(Revival) Perfect, Again. Peter Parker x Male.

1. William or Howard?

It starts with smoke.

I'm not talking metaphorical smoke. Not the vague, existential kind that hangs over your head when your alarm doesn't go off and the stale air of your sixth-floor apartment smells like despair and mold. Not the "burning bridges" kind or the "wow, that's a dumpster fire of a situation" kind either. I mean actual, billowing, black smoke. From an actual dumpster. That is actually on fire.

New York, baby.

I smell it before I see it, walking two steps behind a woman in Lululemon who's more focused on her matcha latte than the fact that the sidewalk has turned into a viewing platform for minor arson. The stench hits me like a wall—burned rubber, something chemical, and whatever unspeakable crime someone committed by tossing an entire mattress into the trash.

"Oh my god," Lululemon says, pausing as if the city just offended her sensibilities.

I stop too, hands deep in my coat pockets. I tilt my head. Watch the flames lick the metal rim of the dumpster like they're trying to escape. I wonder briefly if they will. If they'll catch onto the awning of the deli behind it. If that awning will melt and collapse and send a perfectly innocent tourist into a spiral of lawsuits and hospital bills. It's always the ones with cameras around their necks.

People start to gather, because of course they do. A dozen or so. Phones out. Some filming vertically, some horizontally, like that's the real moral divide of our generation. Nobody moves to do anything.

Except for one guy.

He runs straight toward the fire.

I should clarify: he flips into the fire. Like some kind of caffeinated Olympic gymnast. Red and blue blur. I catch the glint of his visor as he lands crouched on top of the dumpster like it's nothing. Like this is Tuesday morning for him. Which, I guess, it is.

The crowd cheers. I don't.

Not out of spite. Just principle.

Because I know who he is.

Everyone knows who he is. Spiderman. Friendly neighborhood icon. One-part vigilante, one-part unpaid intern for the NYPD. He's smaller in person. Or maybe the costume's just too tight. Either way, he's real, and he's here, and he just webbed the flames like that's a normal solution to open fire.

He leaps down, checks something near the side of the dumpster—probably making sure there isn't a raccoon inside. Or a person. Who knows, it's New York. The webs sizzle against the heat, and the fire shrinks, almost embarrassed by the attention.

Someone claps.

"Woo! Go Spidey!"

Jesus Christ.

I adjust the strap on my bag and check the time. 8:41 a.m. I was supposed to be at The Bugle at 8:30. First day. Nothing says "professional" like being late because you stopped to watch a superhero do his little acrobatics.

Spiderman says something to a guy holding his phone out way too close—probably telling him to back up or stop livestreaming or to drink some water and log off Reddit—but I can't hear it over the traffic. Then he's gone. Just like that. Shot up into the air like a slingshotted action figure, vanishing between two buildings with a cartoonish whoosh that would be funny if it weren't real.

The crowd begins to dissolve, and I stare at the space where he was for a second too long.

Not because I'm impressed.

Because I'm suspicious.

But I push the thought aside. I'm not here for that. Not right now. I'm William Gunner, journalism major, aspiring reporter, proud first-day Bugle intern. Not a former TVA field analyst with a classified file thicker than a Russian novel. That version of me doesn't exist anymore.

(He does. He's just quieter these days.)

I start walking again. Fast. Boots scuffing against sidewalk cracks. I dodge a man yelling into a bluetooth headset about bagels, slide past two teenagers wearing matching hoodies that say "SORRY I'M LATE, I DIDN'T WANT TO COME," and cross against the light because I've already broken the cardinal rule of punctuality.

The Bugle isn't far.

It looms like a relic from another time—one of those gray, hulking buildings that feels like it was built by men who drank too much whiskey and hated natural light. The kind of place where typewriters used to clack and editors screamed things like "stop the presses!" for dramatic flair. Now it's just another media dinosaur trying to stay relevant with clickbait headlines and fifteen-second news videos edited for TikTok.

I pause outside. Take a breath.

Above me, the sign reads: "THE DAILY BUGLE."

Underneath that: "TRUTH. JUSTICE. ACCOUNTABILITY."

Underneath that: "Now hiring unpaid interns."

I push through the revolving door.

And then—"Hold the elevator!"

A voice behind me. Slightly breathless. 

I jab the 'open door' button with the side of my fist.

He slips in, fast, hoodie pulled over curls that are damp from sweat or anxiety or both. He's holding a messenger bag like it might fly away if he doesn't keep both hands on it. The kind of guy who orders the same coffee every day and tips well. Like he probably volunteers at soup kitchens and knows too many Star Wars quotes. He smells like shampoo and subway grime and some kind of citrusy laundry detergent.

"Thanks," he says. Then adds, "First day. Don't wanna look like a total mess."

I glance at him sideways. He has the soft, apologetic energy of someone who says "sorry" when you bump into them. Brown eyes. Soft mouth.

"You too?" he asks, shifting the bag strap. "Bugle intern?"

"Yeah," I say. "Guess that makes us coworkers."

He grins. The elevator dings. The doors slide open.