Today was a special day — to be clear, very special.
We were on a school trip to Oscorp. Spider-Man's origin day was today and I was so excited.
I was sitting next to Felicia, her head resting softly on my shoulder.
In front of us, Peter was arguing animatedly with Gwen; they were talking about some genetic research Curt Connors was doing. I knew who the guy was, but all those big words made my head spin.
The bus stopped, and the imposing Oscorp tower rose up before us. I got a chill that had nothing to do with the air conditioning.
We all climbed off the bus, chatting and laughing. Everything was peaceful — until a familiar shout cut through.
"Hey, Parker!" Flash called from a few yards away. "Ready to have one of your wet dreams with a microscope?"
A couple of his friends laughed along. Peter, adjusting his backpack, tried to walk past without looking at him. But Flash stepped forward and blocked his path.
"Come on, don't play distracted, genius. Bet you know the name of every bug they've got in there, huh? Maybe they'll hire you as their official mascot."
Peter frowned, trying to keep his cool, but before he could answer a firm voice cut him off.
"Eugene Thompson!"
Suddenly everyone went quiet. Everyone knew Flash hated being called that — and only one person at school dared to use it.
Gwen stepped forward, arms crossed and a look that could cut through steel.
"Why don't you try behaving for once in your life? Or do I need to remind your parents how your grades are doing?"
Flash scowled but didn't reply. He stepped out of Peter's way, but as Peter passed him, Flash whispered, "Need a girl to fight your battles? Pathetic."
Peter looked at Gwen for a second, then at Flash, and smiled calmly. "She's not just any girl, Flash. She's my girl."
Flash clenched his jaw — you could see his wounded pride from a mile away. He took a step forward, ready to say something else, but stopped cold.
Because right then Harry and I arrived. We walked up and stood in front of him.
We didn't say anything. We just stared.
Flash held eye contact for a few seconds, took a step back, muttered something unintelligible, and turned away to rejoin his group.
We kept walking toward Oscorp's entrance as if nothing had happened.
The guided tour of the genetics labs was a parade of scientific marvels that only Peter and Gwen could fully appreciate. I'd seen enough giant bug movies to be grossed out just by seeing them small and contained.
Felicia leaned toward the glass, watching the spiders crawl slowly between test tubes. "Did you know some of these can live more than twenty years?" she said, a mix of awe and disgust in her voice.
"If one of those shows up in my room, I'm moving out and not looking back."
Felicia smiled. "You're dramatic — they're not that bad."
"Sure," I said, pointing to a huge tarantula. "That one already pays taxes."
She burst out laughing, covering her mouth so the guide wouldn't notice. "You're a chicken."
"Thanks," I replied solemnly. "I've always dreamed of such a prestigious title."
Felicia kept watching the displays when something to my side caught my eye.
Peter was a few meters away, focusing his camera on Gwen, who posed in front of a panel of test tubes and blue lights.
He smiled, concentrated, adjusting the lens. In that moment his whole world seemed to shrink to her and the camera.
"Peter's in his zone," I murmured.
Felicia looked over and smiled tenderly. "They're perfect for each other."
I noticed something move high up on the ceiling, almost imperceptible — a tiny spider lowering itself slowly.
No one seemed to notice.
Peter snapped another photo, and just as he lowered the camera the spider descended on an almost invisible thread. In seconds it landed directly on his hand and bit him.
Peter barely reacted, more surprised than frightened.
"Ouch!" he exclaimed, rubbing the back of his hand.
"What happened?" Gwen asked, coming over.
"Nothing, I think something bit me," he said, trying to play it down.
"You okay?" I asked, stepping closer.
"Yeah, I'm fine," he offered with a half-smile. "I probably just poked myself with something from the camera."
The guide kept talking about Oscorp and everyone turned back to the exhibits. But Peter didn't seem as focused anymore. His breathing felt off — heavier.
The tour continued like nothing had happened, but Peter wasn't the same. He walked a step behind the group with the camera hanging from his neck.
I tried to joke a few times, but he only responded with a weak smile. His skin looked paler than usual.
When we came out of the building, the sun hit us full on. Peter squinted and leaned a hand on the railing as if the light hurt his eyes.
"You sure you're okay?" I asked.
"Yeah…" he murmured, voice flat. "Just… a little dizzy."
Gwen looked worried. "Maybe you should go to the nurse before getting on the bus."
He shook his head. "No, it's fine. I just need to rest a bit."
On the bus, Peter slumped into the window seat, head against the glass. His hands trembled slightly and he started sweating despite the A/C.
Harry turned from his seat in front of us. "Hey Pete, you look like a zombie. You sure something didn't get to you in there?"
Peter tried to laugh but it came out choked. "Must be the lab air."
Gwen frowned and touched his forehead. "Don't joke, Peter. You're burning up."
"And not in a good way," I added.
Harry leaned in for a closer look. "Dude, you should tell the teacher. You don't look well."
Peter took a deep breath, trying to stay conscious. "I don't want to worry anyone."
"Too late for that," Gwen said firmly.
The bus was moving when his head slumped to one side. Gwen caught him fast.
"Peter! Teacher! Something's wrong with Peter!"
The teacher ran down the aisle and checked his pulse. "He's fainted," the teacher said, checking. "We have to get him home, now."
Gwen held him, her face full of concern, cradling the camera Peter had dropped.
Fate was sealed. Spider-Man's birth had taken place.
By the time I got back to my room the sun had set. I dropped my backpack on the floor. I had to train my wind control now.
I stood in the middle of my room with a collection of objects on my desk: pencils, a pen, a heavy ceramic mug, and a thick textbook.
I stretched out my hand and the pencil trembled before rising a few centimeters.
"Okay…" I murmured.
I held it there for a few seconds, then let it fall gently.
Next I tried the mug. It took more effort, but I managed to lift it without much strain.
For two hours I repeated the same routine. One item, then another. Sometimes I failed; other times I could keep two things floating at once. But when I tried four items, my head ached and my concentration broke.
Fatigue hit me hard. I collapsed onto the bed, sweating and with a dry throat. It wasn't just focus — each attempt drained my energy.
I closed my eyes for a few seconds, trying to steady my heartbeat.
But my mind wouldn't stay still. I thought about Peter. His face before he passed out. How he trembled on the bus.
I knew it was necessary for him to become Spider-Man, but he was still my friend — and seeing him like that worried me too much.
I got up, grabbed my jacket, and headed to his house.
I knocked and Aunt May answered. "Damon, sweetheart. Come in, come in. Peter's upstairs, and Gwen's with him."
"Thanks, Mrs. May."
"Want something to drink? I'm afraid Ben drank the last iced tea, but I can make you another."
I smiled. "No, thank you. I just wanted to see how he's doing."
Uncle Ben was on the couch watching the news. "Hey, Damon," he said with his usual smile. "You came to check on Peter too?"
"Yeah," I said. "I couldn't sit still knowing my friend was like that."
Ben nodded. "You've got a good heart, kid."
I went upstairs and peered through the slightly open bedroom door. Peter lay in bed sweating buckets, breathing rapidly.
Gwen sat beside him, changing cool cloths on his forehead.
I watched for a second before entering.
"How is he?" I asked quietly.
Gwen looked up, tired. "Not good. His temperature won't go down. May says it's not a normal fever, but Peter doesn't want to go to the hospital yet."
Peter moved a little, mumbling something I couldn't make out. He glistened with sweat.
I moved closer, silently. I had never seen him so bad.
"He'll be okay," I said softly.
Gwen gave me a small, grateful nod. "I hope so."
"I'll stay a while," I said, sitting on the chair beside the bed. "I don't want you to handle this alone."
She barely smiled, but she was thankful.
I don't remember when sleep took me. I only know I opened my eyes with my neck stiff, a blanket over my shoulders and sunlight creeping through the window.
I blinked a few times and realized Peter was not in the bed.
I sat up groggy and saw Peter studying his reflection in the mirror.
He was staring at himself without glasses.
Peter blinked a few times and moved closer to the mirror. "What the hell?" he muttered, then took his glasses off completely.
He held them up to his face, looked at his reflection again, and set them on the desk.
It was exactly like the Sam Raimi movie.
"Ahem!" I cleared my throat loudly.
Peter jumped, startled by my presence. "AH! Damon! What are you doing here?!"
"Uh… sleeping sitting up," I said, rubbing my eyes. "What happened to you? Did you change your eyes overnight?"
Peter looked at me incredulously, still touching his face. "I don't know. Yesterday I could barely stand, and now… I feel amazing."
He did a couple of push-ups with his arms then checked himself in the mirror again.
"Wait, when—? Have you always had those muscles?" I asked, pointing at his abs.
Peter looked down, equally shocked. "I… what the heck? I didn't look like this yesterday. Not even last week!"
The door opened without warning. Gwen stuck her head in, hair messy and her pajama shirt wrinkled. "Peter, I heard noises. ¿Are you okay—"
She stopped short.
Peter was shirtless.
Me, still half sitting in the chair.
"Wow," Gwen blurted out before she could stop herself.
Peter blinked. "What?"
"I mean… wow because… uh, you look… better. I mean, healthier," she stammered, trying to recover her composure, though the blush gave her away.
Peter ran a hand through the back of his neck, nervous. "Guess I slept well."
"Yeah, well, if only all colds ended like this," Gwen said, biting her lip with a smile.
I cleared my throat again. "So that's how it feels to be the third wheel."
Both of them glared at me in unison, faces red.
"Shut up, Damon," they said, together.
"Okay, okay," I held my hands up, laughing. "I give up. I'll leave you two alone, lovebirds."
Gwen rolled her eyes. "You're impossible."
"I know," I said with a grin.
I left their house and headed home. I had a quick breakfast with my mom — nothing out of the ordinary — but my mind wouldn't stop thinking about Peter, about what might come next.
I went up to my room and flopped onto the bed, staring at the ceiling. The image of Uncle Ben replayed in my head: a good, fair man who cared for everyone. But who would die in a few days.
In the movies and comics, Peter always blamed himself for what happened, and it deeply affected his everyday life. But what if I could stop it? Could I save Uncle Ben's life?
For the next three days I watched Peter's house from the shadows. I made sure no strange movement went unnoticed. I knew that when his car left, it might mean something regrettable would begin — and I wasn't willing to stand by.
On the fourth day I went to the studio to finish recording Treasure. I left exhausted after hours of takes and it was getting late. My first instinct was to go home, but a gut feeling stopped me. Something told me to go to Peter's house.
When I got closer I noticed at once that Uncle Ben's car wasn't there.
I knocked urgently and Aunt May opened. "Damon, sweetheart. What's wrong?" I tried to steady my breath. "Aunt May, I just wanted to see if Peter was home — thought I'd hang out with him."
She sighed. "Oh, that's sweet. But no, Peter and Ben went out together. Ben took him to the library, I think to look for a science book."
I nodded, hiding my anxiety behind a smile. "What a shame. I guess I'll come back another day. It was nice to see you."
I said goodbye quickly, waiting until Aunt May shut the door so she wouldn't see me bolt. The moment the door clicked, I ran toward the library.
I ran as fast as I could. When I arrived, my eyes immediately took in the scene: a man pointing a gun at Uncle Ben.
My heart raced. I knew if I didn't intervene it would be too late. I ran at them and whipped out my nunchaku.
I threw them at the robber — knowing there was a high chance I'd miss — so I focused and used the power of the air.
The nunchaku struck the thief's hand directly, knocking the gun.
The robber screamed from the impact. But his finger had already squeezed the trigger.
BANG!