Scott finally returned to his apartment.
He slipped through the window the same way he left—quietly, carefully, making sure no one saw him. It was early enough that most of the neighborhood was still asleep, or at least too tired to pay attention to a teenager crawling through a second-story window.
The moment he got inside, he let the curtain fall behind him and shuffled across the floor. He didn't bother with lights. He didn't even take off his jacket.
He just dropped face-first onto the bed.
His muscles ached, his joints felt like concrete, and his ribs still screamed every time he shifted. But more than the physical pain was the heavy, dull weight of frustration in his chest.
He let out a long, quiet sigh against the pillow.
"I should've handled Shocker better…"
That thought had been clawing at him since the rooftop. Since the moment Spider-Man swung away.
There was no reason for him to stick around and fight. None.
The warehouse had already been torn apart by then—tables broken, crates shattered, drugs spilled everywhere. There was no way Shocker could've cleaned all of that up before the cops arrived.
The evidence was there. The bust would've stood.
All Scott had to do was leave.
But no, he stayed. He let the moment get to him. The adrenaline. The pressure. The chance to prove something—not just to Spider-Man, but to himself.
"I should've walked out the second Shocker showed up…"
But he didn't. He let the fight happen. Let it drag out. Got hurt. Got lucky.
He rubbed a hand over his face and rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling.
"I'll give myself a pass," he muttered. "First night. First time seeing a known villain in person. Kinda hard to think straight when the guy starts screaming his name and blasting holes in the walls."
Still, he hated how reactive he'd been. He could've planned better. Could've done so much more with what he had.
"Should've grabbed the gun sooner too," he murmured.
He'd spent too long trying to keep up in hand-to-hand. Too much time trying to read Shocker's patterns and dodge those concussive blasts up close. That might work for someone like Spider-Man, but Scott wasn't built like that—not yet.
And even though he wasn't a pure gunslinger, the gun was still his. Part of how he fought. His edge. A tactical tool.
"I don't rely on it… but it's still part of my rhythm."
Scott fought with his fists first, used bullets second. He wasn't out there emptying clips into people. He fought smart—patient. Only shot when it made sense. When it counted.
Shocker might've fought others with guns before, sure. Maybe even trained for it. But how many people fought like Scott?
Very few.
"I'm not the Punisher," he muttered. "I don't unload. I move. I press. I pick my shots."
And still… he'd let Shocker pull him into a slugfest.
He winced, thinking back to the moment he realized how deep into the fight he was. Everything had become reflex. Punch. Dodge. Counter. It was fast, messy, reactive.
And in the middle of all that, he'd forgotten something else. Something huge.
His smoke powers.
"I didn't use them once," he said aloud, exasperated.
If he'd taken even a second to light a cigarette—just one—he could've created cover. Distracted Shocker. Slowed the fight down. Made it his.
Sure, Shocker probably would've used his gauntlets to blast the smoke away, but even that would've cost him time. A few seconds. Enough to reposition. Flank. Take control.
He could've turned the entire fight in his favor.
Instead, he let it drag on. Took way more hits than he should've. Ended up with bruises, a damaged shoulder, and the nagging feeling that he could've done it cleaner.
But… it was done.
And no amount of overthinking would change it.
So he closed his eyes, breathed slowly, and forced himself to push the thoughts aside.
One mistake at a time.
He could fix them going forward.
Lying there, body aching and mind spinning, Scott's thoughts drifted to the Street-Level Recipe chip—the weird bonus item that came with his sudden reincarnation.
It was the second item he received, and compared to the powers or his combat instincts, it seemed kind of… simple. At first.
Its function wasn't flashy. Not like flight or telepathy. But it was unique.
Its ability was straightforward: if Scott saw any piece of equipment, armor, or gear—anything within his range of vision—he could choose to break the chip and instantly learn how to build it. The design, materials, assembly—it would all be burned into his mind like blueprints carved into stone.
He wouldn't need to write it down or reverse-engineer it. He'd just know how to make it. Forever.
There was only one catch.
"…It's limited to street-level stuff," he muttered.
He groaned and dragged his hands down his face.
"Which is unbelievably—violently—stupid."
He wasn't even mad about the limitation anymore. He'd already accepted it hours ago. But still, the potential was insane. The idea that he could've copied something like Iron Man's repulsors or Doctor Doom's armor or—hell—even some crazy alien tech?
Gone.
The chip didn't care how creative he wanted to be. The cap was hard and permanent.
Street-level only.
"Could've been my chance to get overpowered…" he sighed. "And instead, I'm one webbed step above a hardware store cosplayer."
But then again—he'd already used it. And not on just anything.
When Spider-Man arrived back at the warehouse and pinned his arm to the ground, Scott had gotten a perfect look at something he'd always admired from comics and movies. Something iconic. Something useful.
Spider-Man's web-shooters.
He smirked at the memory. He hadn't been able to say a word out loud—not with his hand webbed to the floor and the air so tense—but inside, he'd been screaming.
Now, thanks to that encounter, the design for Spider-Man's web-shooters was permanently imprinted in his mind. Trigger mechanics, pressure valves, chemical cartridges—everything.
All he had to do now was build them.
One problem though.
"I'm broke."
He stared up at the ceiling again, this time with a completely different kind of dread.
"I need money."
He had no savings. No stash of cash hidden away. Not even enough to buy the materials for a prototype.
Which meant the next painful step in this new life was unavoidable.
He needed a job.
"Ugh…" he groaned. "God, please don't make me work at a McDonald's…"
The thought alone almost gave him a headache. Nothing against people who worked there, but flipping burgers while trying to be a vigilante at night?
No. Just no.
He needed something that paid well. Something that wouldn't drain his soul or take up every hour of his day. Something useful—or at the very least, not humiliating.
He didn't know what that job would be yet.
But he'd figure it out.
Eventually.
For now, though?
No job hunting. No fighting. No training.
He'd only been in this world for a few hours—and he'd already taken down a drug operation, fought Shocker, met Spider-Man, and got punched in the face more times than he could count.
So for the rest of the day?
Scott was off-duty.
He reached for his phone, flopped onto his side, and opened YouTube.
"Yeah," he muttered as he started scrolling. "I've earned this."
He kicked off his shoes and let himself sink deeper into the bed, mind already tuning out as the sound of some random gaming video started playing in the background.
For now, the world could wait.
He just wanted to watch some videos in peace and maybe look up one handed axes
(please check out my novel: Star Island: A Hero's path It's on Royal Road, but The first 102 chapters Are in WebNovel)