Spider-Man swung through the early morning air, arms loose, body moving on autopilot.
This was routine. Swing, flip, land, quip, repeat.
A couple of hours ago, Daredevil had just given up control of the Hand, leaving the city in a weird place—quiet, but heavy. There was tension in the streets, but Spider-Man was still out here, doing what he always did: trying to keep things from falling apart.
He'd already stopped two would-be muggers, helped a woman carry groceries across a busy street (while still hanging upside-down from a lamppost), and awkwardly dodged a reporter trying to ask him what he thought about "the fall of the Devil of Hell's Kitchen."
So yeah—typical day.
Well, except for one thing.
"I never wake up this early," Peter muttered to himself as he latched onto a flagpole and swung back into the sky.
He stretched his back mid-air, wincing slightly.
"Stupid tranquilizer…"
Last night, he'd gotten into a messy rooftop fight with some punk trying to hijack a truck full of experimental gear. He won, of course—but not before the guy managed to tag him with a tranquilizer dart to the neck.
Spider-Man barely made it back to his apartment before the drug knocked him out. He'd crashed onto the couch and slept like the dead for the rest of the night.
Now he was up way too early, swinging through the city like an underpaid milkman.
"This is gonna ruin my sleep schedule for weeks…" he grumbled.
But then—he heard it.
Faint.
Low-pitched thuds in the distance.
Almost like an underground demolition team hammering away.
His eyes narrowed.
"Wait a second…"
Thump. Thump. THUMP.
Spider-Man froze mid-swing.
"Those shockwaves…"
It wasn't just a random noise. That pattern, that rhythm—he'd heard it before. More than once.
"Is that… Shocker?"
He turned toward the sound, scanning the skyline. It was coming from just outside Hell's Kitchen—the industrial edge of it.
Not a place he usually patrolled.
"Not really my turf," he muttered. "But Shocker's one of my usual idiots."
And if one of his villains was stomping around where Daredevil used to run things, it could turn into a turf war real quick.
He redirected, swinging hard toward the source.
The closer he got, the clearer the pulses became. What had started as faint rumbling grew louder and sharper, like thunderclaps being fired in sequence. It wasn't just the sound—it was the frequency.
Shocker was in a fight.
And he was going all in.
"Of course he picks today to go nuts," Spider-Man muttered, increasing speed. "Can't a guy have one peaceful, post-tranquilizer patrol?"
He reached the warehouse just as three gunshots rang out.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Spider-Man landed softly on the outer ledge of a shattered window, body low, eyes locked on the scene inside.
His heart sank.
Shocker was down. Blood leaked from three gunshot wounds in the chest. His gauntlets sparked weakly, but his body didn't move.
Standing a few feet away was a figure dressed in red and black combat gear. Hooded. Masked. Tactical but rough—not a pro, but definitely not some street punk either. A gun hung loose in his right hand.
Spider-Man's arm moved on reflex.
THWIP.
He fired a web, pinning the guy's right arm—and the gun—to the floor.
The figure flinched, then froze.
Spider-Man dropped into the warehouse, landing silently near the body.
"What the hell did you do?" he snapped. "You just shot Shocker! You're a kid—and you killed him!"
The red-hooded teen looked up at him with no fear, no flinch. He was calm. Too calm.
"Cut the speech," the boy said. "He's not dead."
"What—?"
Spider-Man's eyes darted back to Shocker—and then they widened.
The wounds were moving.
The bullets were slowly being pushed out, as if something beneath the skin was rejecting them. Blood soaked the floor, but the holes were closing.
Shocker suddenly let out a shaky breath.
Alive.
Barely.
Spider-Man's head snapped back to the boy. "Did… did you give him some kind of healing factor?"
"No," he answered. "Regenerative rounds. Special rounds—meant to reverse lethal hits if needed. Doesn't work on anything else."
Spider-Man stared at him in disbelief, trying to process it.
Then the kid added, "By the way, I just stopped a drug operation in here. Massive one. Probably bigger than anything you've taken down this week."
Spidey's head turned slightly.
Now that the chaos was settling in, he noticed it—the broken tables, the crushed crates, and the bricks of narcotics scattered across the ground like trash. Shelves torn apart, a makeshift lab destroyed.
It wasn't just a scuffle.
It was a full takedown.
He looked back at the boy. Still pinned. Still staring back without blinking.
Spider-Man exhaled slowly.
"…Alright. You and I? We're gonna have a long talk."
A few minutes later…
Scott sat on the rooftop beside Spider-Man, still catching his breath. The early morning wind tugged at his hood, and the skyline in the distance felt almost unreal—too calm, too normal after everything that had just happened.
He'd only been alive in this world for a few hours. Just a few.
And yet, in that short span of time, he'd been reincarnated, awakened with strange powers, been handed a superhero suit, thrown into a drug operation, fought a supervillain, shot him, survived, and now…
Now he was sitting across from Spider-Man.
It was so surreal that Scott half expected to blink and find himself back in his old bed, maybe hearing his mom yelling that breakfast was ready.
But the ache in his arm… the soreness in his chest… the faint residue of webbing still clinging to his wrist…
This was real.
"Okay," Spider-Man finally said, his voice breaking the silence between them. "How'd you know about the operation? And… who are you?"
Scott glanced over at him. There was no anger in Spider-Man's voice, just curiosity—and maybe a little concern.
"I didn't know," Scott answered after a beat. "I overheard some guys talking about it in an alley. Just followed 'em to see what was going on. That's it."
Spider-Man didn't respond immediately, so Scott kept going.
"And the reason you've never heard of me… is because this was the first thing I've ever done as a vigilante. Like… ever."
Spider-Man slowly turned his head toward him, and Scott couldn't tell what expression was behind the mask—but it made him feel tense anyway.
"Wait… you're serious?" Spider-Man said, sounding genuinely surprised. "This was your first time going out in the field?"
"Yup," Scott said, trying not to look as embarrassed as he felt. "Kinda jumped into it."
"You could've gotten yourself killed," Spider-Man said flatly. "I didn't even try anything this crazy when I first started. I was swinging around rooftops and chasing car thieves—not taking on entire drug rings."
"I know," Scott muttered. "It was stupid. I figured that out the second I saw Shocker."
Spider-Man sighed and stepped closer to the edge of the rooftop, looking down over the side for a moment. His voice was more serious when he spoke again.
"You're lucky. These guys? Just low-level mobsters. No advanced tech, no superpowers, no connections to the heavy hitters. But Shocker?" He paused. "Shocker's a different story."
Scott stayed quiet.
"There's a chance he was hired," Spider-Man continued. "Either by them… or by someone bigger. Maybe another gang that didn't like them stepping on their territory. Or maybe someone wanted the whole operation shut down for a reason. And they sent him in to do it."
He turned to look back at Scott.
"Whatever the case, if you're gonna keep doing this… you can't jump blind into stuff like that. You mess with the wrong name, and next time it won't be Shocker. It'll be someone worse. Someone who doesn't hold back. Someone who doesn't care if you're new or just figuring things out."
Scott lowered his head slightly and nodded. "Yeah… okay."
Spider-Man studied him for a second longer, then gave a single nod in return.
Without another word, he turned toward the edge, launched a webline into the sky, and swung off into the distance.
The wind filled the silence once again.
Scott stood slowly and walked over to the rooftop ledge, watching the faint outline of Spider-Man disappear into the rising sunlight.
He reached into his pocket and felt something cold and smooth.
The chip.
Street-Level Recipe.
He took one last look at it.
Then, without hesitation, he snapped it in half.
The chip shattered instantly, breaking apart into glowing dust that dissolved in the wind.
(please check out my novel: Star Island: A Hero's path It's on Royal Road, but The first 102 chapters Are in WebNovel)