Chapter 5: Wrestling Gig.
(Peter's P.O.V)
I woke up feeling like I hadn't slept at all.
Dreams blurred together. Fire. Claws. That sound—the Lizard's neck hitting stone. I sat on the edge of the bed for a few minutes before even moving.
Eventually, I made it to the table.
Gwen had already made toast. May was half-asleep in her booster seat, chewing on a banana slice like it owed her money.
The TV was already on. Local news. Volume low.
A familiar voice cut through the noise.
J. Jonah Jameson.
Louder than the rest of the room combined.
"—and once again, another masked menace floods an entire Midtown block, causes millions in infrastructure damage, and somehow gets called a hero because he pulled Norman Osborn out of a hole he helped create!"
The screen showed footage from the aftermath. Fire crews. Sinkholes. Flooded streets. I winced.
"Look, I don't care if he's got spiderwebs or fairy dust on his hands—he's a vigilante operating outside the law! And if this guy's idea of saving people is collapsing the sewer system and leaving toxins in the air, how long before he becomes worse than the criminals?"
They cut to a photo of Norman Osborn getting wheeled into an ambulance.
Then to the crime scene wreckage.
"I'm saying it now. This 'Spider-Man' is no different than the Kingpin's Enforcers. They're just chaos in different packaging."
I set my toast down. Spiderman...I kinda like that.
Gwen gave me a look. "Bit excessive lumping him in with the Kingpin crew? "
I didn't answer, only gave nod.
She sighed. "This city's getting stranger every day."
Then there was a knock at the door.
When I opened it, Harry stood there.
Next to him—Norman.
Alive. Upright. Dressed sharp. I blinked, hiding my surprise.
His smile didn't reach his eyes.
"May we come in?" Norman asked like it wasn't really a question. Harry smiled at me apologetically.
We sat down in the living room. Gwen held May close on the couch.
Harry leaned forward. "We didn't come just to thank you Pete. Though—seriously, man. You helped saved a lot of people."
I nodded, feeling Gwen's eyes on me. "It's not a big deal. I only pushed the alarm button."
Harry glanced at his father, then back at me. "I wanted to talk about what's next."
"Next?"
"Oscorp's board threw my dad out. Effective immediately. Everyone loyal to him got cut loose. The whole place is getting gutted."
Norman's face stayed neutral. "They lost their vision."
I almost called him out on his bullshit.
Thankfully Harry continued, "So we're starting something new. Smaller. Focused. We want you in from the ground floor. You'd be working with minds that respect you. Scientists, thinkers—your people."
I shook my head without a moment's hesitation. "I appreciate it. But I need to focus on my family right now."
Norman leaned in slightly.
"That's a mistake."
Harry looked uncomfortable. "Dad—"
Norman ignored him. "Peter. At twenty-seven, you've published, what, four major papers? Designed next-gen protein bonds? You've built projects worth millions in R&D, and half your supervisors still think you're 'underdeveloped.' You know why?"
I didn't answer.
"Because you've never had the right environment. Put that mind of yours next to others like it, and you won't just succeed. You'll define the future. Money. Power. Legacy. Even—" he glanced at Gwen, "—companionship beyond your current… limitations."
The spoon in my hand bent under my grip.
I stood up.
"There's no woman more beautiful than Gwen. And nothing you can offer compares to her."
The room went still.
I added, "The only reason I haven't kicked you out is because of Harry."
Harry stood quickly. "We should go. Sorry, Pete."
They moved to the door. Norman stopped and looked back at me.
"What's your purpose, Peter? Men like us don't retire. What do you really want?"
I stared at him for a long moment.
Then said, "I lost my parents before I could walk. I lost my aunt and uncle before I turned seventeen. What I want—what I need—is to stay alive long enough to hit forty. To walk my daughter down the aisle. To be there for Gwen. For May. That's it."
Harry nodded once. Like he understood.
Norman didn't.
He shook his head. "Wasted potential."
Then they left.
Gwen came over once the door shut.
"You okay?"
I nodded. Sort of.
"Norman," I said quietly. "He… he gives me the chills."
"Like he's hiding something?"
"Like there's something wrong with him. And I don't know what."
Gwen didn't push. Just took my hand.
"What are we going to do?" she asked. "You're out of a job."
"I'll figure something out."
Just then, the TV played an ad,
"Think you've got the moves?
Show them off in the ring! Amateur wrestling contest every Friday!
$900 per win!
Sign-ups open now!"
I blinked at the screen.
Then at the ad again.
Nine hundred.
Per match. That could keep us afloat without having to dip into our savings, long enough to figure something out.
"…I just got an idea," I said.
(General P.O.V)
(Somewhere in Manhattan)
Director Nick Fury paced the briefing room slowly, arms folded.
A live feed replayed overhead—grainy footage from the Midtown block incident. A man in a web mask swinging out of a collapsing sewer shaft, Norman Osborn unconscious on his back.
"I want him found," Fury said flatly. "Now."
Agent Black Cat real name Felicia Hardy leaned back in the metal chair, legs crossed, unimpressed. Her long white ponytail was tucked into a dark leather coat, eyes half-lidded behind mirrored lenses.
"Vigilante gets lucky in a sewer and you want him tagged?"
"He wasn't lucky," Fury said. "He was invisible. No DNA trace. No prints. Nobody saw his face. That kind of discretion screams military or super. Not some guy in a shirt and pants."
Felicia shrugged. "Fine. I'll find him."
"We've prepped a safehouse in Astoria—"
"No thanks," she cut in. "I've got a few friends in the city. And I've been meaning to visit my goddaughter anyway."
She smiled.
Fury frowned.
"Hardy—don't make this personal."
She was already walking away.
"Too late."
(In Queens…)
May sneezed, loudly, for the third time.
Gwen knelt in front of her with a tissue in one hand and a brush in the other.
"You're not sick, sweetie. You just forgot to wipe your nose again."
"I did not," May insisted, squirming as Gwen dabbed her cheek.
Peter stood by the door, dressed in casuals, smiling tiredly.
"Wish I could come," he said. "But I need to check in on a job lead."
"You mean your wrestling scam?" Gwen teased.
He shrugged. "Hey, $900 per match. I'll take it."
"You're going to get thrown around by some guy named Bonecrusher."
Peter kissed May on the forehead. "You be good at the party, alright?"
"Okay, Daddy."
Gwen looked at him a moment longer, then nodded and left with May in tow.
Later that morning…
Peter stood alone in the bathroom.
He pulled off his shirt slowly and looked in the mirror.
Lean muscles. Defined abs. Shoulders broader than he remembered. No gym, no protein shakes—just the bite.
He lifted his phone.
Took a photo.
Not out of vanity. Just curiosity.
This was his body now. Might as well enjoy what he looked like.
He sent the photo with a quick form and a short note to the wrestling contact included in the ad:
"Applying for the open slot. Attached is proof of fitness. Available for immediate trial. – Parker"
Then he pulled on a hoodie, grabbed his gear, and headed out.
The junkyard was empty.
Peter climbed over the fence with ease and landed near the shipping containers. He gave the guard, who he had grown acquainted with over the last few days, a two-finger salute and handed over the paper bag.
"Tony's Italian Chicken," Peter said.
The guard's eyes lit up. "Bless you."
He disappeared into the booth.
Peter got to work setting up his new training rig. When he was done it was almost evening.
He blindfolded himself. Plugged in his ear pods. Set the rig to auto-fire.
Scrap computers. A few old baseball pitching arms from his and Harry's old target games. One broken batting cage ball he'd fixed himself.
All of it rigged into a timing system based on random intervals.
He crouched low.
Waited.
The Spider Sense buzzed.
Left.
He dodged a paintball.
High-right. Duck. Jump. Turn.
A baseball whizzed past his arm. Another slammed into the metal just behind him.
He moved like water, one reaction at a time. Not perfect—but his brain was starting to sync with the danger pulses. They didn't tell him what was coming, only what would hurt.
And that was enough.
After twenty straight minutes, his pod beeped.
Call incoming.
He caught the last baseball midair with his bare hand and pulled off the blindfold.
The junkyard around him was covered in color—blue, red, green, orange.
Not a single spot on his body.
He answered the call.
"Mr. Parker?" a woman's voice asked.
"Speaking."
"This is Rina from WWA. Your application's been accepted. We saw your pictures and… you're in. If you can, we'd like you at a trial match tonight. You'd get a full-rate payout if you show up."
Peter blinked.
"Tonight?"
"Tonight."
He looked around the wrecked practice field.
Then at his watch.
"Text me the address."