THE BLACK SPIDERMAN

Night in Brooklyn had a sound to it - a restless hum, like the city was whispering its secrets through fire escapes and steel.

Sixteen-year-old miles morales heard everything tonight: the rush of traffic below his rooftop perch, the echo of sirens weaving through narrow streets, and beneath it all, the quiet pulse of danger he had learned to sense before it ever showed its face.

His suit clung to him like a second skin - matte black, threaded with electric-blue veins that glowed faintly whenever his heart raced. He didn't design it to look intimidating. It just happened that way.

miles crouched on the ledge of the old radiator factory, wind tugging at the edges of his hood. From up here, the city looked almost peaceful. Almost.

A tremor ran through his fingertips - the signal he couldn't explain, the one he called the pull. Someone down there was about to make a mistake. Or become the victim of one. Either way, the night was calling him.

He closed his eyes, breathed in the cool air, and stepped off the ledge.

For a heartbeat he fell - weightless, fearless - before a strand of shimmering blue webbing snapped from his wrist and caught the corner of a streetlight.

Brooklyn blurred beneath him.

And the Black Spider answered the call.