The air conditioning in the comic book shop hummed reliably, but it did absolutely nothing to dispel the heavy, collective stare fixed on Peter Parker. The glances from the aisles were like sticky syrup—a potent mixture of profound envy and bitter resentment. After all, the guy casually waiting for a girl who looked like Gwen Stacy to try on cosplay costumes was a rare and highly resented disruption in a store populated entirely by teenagers and potato chips.
Peter ignored them. He wasn't browsing the racks or engaging in the ongoing debate about the current Batman run happening by the register. He was leaning against a display case, scrolling through his phone, checking the latest New York crime map JARVIS had compiled for him.
The good news: New York had been eerily peaceful recently. So peaceful that Spider-Man essentially had nothing to do.
The bad news: This was almost certainly because someone else was doing the work for him.
Dozens of new videos had surfaced online. "Spider-Man" stopping muggings. "Spider-Man" breaking up gang fights. "Spider-Man" performing standard, mid-tier heroics. The imposter in the videos was wearing his new suit design, and the combat style was a flawless imitation. If the Chameleon hadn't literally just been arrested and handed over to the NYPD in Hell's Kitchen, Peter would have sworn it was him.
Wait, Peter thought, his thumb hovering over the screen. What if it is him? What if the Chameleon had already escaped? Or worse, been quietly released? After watching Herman Schultz walk straight out of a police precinct with a hairpin , Peter's faith in NYPD holding cells was roughly equivalent to his faith in Captain George Stacy's cooking —practically non-existent.
"Are you sure this is okay for me to wear?"
Peter looked up. Gwen stepped out of the fitting room, nervously adjusting the hem of a classic comic-book Supergirl costume. She struck a hesitant pose, clearly uncomfortable in the brightly colored spandex, and looked at him for confirmation.
Peter offered an immediate, encouraging smile. "Of course. It looks great on you."
"When I first grabbed it off the rack, I was worried about the skirt length," Gwen admitted, tugging it down another millimeter. "But honestly, it's pretty standard. I don't think even my dad would have a heart attack over this."
"You could always wear leggings underneath if you think Uncle George is going to hyperventilate."
Gwen gave him a flat, unimpressed look. "Are you serious? Do superheroes wear sweatpants under their uniforms?"
"Gwen, we're going to a high school theme day, not San Diego Comic-Con," Peter pointed out. "Nobody is going to revoke your nerd card if the costume isn't canon-accurate. Besides, I watched a guy in a full Pikachu onesie walk into AP History today. The bar is literally on the floor."
Gwen sighed, her shoulders dropping. "Okay, fair point. Give me a minute to change back."
As Gwen disappeared into the dressing room, Peter pulled up a secure channel and sent a request to JARVIS. He needed a full workup on the new "Spider-Man" footage. This wasn't just a guy in a cheap suit throwing punches; the videos showed full web-swinging physics and superhuman agility. The Chameleon couldn't do that alone. This required Quentin Beck. The yet-to-be-revealed Mysterio was clearly running the visual effects from behind the scenes.
Peter frowned, staring at his screen. Why hadn't Beck made a move to reveal himself yet? Why stay backstage running interference for a Russian assassin? Was it because his projection equipment wasn't ready for a solo debut? The current tech was limited to pre-programmed imagery—it couldn't generate real-time illusions, and it was completely blind to thermal imaging. Was Beck hiding because he knew Peter had exposed his vulnerability?
Peter still had the confiscated projection ball sitting in his backpack. He needed to get it to the Avengers Tower lab tonight to tear it apart.
"Do you have somewhere else to be?"
Peter blinked, looking up. Gwen was standing by the register, her own clothes back on, holding the bagged costume.
"What?" Peter asked, slightly startled.
"Well... you know." Gwen shifted her weight, looking at him carefully. "I told you, I barely see you anymore since high school started. You're up and out of the house before I'm awake, and we never walk home together. I was just wondering if you were incredibly busy, or if you were just... always out."
Peter's brain scrambled for an excuse. He gripped his phone, grateful there were no active alerts flashing on the screen. He shook his head. "No. Really. I'm just... adjusting to the schedule. No secret clubs, no weird evening runs. Nothing like that."
"Really?" Gwen asked, her tone entirely unconvinced.
"Really," Peter lied smoothly. "I don't have anywhere to be. You want to walk home together?"
Gwen studied his face for a long, uncomfortable moment, but she didn't press it. "Fine. Let's go."
Peter breathed a quiet sigh of relief, sliding his phone into his pocket. He just needed the city to hold together for forty-five minutes so he could walk Gwen to her front door without an explosion interrupting them.
Not everyone in Queens was managing their anxiety as well as Peter.
A few miles away, Carl King slammed his front door shut. He dropped his backpack on the floor, his heart hammering against his ribs. Ever since Peter Parker had caught him hovering around his locker, Carl hadn't been able to shake a cold, creeping sense of dread. He kept expecting Peter to suddenly snap, tear off his thrift-store coat to reveal the red-and-blue suit, and casually break both of Carl's legs.
The idea that Peter Parker—the skinny, quiet nerd Carl had shoved into lockers since middle school—might actually be Spider-Man was paralyzing. Carl was big. He was a line-backer. He had spent his entire life using his size to intimidate people, and it had never been a problem. But the thought of trying to intimidate a guy who could catch a moving car and throw a concrete pillar? It made Carl sick to his stomach.
But beneath the fear was a hot, ugly layer of rage. I'm actually afraid of that little freak? Furious and terrified, Carl stomped into the kitchen. The house was empty except for his mother. Mrs. King looked up from the stove, her face tight with nervous energy.
"Are you okay, Carl?" she asked tentatively. "You seem upset..."
"If you can tell I'm upset, then stop asking stupid questions!" Carl snapped, throwing himself into a chair at the kitchen table. "Is dinner ready or what?!"
He grabbed the TV remote and aggressively flipped channels until he found a football game, turning the volume up to drown out his mother's presence.
Carl stared at the framed family photo sitting on the mantle. In the picture, his father had an arm slung heavily over Carl's shoulder. His dad's wrist was weighed down by a Rolex Green Submariner—a watch that was currently rotting in a federal prison right alongside its owner. Carl clenched his jaw. If his old man were here, he wouldn't be shaking over some nerd in tights. His dad would have handed him a .38, breathed whiskey in his face, and told him the rules.
If you're scared of him, just follow him and shoot him. You never have to be afraid of a dead man.
"I miss you, Dad," Carl muttered. He grabbed a can of beer off the coffee table, cracked the tab, and took a long pull. He thought about Peter Parker's calm, unimpressed face by the lockers. Carl's grip tightened. He gritted his teeth, his massive hand crushing the aluminum can inward.
The sharp metal buckled and sliced deep into his palm.
"Oh my god, Carl! You're bleeding!" Mrs. King gasped, dropping a plate of food on the table. She scrambled toward the bathroom, returning a second later with a bottle of rubbing alcohol and a roll of gauze.
Carl swatted her hands away, snatching the medical supplies. "I can do it myself! Leave me alone!" he barked, pouring the alcohol directly over the cut. He didn't flinch.
"Who is supposed to eat this garbage?!" he yelled, gesturing at the plate. "Make me something else!"
After driving his mother out of the kitchen, Carl sloppily bandaged his hand, choked down his dinner, and locked himself in his bedroom.
He sat on the edge of his bed, his mind racing. He kept thinking about the strange, dissolving silk residue he'd found in the school's chemistry lab. He kept thinking about the exact same silk he'd found draped over the rubble in Times Square after the Shocker fight. He had planned to go back to the lab the next morning to scrape a sample, but by the time he got there, the webbing had completely evaporated.
Damn you, Parker.
Carl pulled out his phone and pulled up a video-sharing app. He searched for "Spider-Man." The feed immediately populated with clips.
Carl stared at the screen, a massive wave of cognitive dissonance crashing over him. It doesn't make sense. Why did he feel like he was right? His gut was screaming at him that Peter Parker was Spider-Man. But the video proved it was impossible.
Carl reached into his backpack and pulled out a small, clear plastic display case. Inside, pinned to a foam board, was a brightly colored, dead spider. The modified specimen from the Oscorp Expo. The spider he had grabbed and dropped down Peter's shirt just to watch him squirm.
It was his masterpiece. A trophy of his absolute dominance over Parker during their three years of junior high. He had scooped the dead bug off the floor, hollowed it out, and preserved the shell to use as a prop to scare the freshmen.
Even if this thing actually gave Parker powers... Carl thought, turning the plastic case over in his hands. It's meaningless now. The insides are gone. It's just an empty shell.
Carl set the case on his nightstand. He lay back on his bed, staring at the ceiling.
He closed his eyes. Instantly, the memory of Times Square flashed behind his eyelids—Spider-Man dropping through the smoke, swinging a massive, multi-ton metal billboard like a baseball bat, and crushing the Shocker into the pavement.
Carl's eyes snapped open. His chest heaved. The sheer, overwhelming terror of that image broke something loose in his brain.
He sat up. He looked at the plastic case on the nightstand.
Without thinking, Carl reached out, popped the plastic lid off, and grabbed the dead, hollowed-out spider.
He didn't hesitate. He shoved the brittle exoskeleton into his mouth. The dry, bitter taste of rubbing alcohol and dust hit his tongue. He clamped his jaw down, chewing the fragile shell into jagged pieces, and swallowed hard, forcing the entire thing down his throat.
He didn't know why he did it. He didn't know what he expected to happen. But as the dead spider settled in his stomach, a strange, profound sense of security finally washed over him.
For the first time all week, Carl King lay back on his pillows, closed his eyes, and fell into a deep, peaceful sleep.