Alex's POV
Steam still clung to my skin as I stepped out of the shower. The warmth couldn't touch the storm building in my chest. I dried off, pulled on some fresh clothes, and sat on the edge of my bed.
"Status."
The word echoed silently in my mind — and in response, a translucent blue screen shimmered into existence, floating before me.
---
[Name: Alex Ryven (Max Crown)]
[Identity: Heir of Ryven Industries, Son of Gaea — Goddess of Nature and Earth, God of ???]
[Race: Demigod]
[Powers: Telekinesis, Empathy, Omnitrix, Divinity of ???]
[Assimilation: 0% (+1% every 2 months)]
---
I frowned at the mysterious "???" still lingering beside my divinity. My powers were awakening, growing stronger every day — but there was still so much I didn't understand. A part of me remained locked, as if even the universe wasn't ready to reveal everything just yet.
I'll ask Mother later… I thought, closing the screen with a gesture.
But right now, my focus was elsewhere — on him.
Peter.
---
Downstairs, I scarfed down a quiet breakfast, barely tasting the food. Mom smiled warmly at me as I said goodbye, unaware of the heaviness in my chest.
I slid into Grandpa's old car — now fully upgraded with my own custom mods — and drove through the city, the traffic barely registering in my mind. The buildings blurred past me as I rehearsed what I might say.
How do you confront someone for being a hero?
---
At Columbia University, I walked past students laughing and chatting, headed straight for the administration office. I introduced myself, requested Peter's leave for the day — and the principal agreed immediately.
No questions.
The Ryven name worked like a skeleton key.
When Peter walked in moments later, his reaction was instant.
"Alex?" he said with surprise, a broad smile spreading across his face. "Man, what are you doing here?"
The smile faded slightly when he saw the look on my face. I didn't smile back.
"Come with me," I said quietly.
He hesitated, glancing at the principal, who gave him a nod. Peter looked back at me, confused, but didn't argue.
"Sure… just let me grab my bag."
I followed him silently.
Through the window of his classroom, I caught glimpses of the life he lived without me. Classmates, conversations, laughter. There was a girl with platinum blonde hair seated behind Peter's desk — Gwen Stacy, probably. A redhead talking to someone by the window — likely MJ. I could feel Peter's emotions bleeding off him even from here. Fondness, nervousness, even… guilt?
He said goodbye to a classmate — a confident-looking guy with slicked hair — and joined me outside.
---
We ended up at a quiet McDonald's, tucked away off a side street. We found a booth in the corner and ordered two burgers, fries, and drinks.
Peter tried to lighten the mood. "You feeling alright, Alex? You've been through a lot."
"I'm fine," I said flatly. "But I'm not here to talk about me."
He frowned. "What's going on?"
I leaned forward, folding my hands.
"How are you, Peter?"
He blinked at the question. "Me? Uh… I'm good. I mean, a little tired — who isn't, right? But college is going well. I aced my chem midterm. Professor practically sang my name. And… I've been seeing someone."
He smiled again, that boyish grin that had always softened my heart.
"She's great. Smart, funny, keeps me grounded. It's been good to finally feel… normal, y'know?"
But I wasn't looking at his smile.
I was feeling everything else.
Exhaustion. Anxiety. Pain. Guilt. The way his voice cracked slightly when he spoke. The way his shoulders sagged just a little when he thought I wasn't watching.
He was lying.
Or rather — trying not to show the truth.
"You're not okay," I said quietly.
The smile dropped.
"What?"
"You're pretending. You're talking like everything's perfect, but I can feel you, Peter. You're exhausted. You're scared. You're carrying something."
He went silent.
"Tell me the truth," I said. "How long have you been Spider-Man?"
It hit him like a truck. His eyes went wide, the blood drained from his face.
He didn't even ask how I knew.
"…Three years," he said after a long pause. "Since that field trip to the lab. One of the spiders… it got out. Bit me. I woke up the next day… different."
I closed my eyes, exhaling slowly.
"Let me guess — the prototype bio-spider project. One of Dad and Uncle Richard's last tests before the accident."
"Yeah," he said softly. "They shelved it… thought it was too unstable. But it didn't kill me. It just… rewrote me."
"You should have told me," I said, voice barely a whisper.
He looked away.
I clenched my jaw. My hands were trembling under the table.
"You've been risking your life every night," I said, "putting yourself in danger, hiding bruises, bleeding out in silence… for three years?"
"I had to," he said, eyes fierce now. "I couldn't ignore it. I couldn't watch people suffer and do nothing. I have power now. And with power—"
"—comes great responsibility," I finished bitterly. "Yeah. I know. Uncle Ben's words, right?"
He nodded.
My vision blurred for a second.
"But what about you, Peter?" I asked. "What about your life? Your safety? What about the people who love you? What if you die out there? What if you don't come back one night? Do you think that's responsible?"
He looked me dead in the eye.
"I think it's what's right."
Something in me snapped.
BANG!
My fists slammed onto the table, rattling the trays, making the ketchup packets jump.
Every head in the restaurant turned.
Peter's eyes widened — not in fear, but in alarm.
I realized what I was doing — the attention, the noise — and forced myself to breathe.
Deep, steadying breaths.
I sat back down slowly, my heart pounding like a war drum.
We said nothing.
We just ate — mechanically, silently.
I paid the bill. We left.
The air outside was cool and quiet, but the tension between us hadn't faded.
I unlocked the car and turned to him.
"We're not done," I said.
Peter hesitated. "Where are we going?"
"One of the old bungalows. Somewhere private."
He nodded silently and got into the passenger seat.
As I pulled onto the road, my mind swirled with everything I wanted to say — and couldn't.
He was my brother.
And I couldn't lose him.
Not now.
Not ever.
__ __ __
Twenty Years Ago
Alex's POV (Age 4)
I sat on the wide window ledge of the mansion, knees hugged to my chest, eyes fixed on the driveway. The sun had started its descent, throwing long shadows across the floor. Another day slipping by. Another day waiting for him to come home.
Ever since Mother died last year, Father had thrown himself into work. If he wasn't in his lab, he was buried under paperwork at the office. I knew he was hurting — even as a child, I could sense it. His silence screamed of grief, the way he avoided looking at the family portrait on the hallway wall, the way he only joined me briefly at night, just to say goodnight, and then vanished into his world of cold blueprints and broken sleep.
I didn't blame him.
I missed her too.
The sound of a car engine outside broke my thoughts. I perked up and slid off the ledge, my bare feet padding softly across the marble floor. It was unusual for Father to return so early. A quiet hope fluttered in my chest as I moved quickly toward the front door.
But as I reached the grand arch of the entryway, I paused. Through the open glass, I saw him stepping out of the car — not alone.
Two other adults accompanied him — a man and a woman. And nestled in the woman's arms… a small child, bundled in soft blue.
I knew the man instantly: Uncle Richard Parker, Father's closest friend and colleague. He often visited the lab, and his laughter echoed through the halls back when the mansion wasn't so quiet.
But the woman was a stranger, and the baby… unfamiliar.
I walked forward and greeted Father quietly, my voice shy, unsure.
He placed a gentle hand on my shoulder — a rare show of warmth these days — and introduced the others.
"This is Maria," he said, "Richard's wife. And this little one… this is Peter. He's just four months old."
Maria gave me the kindest smile I had seen in a long time. It wasn't pitying. It wasn't forced. It was soft — warm — like how Mother used to smile.
"It's so good to finally meet you, Alex," she said, kneeling slightly to my level. "Your father has told us so much about you."
I nodded, unsure what to say.
She and Father exchanged a few words, and soon we were in the sitting room, the soft golden lights making everything feel less cold. Maria sat beside me on the velvet sofa and gently asked how I was doing.
"I'm fine," I said. A lie. But easier than saying I felt like I was walking through fog every day, missing something I couldn't get back.
She didn't push.
Instead, she asked about my favorite toys, what books I liked, if I had any hobbies. I answered her questions politely. Quietly.
Then, with a smile, she suddenly stood and said, "Here — hold him for a minute, will you?" And before I could reply, she gently placed Peter into my arms and walked toward the kitchen to check on the maids and chefs.
I stiffened at first, unsure how to hold something so small. So delicate.
Peter blinked up at me with wide, curious brown eyes. His hair was soft and black — a stark contrast to my silver hair and pale blue eyes. His cheeks were plush, like marshmallows. I reached out with trembling fingers and touched one.
He giggled.
And for the first time in months, I smiled.
Really smiled.
Something inside me softened — a part of me I thought was frozen forever. I held him closer, gently rocking him, watching as his tiny fingers curled around the edge of my sleeve.
Maria returned a few minutes later, her eyes twinkling as she saw us.
"You already started to like your little brother, huh?" she teased playfully.
I looked at her, then back at Peter.
Brother.
That word echoed in my heart. Heavy. Meaningful.
I didn't say anything. But I smiled again — smaller, quieter — and I knew something had shifted. Something important.
---
We spent the rest of the afternoon together. Peter was surprisingly active for a baby. I played with him while Maria watched, her eyes filled with warmth I hadn't felt since Mother left us. When dinnertime came, the five of us sat around the long dining table — Father, Uncle Richard, Aunt Maria, Peter, and me. For the first time in so long, the house didn't feel empty.
But the evening passed too quickly.
As they prepared to leave, I felt my throat tighten. I didn't want them to go. I didn't want the laughter to fade from these halls again. My eyes stung, but I didn't say a word.
Maria noticed.
She knelt and gently ruffled my hair. "I promise we'll visit often," she whispered. "Peter's going to need his big brother around."
I nodded, trying not to cry.
That night, something changed. From that moment on, I stayed close to Peter. I helped feed him. I watched over him. I was only four years old — but I became his shadow, his protector, his brother in every sense of the word.
---
When I was five, Mother Evelyn came into our lives — Father's secretary. With her came a quiet little girl named Aria, only two years old. At first, I wasn't sure what to think. Another woman. Another child. But Evelyn never tried to replace my mother. She just… cared.
She and Aunt Maria became fast friends. Aria soon became a part of our days. I found myself reading to her, helping her with toys, teaching her simple things like how to color inside the lines. The emptiness that once haunted the mansion slowly began to fade — not forgotten, but softened.
At age eight, Father married Evelyn. I remember the day clearly — the light in his eyes, the way he smiled at her. As a wedding gift, he gave her 15% of Ryven Industries. It wasn't just love. It was trust. He believed in her.
We became a true family — Father, Mother Evelyn, Aunt Maria, Peter, Aria, and me. The house felt alive again.
Until it didn't.
---
When I was fifteen, tragedy struck again. A Plane Crash claimed both Father and Uncle Richard — just like that. Gone in a single moment. The two men who built our world were suddenly ashes and silence.
Everything fell apart.
The weight of the company landed on the shoulders of Mother Evelyn and Aunt Maria. Their grief didn't stop them — they carried Ryven Industries forward while raising us with fierce love and relentless strength.
But we couldn't do it alone.
That's when Aunt May and Uncle Ben stepped in. They took us in — Peter, Aria, and me. Their home became ours. Their kindness became our shelter.
We weren't just cousins. We were family.
Even as we grew up — navigating school, friendships, heartbreaks — the bond between us never broke. Peter, Aria, and I stuck together, through every storm.
But when I turned twenty, we faced another heartbreak.
Uncle Ben was shot.
Another father lost. Another man taken from us.
I remember Peter's face that day — pale, hollow, broken. He didn't speak for hours. Just sat on the steps, staring at nothing.
We had no words. Only pain.
And yet… somehow, that loss brought us even closer. The pain welded us together like iron. After Uncle Ben's death, we weren't just siblings and cousins anymore — we were survivors. We were all that was left.
The responsibility of our broken family fell squarely on three incredible women:
Mother Evelyn, who ran the company while mothering Aria and me.
Aunt Maria, who carried Richard's memory while caring for Peter from afar.
And Aunt May, who never let grief dim her gentleness, even after losing her husband.
They were our strength. Our light.
And we — Peter, Aria, and I — we were their legacy.
Even as we pursued colleges, jobs, and friendships — we never drifted. Not truly. We had weekly calls, monthly dinners, and shared memories that could never fade.
We were still family.
Always.
---
Now, at twenty-four, I find myself gripping the steering wheel of my car a little tighter than I need to. The leather creaks beneath my fingers. Beside me, in the passenger seat, sits Peter.
My baby brother.
The same child I held when I was four.
Except now… he wears a mask.
And risks his life.
Every. Single. Day.
Spider-Man.
How long had he been hiding it?
How many nights had he come home bleeding?
How many lies had he told — to us? To Aunt May?
I glance at him, silently. He doesn't meet my eyes. Doesn't speak.
Neither do I.
But my thoughts are loud.
You're my brother.
I raised you. I protected you. I taught you how to walk, how to fight, how to climb trees…
And now you're throwing your life away for what? For strangers who don't even know your name?
Anger coils in my chest.
Fear sharpens it.
I won't let him die.
Not like Father. Not like Uncle Richard.
Not like Uncle Ben.
I can't lose him too.
Not Peter.
---
The car continues its steady hum down the road, heading toward my private bungalow.
There's no music. No conversation.
But the silence between us is thick with history.
And when we arrive…
We'll talk.
Whether he wants to or not.