At 15, Peter Parker faces a harsh awakening after the tragic death of his uncle, realizing the weight of the responsibilities that come with his newfound powers. Balancing the challenges of high school, a mysterious new girl, and the shocking transf...
"I'm thinking more like... a spider. Just a hunch."
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"ABIRD suit?" Felicia says, her voice carrying that usual mix of sarcasm and amusement as she ties off the last bandage around my waist. "What is it with you super freaks and your ridiculous themes?"
I wince as I pull my shirt back down over my bandaged torso. "You think I'm choosing these guys? The guy was flying—had this whole mechanical wingspan thing going on. It was pretty impressive... you know, when I wasn't busy being thrown through buildings."
Felicia rolls her eyes, her fingers absently stroking the black cat curled up in her lap. She watches me for a moment before picking up the cat and giving it a kiss on the head. "So, you going back out there to find him or what?" she asks, settling onto her bed with the air of someone who already knows the answer.
I sigh, rubbing the back of my neck. "Not right now. The police scanner's been quiet, and I doubt that guy's in a hurry to make another appearance so soon. But... this, right after that whole mess with Dr. Octavius? It's too close together to be a coincidence. Feels like something bigger's coming."
She raises an eyebrow, clearly less concerned than I am. "Or maybe it's just the usual 'let's kill Spider-Man' routine. Maybe they're forming a line, taking numbers."
I shake my head, frowning at the window, the city stretching out below us like it always does. But lately, it feels different. Like something's shifting.
"It's not just that." I pause, half-lost in thought. "Sometimes I can't help but wonder if I can actually do this. I take so many beatings, I'm not even sure if my body can keep up." My thoughts returning to the mystery behind Norman Osborn, and his involvement in all of this, if he even is.
I don't even wanna think about it.
Felicia's been watching me this whole time, silent, but now her eyes narrow just slightly. "You ever get scared?"
The question catches me off guard, the bluntness of it. I turn to look at her. Her voice is steady, calm, but there's a flicker of something—curiosity, concern?—that makes me pause.
"Scared?" I echo. "Of course I do. Every time I step out there. I mean, come on, I'm a high school kid running around in spandex, dodging bullets, getting slammed into walls. I'm slandered every other day in the papers, and let's not forget pop quizzes are a thing. Scared doesn't even begin to cover it."
She tilts her head, still watching, her expression unreadable.
"But," I continue, "...being scared won't stop people from getting hurt. Getting beat down won't stop people from being killed. And so it doesn't matter if I get scared, or I get beat to a pulp. I'll stand anyways."
