his eyes deepened, and for a moment he looked every one of his sixty-three years.
Peter saw the look of deep disappointment and devastation wash over his uncle's face like a wave, and instantly regretted it. The anger drained out of him as quickly as it had come, replaced by a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. His enhanced senses picked up every detail of his uncle's pain—the way his breathing had changed, the slight tremor in his hands, the complex cocktail of hurt and love and disappointment that rose from his skin like invisible smoke.
Speechless, choking on his own regret and the bitter taste of words he could never take back, Peter turned and stormed toward the door. His enhanced strength responded to his emotional state, and as he grabbed the handle—
CRACK!
The glass in the door shattered like an explosion, spider-webbing outward from the point of impact as he slammed it behind him with his newfound strength. The sound was sharp and violent in the quiet neighborhood, fragments of glass tinkling to the ground like frozen tears. The destruction felt like a perfect metaphor for what he'd just done to his family, beautiful and irreparable.
Uncle Ben snapped out of his shock at the sound, the immediate physical danger cutting through his emotional paralysis. "Peter!" he shouted, his voice carrying clearly through the broken door and out into the evening air. "Where are you going?!"
Peter glanced back one last time, and the sight that met his eyes would haunt him forever: his aunt and uncle standing amidst the broken glass, their faces illuminated by the warm yellow light of home, looking suddenly old and fragile and afraid. Aunt May had her hand pressed to her mouth, her eyes wide with shock. Uncle Ben stood with his hand outstretched, as if he could somehow call his nephew back through sheer force of will.
But Peter couldn't face them. Not now. Not with the taste of his cruelty still bitter on his tongue and the sight of his uncle's hurt burned into his retinas. He turned and ran, his enhanced speed carrying him away from the house, away from the broken glass, away from the love he'd just wounded so carelessly.
Watching his nephew disappear down the street, becoming just another shadow in the gathering dusk, Uncle Ben hesitated for only a moment. His keys jingled softly as he grabbed them from the small bowl by the door, the sound mixing with the crunch of glass under his shoes. The evening air was cool against his face as he stepped through the broken doorframe, carrying with it the scents of approaching autumn and the exhaust from his old sedan.
"Ben!" Aunt May called after him, but he was already climbing into the car, the old engine turning over with its familiar reluctant rumble.
"I'll bring him home, May," he called back, though his voice carried more hope than certainty.
Peter wandered the streets aimlessly, his enhanced senses overwhelmed by the cacophony of the city at night. Neon signs buzzed and flickered overhead, casting shifting patterns of colored light across the wet pavement. The air was thick with the smell of hot dogs from street vendors, car exhaust, and that indefinable scent of urban decay mixed with urban dreams. His mind was a mess of anger and guilt, emotions swirling together like oil on water, refusing to separate into anything he could understand or process.
The fifty thousand dollars still sat heavy in his backpack, but now it felt less like salvation and more like evidence of his own selfishness. Every step he took echoed with his uncle's words: responsibility. Every breath tasted like the bitter aftermath of his own cruelty: Then don't pretend to be.
He wasn't a child anymore, was he? So why couldn't Uncle Ben trust him? Why couldn't they see that he was trying to help, trying to make their lives better? The questions circled in his mind like vultures, offering no answers, only more confusion and pain.
His stomach growled, the sound loud enough that his enhanced hearing picked it up clearly. When had he last eaten? The day had been a blur of meetings and revelations and life-changing moments, and basic human needs had gotten lost in the shuffle.
The convenience store appeared ahead of him like an oasis, its fluorescent lights harsh and unwelcoming against the gathering darkness. A bell jangled discordantly as he pushed through the door, the sound mixing with the hum of refrigerators and the tinny music playing from speakers that had seen better decades. The air inside was stale and over-conditioned, heavy with the smell of processed food and industrial cleaning supplies.
Peter ducked into one of the narrow aisles, his footsteps muffled by the worn linoleum floor. He grabbed a bottle of milk from the refrigerated section, the plastic cold and slightly slick with condensation against his palm. The expiration date was still three days away—a small victory in a day full of defeats.
He fumbled in his pocket as he approached the counter, his fingers finding only loose change and lint. The coins felt tiny and insignificant in his enhanced grip: two quarters, two dimes, and a handful of pennies that added up to exactly $2.50. The milk was $2.72, according to the faded price tag stuck to the bottle.
Frustrated by this small but somehow symbolically enormous shortfall, he walked to the counter to pay, each step feeling heavier than the last.
The cashier was a thin man with greasy hair and the kind of five o'clock shadow that suggested he'd given up caring about appearances sometime around the Clinton administration. His name tag read "EARL" in faded blue letters, and he looked up from his magazine with the expression of someone who'd had his soul slowly drained away by years of night shifts and rude customers.
"That'll be two seventy-two," the cashier said dismissively, barely glancing at Peter before returning his attention to what appeared to be a celebrity gossip magazine. His voice carried the bored indifference of someone who'd had this exact conversation ten thousand times before.
Peter laid his meager collection of coins on the counter, the metal clinking softly against the scratched formica surface. "I... I'm short two cents," he mumbled, heat rising in his cheeks as he stared down at the inadequate pile of change. Two cents. After everything that had happened today, after fifty thousand dollars and secret alliances and family fights, he was being defeated by two cents.
"Not my problem," the cashier sneered, not even looking up from his magazine as he spoke. His tone was flat and unsympathetic, the voice of someone who'd heard every sob story and stopped caring years ago. "No money, no milk. Step aside."
The dismissal stung more than it should have, adding another small hurt to a day already full of larger ones. Peter felt his cheeks burn with embarrassment and frustration. Behind him, he could sense other customers growing impatient, could hear the soft shuffle of feet and quiet sighs that meant people were checking their watches and considering other options.
Just then, the man behind Peter shoved past him with casual violence, his shoulder connecting hard enough to send Peter stumbling sideways. The man was tall and thin, with the nervous energy of someone running on too much caffeine and too little sleep. His jacket smelled of cigarettes and desperation, and there was something wild and unfocused about his eyes that Peter's enhanced senses picked up immediately.
Before Peter could fully process what was happening, the man lunged forward and grabbed a handful of cash from the open register, his movements sharp and jerky like a marionette with tangled strings. The old machine's drawer had been sitting open while Earl counted the till, and now bills scattered like confetti as the thief's hands closed around whatever he could grab.
"Hey!" Earl shouted, finally looking up from his magazine, his face going from bored to alarmed in the space of a heartbeat. "Stop him!"
But the thief was already bolting for the door, his footsteps echoing off the linoleum as he ran. As he passed Peter, still frozen in shock and confusion, the man tossed a carton of milk at him with casual indifference. "Here you go, kid," he said, as if he were doing Peter a favor instead of making him an accessory to robbery.
The milk carton hit Peter's chest and he caught it automatically, his enhanced reflexes responding before his brain could process what was happening. The container was cold against his palm, condensation already beginning to form where his warm skin met the chilled plastic.
"Hey! Stop him!" the cashier yelled again, his voice cracking with panic as he pointed at the retreating figure. The thief was already through the door, the bell jangling discordantly as he disappeared into the night. "Kid, stop him! He's getting away!"
Peter just stood there, the stolen milk heavy in his hands, and let the thief go.
His enhanced senses could have tracked the man easily. His speed could have caught him before he'd made it ten feet from the store. His strength could have subdued him without breaking a sweat. But Peter was still stewing in his own anger and hurt, still tasting the bitter aftermath of his fight with Uncle Ben, and the cashier's earlier dismissal burned in his memory like acid.
Not my problem, he thought, echoing Earl's earlier words. Why should he help someone who couldn't even spare him two cents worth of basic human decency?
Earl stared at him with a mixture of disbelief and growing anger, his face flushing red as he realized Peter wasn't going to pursue the thief. "What's wrong with you?" he demanded, his voice rising to nearly a shout. "Why didn't you stop him?"
Peter shrugged, the gesture feeling hollow and wrong even as he made it. "Not my problem," he said, throwing the cashier's own words back at him. The milk carton felt heavier in his hands, weighted down by the implications of what he'd just done—or rather, what he'd chosen not to do.
Earl's mouth worked soundlessly for a moment, his face cycling through several shades of red as he struggled to process Peter's casual indifference. "You... you little..." he sputtered, but Peter was already walking away, pushing through the door with enough force to make the glass rattle in its frame.
The night air hit his face like a slap, carrying with it the mingled scents of car exhaust and approaching rain. Peter leaned against a lamppost outside the store, the metal cool and solid against his back, and felt utterly lost. The stolen milk sat unopened in his hands, a tangible reminder of a choice he'd made—or failed to make—in a moment of petty anger.
What was happening to him? This morning he'd been a hero, part of something larger and more important than himself. Tonight he was someone who let criminals escape because his feelings had been hurt by a rude cashier. The transformation felt swift and nauseating, like watching himself become someone he didn't recognize.
A moment later, a police siren wailed nearby, the sound rising and falling like an electronic scream as it cut through the ambient noise of the city. Peter's head snapped up, his enhanced hearing automatically triangulating the direction and distance. Close. Very close.
The siren was followed almost immediately by a single, sharp sound that made every nerve in his body scream in warning:
BANG!
The gunshot cracked through the air like thunder, and Peter's spider-sense exploded in his mind for the first time—not the gentle tingle he'd grown accustomed to, but a full-scale assault on his consciousness that left him gasping and disoriented. It felt like someone had set off fireworks inside his skull, every enhanced sense screaming in perfect unison that something was terribly, horribly wrong.
The milk carton fell from his nerveless fingers, hitting the pavement with a soft splat as its contents began to spread in a white puddle across the dirty concrete. Peter didn't notice. He was already running, his enhanced speed carrying him through the streets like a missile, dodging between cars and leaping over obstacles with fluid grace born of desperation and growing terror.
Something was terribly wrong. The spider-sense wouldn't stop screaming, wouldn't let him think about anything except the overwhelming certainty that disaster had struck and he needed to be there, wherever there was, as fast as humanly—or inhumanly—possible.
He sprinted in the direction of the gunshot, his enhanced hearing picking up the chaos that always followed violence in the city: car doors slamming, voices raised in alarm, the rapid staccato of multiple people talking into cell phones at once. The sounds grew louder as he got closer, and with them came the smells—gunpowder, blood, fear-sweat, and underneath it all, something familiar that his brain refused to identify.
He pushed through a crowd of onlookers who had gathered like moths to the flame of tragedy, their faces pale and shocked in the shifting light of emergency vehicles. Red and blue lights painted the scene in alternating waves of color, making everything look surreal and nightmarish. The crowd parted before his desperate urgency, and then he saw it—
Uncle Ben was lying on the pavement.
The sight hit Peter like a physical blow, driving all the air from his lungs and leaving him swaying on his feet. His uncle lay crumpled beside his old sedan, the driver's door hanging open like a broken wing. The familiar car looked wrong somehow, violated, its windshield spider-webbed with cracks and its interior lights casting everything in harsh relief.
"Oh my God... that's my uncle," Peter whispered, his legs giving out as he dropped to his knees beside the still form. His enhanced senses took in every horrible detail whether he wanted them to or not: the smell of blood and gunpowder, the sound of his uncle's labored breathing, the sight of crimson spreading slowly across the familiar fabric of his work shirt.
Uncle Ben's eyes were closed, his face pale and slack in a way that made him look decades older than his sixty-three years. His reading glasses lay cracked and abandoned on the asphalt nearby, one lens completely shattered. A small pool of blood was spreading beneath him, dark and viscous in the harsh glare of the streetlights.
Peter looked up at a nearby police officer, his eyes wide with disbelief and growing panic. The cop was young, maybe thirty, with the kind of mustache that was trying too hard to make him look experienced. His uniform was crisp and pressed, but his face was pale and his hands shook slightly as he tried to maintain professional composure in the face of senseless violence.
"What happened?" Peter asked, though part of him already knew. The spider-sense was still screaming in the back of his mind, confirming his worst fears.
"Carjacking," the officer replied grimly, his voice rough with the kind of anger that comes from seeing too much of humanity's capacity for cruelty. He gestured at the scene with one hand while the other rested on his radio. "The victim tried to stop him and got shot. Ambulance is on its way."
The words felt unreal, like dialogue from a movie or a news report about strangers. This couldn't be happening. Not to Uncle Ben. Not to the man who'd raised him, who'd taught him right from wrong, who'd loved him even when he'd been too angry and stupid to appreciate it.
"Uncle Ben? Uncle Ben!" Peter cried, reaching out to shake his uncle's shoulder with desperate gentleness. His enhanced strength made him terrifyingly aware of how fragile the older man felt, how easily he could cause more damage with a careless touch. But there was no response, no flicker of awareness in the familiar features. Tears streamed down his face, hot and bitter, carrying with them the salt taste of regret and desperation.
The last words he'd said to his uncle echoed in his mind like a curse: Then don't pretend to be. The cruelty of it, the casual way he'd dismissed years of love and sacrifice, felt like a weight on his chest that threatened to crush him entirely.
A voice crackled over the officer's radio, sharp and professional against the chaos of the scene: "Suspect has been spotted, heading down Fifth Avenue. All units in pursuit."
The words cut through Peter's grief like a blade, transforming his anguish into something harder and more focused. He wiped the tears from his eyes with the back of his hand, his enhanced vision automatically adjusting to track the movement of the emergency vehicles in the distance. His grief was instantly replaced by a white-hot rage that burned away everything else—the confusion, the guilt, the crushing weight of regret.
Someone had done this. Someone had taken Uncle Ben away from him, had stolen the chance for Peter to apologize, to make things right, to tell the man who'd raised him that he was loved and appreciated and irreplaceable.
Someone was going to pay.
Peter looked down at his uncle one last time, memorizing every detail of the weathered face that had been a constant source of love and guidance for most of his life. Uncle Ben looked peaceful now, despite everything—as if he were simply sleeping after a long day at work, waiting for Aunt May to wake him for dinner. But the growing pool of crimson beneath him and the too-still rise and fall of his chest told a different story.
"I'm sorry," Peter whispered, his voice barely audible above the chaos of sirens and shouting voices. The words felt inadequate, too small to carry the weight of his regret, but they were all he had. "I'm so sorry, Uncle Ben. I didn't mean... I never meant..."
But there was no time for proper goodbyes, no time to explain or apologize or make amends. The radio crackled again with updates on the suspect's location, and Peter felt something cold and determined settle in his chest where the warmth of family love had always lived.
He rose to his feet with fluid grace, his enhanced muscles coiling with barely contained energy. The tears on his cheeks were already drying in the cool night air, leaving salt tracks that felt like war paint. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, and for a moment the sounds of the city—sirens, shouting, car engines—faded into background noise as his enhanced senses focused with laser precision on a single, driving need.
Justice.
Or vengeance.
At this moment, with his uncle's blood still warm on the asphalt and the echo of gunfire still ringing in his ears, Peter wasn't entirely sure there was a difference.
He took off running toward Fifth Avenue, his civilian clothes rippling in the wind he created with his enhanced speed. Behind him, the paramedics were arriving, their equipment rattling as they rushed to help a man who had been shot for the simple crime of trying to do the right thing.
The irony wasn't lost on him, even through his rage. Uncle Ben had spent his life teaching Peter about responsibility, about using whatever abilities you had to help others. And now he was lying bleeding on cold pavement because he'd tried to stop a car thief—because he'd acted on the very principles he'd tried to instill in his nephew.
Peter's feet pounded against the pavement as he ran through the streets of Queens, his enhanced endurance carrying him faster than any normal human could manage. The city blurred past him in streaks of light and shadow, neon signs and streetlights creating abstract patterns against the darkness. His enhanced hearing picked up the sounds of the police pursuit ahead—screeching tires, radio chatter, the distant wail of multiple sirens converging on the same location.
The thief wouldn't escape. Not tonight. Not after what he'd done.
Peter had let one criminal walk away earlier, had stood by and done nothing while someone took what didn't belong to them. His uncle had paid the price for that choice, had bled on the street because Peter had been too petty, too angry, too selfish to act when action was needed.
With great ability comes great responsibility.
The words echoed in his mind as he ran, Uncle Ben's voice as clear as if he were running beside him. It was a lesson Peter had heard countless times but never truly understood until this moment, when understanding came wrapped in grief and guilt and the bitter taste of consequences.
He would not make the same mistake twice.
The sounds of the chase grew louder as he approached Fifth Avenue, and Peter's enhanced senses began picking up the details of the pursuit: the smell of burning rubber and overheated engines, the sharp crack of glass breaking, the shouted commands of police officers trying to coordinate their response.
Somewhere ahead in the chaos of the city night, a killer was running free.
But not for long.
Peter Parker might have let a thief escape earlier that evening, but Spider-Man—the hero Uncle Ben had unknowingly helped create with his final lesson about responsibility—would ensure that his uncle's killer faced justice.
Even if Peter had to deliver it personally.
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