Since New York's friendly neighborhood Spiderman teamed up with that showboating billionaire Tony Stark, the crime rate had dropped lower than it had in decades. Between the Avengers and the city's masked vigilantes, things were finally starting to look… hopeful.
Lately, the rumor mill had been buzzing: Spiderman might be joining the Avengers for real.
"If you ask me, Spiderman's not even a superhero!"
J. Jonah Jameson's voice boomed from a giant electronic screen in Times Square. The editor-in-chief of the Daily Bugle was in full rant mode—his favorite pastime. His face reddened with every word as he spat venom at the camera.
"That little menace wrecks half the city every time he swings in to 'help!' I'm telling you, folks—he's probably some kind of masked mutant, ready to lose control and blow us all sky-high!"
As his tirade reached new decibel levels, a red-and-blue blur zipped across the massive screen. A web shot out, landing squarely over Jameson's mouth.
"Do us all a favor, Jonah—zip it, will ya? You ever think of treating me the same way you treat Captain America?"
Spiderman's voice was light and teasing—but you could hear the exasperation underneath. With a quick flick, he swung away from the glowing billboard. His silhouette danced across the glass towers, casting a long shadow over the busy streets below.
Pedestrians looked up, shielding their eyes.
"What was that?!"
"Maybe a bird?"
"A plane?"
"Nope! It's our friendly neighborhood Spiderman!"
By now, everyone in New York knew him—from old ladies watering their plants to kids. When people waved, Spiderman waved back, lowering himself for high-fives or swooping down to give hugs that made their day.
"Beautiful day, huh? Good morning, everyone!" he called out, voice full of the easy warmth that Peter Parker could never quite show without the mask.
After a quick patrol turned up nothing suspicious, he perched on a rooftop, pulling out his hidden camera. Looking through the lens at his own acrobatics captured midair, he couldn't help but grin.
"Perfect shots," he murmured. "Too bad Jonah only wants pictures of me looking guilty. But… MJ's gonna love these."
Mary Jane Watson—his girlfriend, his anchor. Just thinking of her made the corners of his mouth lift beneath the mask. He clipped the camera to his waist with a strand of web and leapt into the air once more.
Then, without warning—agony.
A white-hot pain stabbed through his skull, sharp and electric.
"This… isn't my Spider-Sense," he gasped.
He barely had time to brace himself before a deafening whoosh split the air.
Bang!
A rocket slammed into him from below, the explosion tearing through the sky.
In a shadowy alley several blocks away, four mercenaries huddled around a smoking crater. The leader—a scar-faced brute—held up a small oval scanner. The device beeped, and the signal bars filled instantly.
"Ha! Jameson was right—this spandex freak is a mutant! We're about to get rich!" shouted the guy holding the rocket launcher.
"You idiot!" the leader snapped, kicking him in the ribs. "Who told you to fire that thing? What if you killed him?! He's worth more alive!"
He crouched beside the fallen Spiderman, tugged the mask halfway up, and checked for breath. A faint exhale. Still alive.
"Grab him and move! That blast's gonna bring every cape in the city down on us. I don't wanna meet the Iron Tin Man — or that skull-headed psycho."
…
Alkali Genetic Research Institute — outskirts of New York.
When Peter Parker's eyes finally fluttered open, the world around him was strange and sterile. Cold metal, humming lights… and a flood of memories that weren't entirely his.
Something was very wrong.
The moment his eyes opened, it all came rushing back.
He was Peter Parker. Spiderman.
And… somehow, a transmigrator from another world — a memory that had just awakened like a spark in the dark.
He drew a deep breath, forcing himself to focus. Through the tinted goggles of his mask, he scanned his surroundings — a sterile white ceiling, humming machines, and a line of researchers in lab coats and masks watching him like he was some kind of specimen.
A cold metal collar gripped his neck, and his wrists and ankles were bound by heavy restraints. The realization hit him like a gut punch.
He was the lab rat.
"Well, well," one of the researchers said, wiping down a scalpel with deliberate slowness. "Our little Spider's awake." His tone dripped with mockery. "How poetic. New York's friendly neighbor turns out to be a mutant. And judging by his face, he doesn't even know it."
Peter's eyes widened beneath the mask.
A mutant? No way. His powers came from a radioactive spider, not some genetic X-factor.
Thankfully, his mask was still intact — at least they hadn't connected Peter Parker to Spiderman.
"Alright then," the researcher continued, eyes gleaming behind his glasses. "Since our Spider-Mutant is awake, let's see what's under that mask. I've been dying to know who's behind it."
Peter's mind raced. He wanted to protest — to tell them they had it wrong, that he had nothing to do with mutants — but his instincts screamed a warning before he could open his mouth.
His Spider-Sense went berserk.
Danger. Immediate and sharp.
It was coming from the scalpel.
"Hey, doc," Peter said lightly, his tone calm but his muscles coiled, "you know, it's kinda rude to take off someone's mask without asking first. And maybe put down the shiny knife thing? I'm, uh… allergic to sharp objects. Little spiders spook easy."
While talking, he gave a subtle tug against the restraints — testing. The metal didn't budge… but the collar didn't suppress his powers either. Relief washed over him.
Not a mutant collar then. That meant his strength was still there.
But the researcher didn't buy it. "Don't waste your breath. That collar suppresses X-abilities. Right now, you're just another human. Let's see the real you."
He smirked cruelly. "A shame, really. I liked you, Little Bug — but mutants aren't people. Just research material. And your body…" he chuckled, tapping the scalpel against Peter's chest, "…will fetch quite the price."
Peter's tone changed — flat and cold.
"You sound like you've done this before. How many people have you butchered in the name of science?"
The researcher hesitated.
Peter tilted his head. "Well, today's not your lucky day."
In one motion, Peter tensed — and the shackles snapped like twigs. He tore the collar from his neck, the reinforced metal splitting under his grip.
The researcher froze, eyes wide. "That's impossible! The collar—how—?!"
Peter didn't answer. In a blur of motion, he flipped backward, landing upside down on the ceiling. He shot webs in rapid succession, disarming the guards at the door before they could raise their weapons. A few more flicks of his wrist, and he'd wrapped himself in a makeshift cloak from the bedsheet.
"I told you, I'm not a mutant," he said, hanging there casually. "But what you're doing here? Experimenting on living people? Yeah, that's the real crime. And if Magneto ever finds out about this little playground of yours, he might give you a personal field trip — straight to another Golden Gate Bridge collapse."
The color drained from the man's face. "M–Magneto?!"
His fear turned desperate. Snarling, he reached under his coat and pulled out a pistol.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
The shots echoed through the sterile lab.
Peter moved on instinct — weaving through the air, his Spider-Sense guiding each dodge. He dropped from the ceiling, closing the distance in a blink, and drove his fist into the man's chest.
BOOM!
The researcher flew back, crashing into the wall hard enough to dent the steel paneling. Blood sprayed across the floor.
Then — the alarms blared.
Red lights pulsed. Sirens screamed through the corridors.
The man on the ground gasped, blood bubbling at his lips. "You… don't… kill…" His eyes rolled back, body going limp.
Peter froze, his heart lurching. "What—? No, no, no, that wasn't— I pulled that punch!"
He dropped to his knees beside the man, shaking him gently. "Hey, buddy— c'mon, stay with me! Don't— don't fall asleep!"
Nothing.
The man's chest was crushed in. The truth was undeniable.
Peter stared at his trembling hands.
His voice was barely a whisper. "Oh God… what's happening to me?"
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