October fifth. Friday. Three days had passed since the black sedan tried to turn Peter Parker into a pancake on the asphalt. Three days since I witnessed the birth of his abilities in a school hallway. And three days that a gnawing anxiety had been clawing at me.
The news of the attempt on Peter's life (which, by the way, he only shared with me and Gwen, blaming it on a reckless driver, though his spider-sense, which he spoke of in a confused, halting way, told him otherwise) was the last straw. The spider bite at Oscorp, the acquisition of superpowers, the sudden aggression from unknowns in an expensive car… My brain, overloaded with knowledge from another world, helpfully supplied the images. The plot was painfully similar to a comic I had read long ago—The Ultimate Spider-Man. A darker, more realistic version of the Spider-Man story. And if events were unfolding according to that script… oh no.
There was one discrepancy, though. In that story, Harry was the one who brought Peter to Oscorp, on his father's advice, after the field trip, and in the lab, Otto Octavius, completely unconcerned with the consequences, drew Peter's blood right in front of everyone. But several days had passed now, and other than the assassination attempt, nothing else had happened. Did that mean Norman Osborn no longer needed Peter's blood for his experiments, or… or had he found another way?
And if Norman already had what he wanted (or thought he had), and now considered Peter either dead (his original assumption) or an uncontrollable anomaly (after Shaw's report), then events could accelerate. That meant the tragedy, the point of no return that turned Peter Parker into Spider-Man, might not be far off. The death of Uncle Ben. A stupid, senseless death at the hands of a petty robber whom Peter could have stopped, but didn't. I could almost physically feel the disaster approaching.
And then there was Norman Osborn. Yesterday at lunch in the school cafeteria, Harry, trying to explain his gloomy mood, let slip a few phrases about serious problems at his father's company. Some important military contract was on the verge of collapse, investors were nervous, his father was on a rampage, working around the clock, conducting some kind of risky tests…
The Green Goblin. The image of a madman on a glider flashed before my eyes. Was that about to become a reality too?
I couldn't just sit back and watch my friends' lives fall apart. Peter would lose his uncle, the man who had been a father to him. Harry would lose his father—a difficult man, but still his father—to a monster. I had to do something. Find a way to prevent Ben Parker's death. Warn Peter? But how? Say, "Hey, Pete, I know the future, your uncle's about to be killed, and you're going to become a superhero"? He'd think I was crazy. Or worse—he'd try to intervene and only make things worse. And how could I help Harry? Talk to Norman Osborn? Tell him, "Mr. Osborn, your serum is dangerous, it'll turn you into a psychopath"? Ha! Best case, he'd laugh at me. Worst case, Shaw would give me a personal tour of the bottom of the Hudson River. I felt helpless in the face of the oncoming storm.
The last class on Friday was chemistry. Mr. Warren—Mrs. Warren's husband—was explaining something about valence, but my mind was elsewhere. After the bell, as everyone started packing up, Harry approached us. He looked a bit disheveled but was clearly trying to seem cheerful.
"Hey, guys, listen up!" he raised his voice to get the class's attention. "I have a couple of extra tickets for tonight… or rather, not extra, my dad got them for the whole gang. Local wrestling, UCW Spankdown. There's a big match tonight, the champion's entering the ring. Wanna go? Let off some steam?"
The offer was unexpected. Wrestling? Not the most intellectual entertainment, but as a way to unwind, it would do. A murmur of approval went through the class.
"I'm in!" Flash immediately piped up. "I've been wanting to see Crusher Hogan live! They say he's a machine!"
"Yeah, me too!" Kong chimed in, flexing his muscles. "Maybe I'll even get in the ring myself, show him a few moves! Make some cash!"
"Ooh, wrestling! Sounds fun!" Mary Jane exclaimed, her eyes lighting up. "I've never been! Peter, are you going?"
Peter, who had been staring absently out the window, flinched and looked at MJ.
"Um… me? Well… if everyone's going…"
In the end, almost everyone agreed—Flash, Kong, MJ, Peter, Harry, me, Liz, Betty, and a few others. Only Gwen declined.
"Sorry, Harry, I'd love to, but I promised to help Dr. Connors in the lab tonight," she said apologetically. "He's at some important stage in his regeneration experiment."
"Dr. Connors?" I repeated, a chill running down my spine. Curt Connors. The one-armed genius biologist obsessed with limb regeneration using reptilian DNA. "The one from the university?"
"Yeah, that's him," Gwen nodded. "I'm interning with him after school. He's an amazing scientist! A little… eccentric, though."
I silently processed the information. So, Connors was already here. Experimenting with lizards. Green Goblin. The Lizard. Who was next? Doctor Octopus? Electro? Sandman? Venom? It was like this world had decided to gather all of Spider-Man's villains at once and throw us our own personal hell. What the hell was wrong with this world?!
That evening, our whole group piled into the small but packed arena where UCW Spankdown was held. The atmosphere was… specific. It smelled of beer, popcorn, and cheap adrenaline. The crowd was a mixed bag: blue-collar workers after a shift, college students, high school kids like us, and just fans of a good brawl. In the center of the hall, a square ring stood under bright spotlights. The air vibrated with the excited hum of the crowd.
We found seats close to the ring. Harry, seizing the opportunity, sat next to Mary Jane and immediately started telling her something with great enthusiasm, gesturing wildly. MJ listened with a polite smile, nodding occasionally, but didn't show much excitement. She didn't push him away, either. Peter, sitting on my other side, watched this scene grimly, his chin propped on his fist.
The ring announcer—a short, bald man in a shiny jacket with a microphone—stepped into the ring.
"Laaaadies and gentlemen!" he bellowed into the mic, drowning out the crowd's noise. "Welcome to tonight's main event! Today, our undefeated champion, the mountain of a man, the machine of destruction… Cru-u-usher Ho-o-o-gan!!!"
To the roar of the crowd and loud music, a gigantic wrestler climbed into the ring. Huge, muscular, with a wild look in his eyes and a ferocious scowl. He posed, flexing biceps the size of my head, and let out a menacing roar at the audience. He looked impressive.
"Yeah! Now that's power!" Flash breathed in awe.
"Pfft, I could take him with one hand," Kong declared arrogantly.
"Hey, man!" he yelled at the announcer. "I wanna fight your champ! How much you payin'?"
The announcer looked over at us, surprised.
"What? Fight? Kid, are you nuts? You're in high school! We have a strict rule—participants must be over twenty-one! And sign a mountain of liability waivers! So sit down and watch!"
Kong deflated with disappointment amidst Flash's snickering.
"Whatever! I would've wrecked him anyway!"
I wasn't listening to their banter. I scanned the area, subconsciously looking for him—Peter had disappeared. He'd probably gone to get a soda or just couldn't stand watching Harry and MJ anymore.
Meanwhile, the announcer continued his spiel:
"So! Who dares to challenge our champion? Who is ready to risk their bones for glory and three thousand dollars?! Are there any brave souls in this hall?!"
And then something strange happened. As if from nowhere, a figure appeared on the ropes of the ring. He was dressed in baggy clothes—old jeans, a gray hoodie pulled over his head, and his face was hidden by a simple red ski mask with eye slits. He easily vaulted over the ropes and landed in the center of the ring, opposite the stunned announcer and a scowling Hogan.
"Hey, baldy!" the masked guy yelled at the announcer, his voice slightly muffled by the mask, but with familiar notes. "Wanna dance with me? Or should I go straight to your muscle-bound buddy? Three thousand dollars, you say? Sounds tempting!"
The crowd gasped, then started to buzz. The announcer waved his arms in outrage.
"Hey! You can't just jump up here! You're breaking the rules! Security! Get him out of here!"
"Are you crazy, shorty?" Crusher Hogan growled, taking a step forward and cracking his knuckles menacingly. He was almost twice as tall and three times as wide as the masked guy. "I'm gonna tie you in a knot!"
But the man in the mask wasn't scared. He stood relaxed, almost cocky. I looked closely at his figure. Lean, but solid. His height… his movements… Damn it! It was Peter! It couldn't be! What was he doing?!
Suddenly, a thought flashed through my head like a lightbulb turning on: This is it. The beginning of the path. This is where it all went wrong.
With a roar, Hogan charged the insolent newcomer, intending to lock him in his famous "bear hug." But Peter moved with incredible speed. He easily dodged the giant's clumsy attack, slipping under his arm. Hogan stumbled forward from his own momentum. Peter spun around and, before anyone could understand what was happening, ducked under the massive wrestler, wrapped his arms around his waist, and… lifted! He lifted the enormous Crusher Hogan into the air as if he were a feather!
The crowd froze in shock.
And then Peter effortlessly flipped the wrestler over and slammed him face-first onto the mat. There was a dull thud. Hogan lay motionless.
For a second, a dead silence fell. And then the arena exploded in applause. People jumped to their feet, screaming, whistling, cheering. They had never seen anything like it!
"Yes! Yes! Get him!" Flash yelled, forgetting his earlier bravado.
"No freaking way!" Kong echoed, his jaw hanging open.
The bald announcer was the first to recover. Professionalism took over. He jumped up to the masked man, shoving the microphone in his face.
"Unbelievable! Phenomenal! Did you see that?! The mystery fighter just took down the unbeatable Crusher Hogan! Who are you?! Who are you, mysterious man in a mask?! Tell the crowd your name!"
The masked Peter shook his head.
"A name? Forget it. Where's my three grand?" his voice was still muffled.
"Three grand? So fast?" The announcer clearly hadn't expected this. "Listen, kid, you're a sensation! The crowd loves you! Let's sign a contract! You can fight for us regularly! We'll make you a star! We'll come up with a cool name! A costume!"
Peter paused for a moment, hearing the offer. Then he shook his head again.
"I don't need a contract. I need the money. Now. Three thousand. For beating your champion. Those were the terms."
"Alright, alright, kid, don't get hot!," the announcer held up his hands. "You'll get your money. But think about my offer! With that kind of strength and agility… you could be a legend!"
They had a short, business-like conversation. Peter clearly didn't want the spotlight, insisting on anonymity and immediate payment. The announcer urged him to reconsider, promising him the world. In the end, they agreed on something—it seemed Peter agreed to one more fight in the future on his terms. After getting an assurance (and maybe the money itself, I couldn't see), the masked man leaped off the ring as quickly as he had appeared and vanished into the roaring crowd near the exit.
It all happened so fast. No more than five minutes had passed before Peter Parker materialized next to me again. He was breathing heavily, beads of sweat on his forehead—he must have worked up a sweat changing—but his eyes burned with triumph and excitement. Where did he get a change of clothes? I had no idea. He had just beaten a giant wrestler and, it seemed, earned a ton of cash.
But his elated mood vanished the moment he glanced over at Harry and MJ. They were still sitting close together, Harry showing her something on his phone, and she was laughing. The smile slid off Peter's face, and his shoulders slumped. Triumph was replaced by a familiar bitterness and insecurity.
I sighed. Poor kid. He'd just accomplished the impossible in the ring, yet in his regular life, he still felt like a loser. I needed to support him somehow, distract him from his dark thoughts. I turned to him.
"So, Parker, where'd you disappear to? You missed all the fun…" I began with a slight smirk.
Monday, October 8th. Evening. Back at the UCW building.
Only three days had passed since the mysterious masked man's Friday night triumph, but the buzz around UCW Spankdown hadn't died down. The announcer, sensing a goldmine, had immediately organized a rematch for the following Monday evening. And now, the hall was packed again, the crowd roaring in anticipation, and a familiar, yet still incredible, spectacle was unfolding in the ring.
The man in the red ski mask and baggy clothes was once again dancing around the massive Crusher Hogan. But this time it wasn't just a dance—it was a mockery. Peter moved with such ease, such inhuman speed and grace, that the enormous Hogan looked like a clumsy, slow bag of muscles next to him. He dodged every punch, slipped under every grab, and his own counterattacks, though they didn't look powerful, were clearly hurting the champion and confusing him.
"Just look at him!" the bald announcer screamed into his microphone, running around the ring. "Who is this mysterious man in the mask?! Where did he come from?! Our champion, Crusher Hogan, can't keep up! He just can't land a hit on this acrobat!"
The crowd echoed him with a roar. Even those who had come to cheer for Hogan couldn't help but admire the newcomer's skill.
"They thought he was invincible!" the announcer continued. "They thought he was unbeatable! A mountain that couldn't be moved! But this kid… he's playing with him! It's masterful! It's flawless!"
At that moment, Peter, apparently deciding to end the show, did something incredible again. He dodged another of Hogan's wide swings, ducked under him, and just like last time, effortlessly lifted the giant off the floor, hoisting him above his head.
Hogan's face twisted in terror and… indignation?
"Hey! That's not fair!" he panted, his legs dangling in the air. "That wasn't in the script! I didn't sign up for this! I have a bad back!"
"Stop whining," Peter's voice from under the mask was cold and distant.
And with those words, he slammed Crusher Hogan's body onto the ring. The crash of the impact drowned out even the roar of the crowd. THUD!!! Hogan lay motionless, his arms and legs splayed out.
"Whoa! Did you see that?! DID YOU SEE THAT?!" the announcer scrambled over to the fallen giant. "Crusher is down! Crusher is down! Referee! Count to three! One! Two! Three! It's a knockout!"
The referee ran over, quickly slapped the mat three times, and raised his hand.
"The fight is over!" the announcer screamed. "Before you stands the new champion of the UCW! The incredible, the incomprehensible, the invincible… uhh…"
He ran to Peter, who stood in the middle of the ring breathing heavily, and whispered urgently in his ear, covering the mic with his hand.
"Kid! Kid! A name! We need a name! The crowd wants a hero! What's your name?!"
"I told you, I can't…" Peter mumbled, looking out at the roaring crowd. The attention was clearly weighing on him.
"We just need a moniker! A nickname! Anything!" the announcer persisted. "You just took down the champ! You need a name!"
Peter thought for a second. His gaze fell on his own hands in their rough gloves. The spider. That spider from Oscorp…
"Uh! Um… how about 'The Spider'?" he offered uncertainly.
The announcer's eyes lit up. "The Spider"! Perfect! He immediately turned to the crowd, grabbing Peter's arm and raising it high.
"Ladies and gentlemen! Boys and girls! A round of applause for the new champ-i-i-i-on of the UCW!!! The one and only! The mysterious! The Amaaaazing Spider-Maaaaan!!!"
"Spider-Man"? The announcer had clearly embellished. But the crowd didn't care. The name was spoken. A hero was born. The arena erupted in a deafening roar, chanting the champion's new name.
And in a dark corner of the venue, near an exit, leaning against the wall with my arms crossed, stood me. I was wearing a dark hoodie, the hood pulled low to hide my face. From the moment Peter first jumped into the ring on Friday, I hadn't taken my eyes off him. I knew where this was going. I knew that the money he was so desperately trying to earn the easy way would become the catalyst for tragedy.
Why was I here? Why not at home, or with Gwen, trying to live a normal life? Because I couldn't. I couldn't just know what was supposed to happen and do nothing. I had to try. To prevent Ben Parker's death. It had become my obsession for the past three days. I had followed Peter, trying to stay out of his sight, present for his first triumph, and now for his second. I was waiting. Waiting for the robber to appear.
My nerves were stretched to their breaking point. I scanned the crowd intently, looking for any suspicious movement, any face that might belong to a man capable of robbery and murder. My heart pounded; the noise of the crowd was deafening. I was terrified of missing the moment. Terrified of being too late.
And then my gaze caught a commotion near a small door with a sign that read "Promoter's Office." Several men in security uniforms came out, looking confused and angry, talking animatedly. I caught snippets of phrases: "…all the cash is gone!", "…right out of the safe!", "…nobody saw a thing!" The robbery. It had happened.
A minute later, Spider-Man was led out of the same door. They were trying to pin the whole thing on him, and the wrestlers lunged to grab him without a second thought. But Peter was no longer a defenseless kid: using his superhuman abilities, he easily broke free from their rough hands and, deftly weaving through the crowd, disappeared into it like a shadow.
I looked around frantically. And I saw him.
A man slipped out from the shadows near another exit, trying to be inconspicuous. He looked to be in his forties, scruffy, in a worn-out jacket. He moved quickly, glancing around nervously. His left arm was pressed tightly to his side; something was clearly hidden under his jacket—a stack of cash? Or a weapon? His eyes were shifty, anxious. It was him. I was sure of it. This was the robber from the classic story. The man who would kill Uncle Ben.
Without a second's hesitation, I pushed off the wall and slipped after him, trying to stay in the shadows, not to draw attention. My heart was hammering in my throat. The robber exited the building through a side door and walked quickly down the street, turning into a dark alley between two tall buildings.
Did he see me? Is he leading me into a trap? a panicked thought flashed through my mind. But I immediately dismissed it. It didn't matter. I had to stop him. For Peter. For Uncle Ben. For the chance to do something genuinely right for once in this cursed new life, instead of just reacting to events.
Gritting my teeth, I quickened my pace and rounded the corner after the robber. A fatal mistake.
I ran right into him. He was waiting.
In the dim light of a single streetlamp, a knife blade glinted. I didn't have time to react. A sharp, burning pain shot through my right side. I gasped, instinctively grabbing the wound. Blood immediately soaked through my hoodie, warm and sticky. As I stood there, paralyzed by shock and pain, the robber let out a short grunt and kicked me in the stomach. The blow knocked the wind out of my lungs; I doubled over, coughing.
The man didn't stick around to finish the job. He just shot me a quick, angry glance, turned, and, limping slightly, ran deeper into the dark alley, disappearing into the shadows.
I was left alone. Kneeling in a filthy alley, clutching a bleeding wound, trying to catch my breath. The pain was excruciating. The world swam before my eyes. I had tried to stop the robber. Tried to prevent the tragedy. And instead… I got a knife in my side. Some hero I turned out to be.