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The robber sprinted past Peter and out the door.
The promoter screamed after him. "Why didn't you stop him?! He was right there!"
Peter shrugged. "Not my problem."
The promoter's face went purple with rage, but there was nothing he could do. Peter wasn't security. Peter wasn't an employee. Peter was just some kid who'd come in off the street.
Peter watched the promoter splutter helplessly and felt a small, petty satisfaction.
Should've paid me the full three thousand.
He changed out of his makeshift costume, collected his hundred dollars, and left the underground venue. The library was nearby—that's where Uncle Ben would be waiting.
Peter walked along the sidewalk, checking his watch. Almost ten. He'd made it just in time.
Police sirens cut through the night air.
Peter looked up, frowning, as two patrol cars screamed past him with lights flashing. Then a third.
Something cold settled in his stomach. A bad feeling, undefined but powerful.
Up ahead, a crowd was gathering on the corner. People were pointing, talking in urgent voices.
"Someone got shot!"
"Some old guy—they're saying it was a carjacking!"
Peter's blood turned to ice.
He pushed through the crowd, shoving people aside without caring how it looked. His new strength sent bystanders stumbling.
"Move! Get out of the way!"
When he broke through to the center, he saw Uncle Ben lying on the pavement in a spreading pool of blood.
"No—" Peter's voice cracked. "No, no, no—"
A police officer tried to hold him back. "Sir, you need to stay back—"
"He's my uncle!"
The officer hesitated, then let him through.
Peter dropped to his knees beside Ben. The older man's face was pale, eyes closed, shirt soaked with red.
"Uncle Ben? Uncle Ben, please—"
Ben's eyes fluttered open. For a moment, they focused on Peter's face.
"Peter..."
The word came out weak, barely audible.
"I'm here," Peter said, tears streaming down his cheeks. "I'm right here, Uncle Ben. Just hold on. Help is coming."
"Peter..."
Then Ben's eyes closed, and he went still.
Peter felt like something inside him shattered.
Nearby, a police officer was talking into his radio. "Suspect heading south on Fifth Avenue. Three units in pursuit."
The words cut through Peter's grief like a knife.
South on Fifth.
Peter stood up abruptly, rage replacing despair. He knew what he had to do.
Without a word to anyone, he ran.
From a nearby rooftop, Marcus watched Peter disappear into the darkness.
"And there goes Spider-Man," he murmured.
He'd been tracking the situation for the past hour—ever since the robber from the boxing venue had carjacked Uncle Ben at gunpoint.
In the original timeline, Ben would have died from that gunshot wound.
Marcus hadn't let that happen.
When the robber fired, Marcus used his telekinesis to slow the bullet just enough. Still penetrated, still caused serious damage, but not fatal. Then he'd been on the scene within seconds, using subtle telekinetic pressure to control the bleeding until the ambulance arrived.
Ben wasn't dead. He was unconscious from blood loss and shock, but he'd survive.
Peter didn't know that. Peter had seen his uncle go still and assumed the worst. That assumption would drive him to hunt down the robber, confront him, and ultimately embrace his responsibility as Spider-Man.
The emotional journey was still intact. The guilt was still there—Peter had let that robber go, and now Peter believed it cost his uncle's life.
What changed was the ending.
Uncle Ben would wake up in a hospital bed instead of a morgue.
Marcus felt a familiar notification pulse through his system: +1 Origin Point.
Changing the plot had earned him something. The system rewarded significant deviations from established timelines.
Down below, paramedics loaded Ben into an ambulance. Marcus watched until the vehicle pulled away, sirens wailing.
Ben's vitals were stable. He'd make it.
With that confirmed, Marcus left. The rest of tonight's events would play out without his interference.
Peter changed into his spider costume in a dark alley.
The outfit was rough—hand-sewn, clearly amateur—but it would hide his identity. That was all that mattered.
He launched himself into the air, shooting webs between buildings, swinging through the city with a speed and grace that still felt unreal.
Below, he spotted Uncle Ben's car—the one the robber had stolen—tearing through the streets with three police cars in pursuit.
Peter followed from above.
The chase ended at an abandoned warehouse near the waterfront. The car crashed through a chain-link fence and skidded to a stop. The robber abandoned the vehicle and ran inside the building.
The police cars screeched to a halt. Officers piled out, guns drawn, surrounding the building's exits.
But Peter got there first.
He dropped through a broken skylight, landing silently on a catwalk above the main floor.
The robber was somewhere below, moving through the darkness.
"Who's there?!" The robber's voice echoed through the empty space. "I know someone's here!"
Peter didn't answer. He moved like a shadow, circling closer.
The robber spotted Peter's silhouette against a window and fired.
Peter twisted aside, the bullet missing by inches. His spider-sense had warned him a split second before the gun went off.
Before the robber could fire again, Peter was on him.
He grabbed the man by the collar and slammed him into a concrete pillar. Then again. Then again.
"Stop! Please!" The robber screamed. "Give me another chance!"
Peter's grip tightened. "Did you give my uncle a chance?! DID YOU?!"
He pulled the robber's face into the light—
And froze.
He recognized that face.
The same man who'd robbed the boxing promoter. The same man Peter had deliberately let escape.
No.
No, no, no.
The realization hit like a physical blow. If Peter had just stopped him—if he'd done anything—
This was his fault.
The robber saw Peter's hesitation. His expression twisted into something desperate and vicious.
"Go to hell!"
He brought up the gun, aimed at Peter's head.
Peter's reflexes saved him. His hand shot out, knocked the weapon aside, then grabbed the robber's wrist and twisted.
CRACK.
The robber howled as his wrist snapped.
Peter released him, stumbling back, still reeling from the revelation of his own guilt.
The robber clutched his broken hand, face contorted with pain and fear. He stepped backward—once, twice—
And didn't see the raised pipe behind him.
He tripped.
His arms pinwheeled. His back hit the window.
The glass shattered.
And he fell.
Peter could have saved him. His reflexes were fast enough, his webs could have caught the man mid-fall.
He didn't move.
He watched the robber plummet four stories and hit the pavement below with a sound Peter would never forget.
Thud.
Silence.
Peter stood at the broken window, staring down at the body. Police were already running toward it, shouting into radios.
He turned and left before anyone could spot him.
Peter found a rooftop far from the warehouse and sat on the edge, letting the cold wind numb his face.
He didn't feel victorious. He didn't feel righteous.
He just felt empty.
After a long time, he went home.
The house was dark when Peter arrived.
"Aunt May?" he called out. "Aunt May, I'm home!"
No answer.
Peter's heart started pounding again. Where was she? Had something happened to her too?
"Aunt May!"
He searched the house frantically—kitchen, living room, bedroom—finding nothing.
Then he noticed the answering machine.
The red light was blinking.
Peter pressed play with trembling fingers.
Aunt May's voice filled the room.
"Peter."