Chapter 3: No More Running
Peter sat on the edge of a skyscraper, legs dangling hundreds of feet above the ground.
The city stretched out before him—bright, loud, alive. Neon signs flickered. Traffic buzzed far below. Sirens echoed in the distance, barely reaching him. Up here, it was quiet. Still.
He didn't move.
Peter keeps replaying him breaking the muggers arm
The wind tugged at his hoodie.
Eventually, he stood then he lean forward then he fell
Half way down the skyscraper he sticked to wall then jumped to another building and does a roll to the end of the roof
He dropped down into the alley behind their apartment, scaling the fire escape with practiced ease. When he reached the window to his room, he paused, hesitating before lifting it open and climbing inside.
But the moment he stepped into the hallway, she was there.
"Aunt May?" he said quietly.
She turned.
Her eyes went wide—and then she rushed toward him.
"Peter!" she cried, wrapping her arms around him in a tight, shaking hug. "Where were you? Where have you been all day?"
Peter froze.
His mind scrambled for words—any words.
"I—I was just... out," he stammered. "I needed air, and I... got lost... my phone died and—"
May pulled back just enough to look him in the face. Her eyes were red, her voice trembling. "Peter, I thought something happened to you. I called the school. I called harry. I called the police. You didn't answer."
Peter's mouth opened, but nothing came out.
"I'm sorry," he finally whispered.
May held him tighter. "Just... please. Don't do that again. I can't lose you too."
Peter swallowed hard, guilt twisting in his gut.
" It might have been better if i was never born" peter whispered
"SLAP!"
Aunt May's hand struck Peter's cheek—not hard, but enough to snap him out of his daze.
Tears streamed down her face, her voice shaking between sobs.
"Peter Benjamin Parker... it wasn't your fault!" she cried. "Ben wouldn't want you—he wouldn't want you to blame yourself!"
Her face was red, her lips trembling.
"Im sorry aunt may " peter quickly hugs her while trying to console her
Later That Night
The house was quiet.
Down the hall, Aunt May had finally fallen asleep, but Peter couldn't. His mind wouldn't stop racing.
He sat at the edge of his bed, still wearing the same clothes from earlier, the faint scent of the city clinging to him. Moonlight crept in through the blinds, casting long shadows across his room.
With great power come great responsibility
'I can't keep doing this in a hoodie.'
He got up, walked into aunt may sewing room and started making his suit
"Done"
"ok it almost day time ill make dinner for may and leave a note leting her know i headed for school"
Midtown High – Later That Morning
The halls of Midtown were alive with noise—locker doors slamming, sneakers squeaking, voices bouncing off the walls.
Then there was Peter.
He kept his head down, backpack slung over one shoulder, just trying to get to class. No headphones. No music. Just silence.
Before Uncle Ben died, he and Harry used to get into trouble with the teachers—mostly Harry's ideas, but Peter always had fun.
But now?
Now he sat alone. The only reason he came to school was because Aunt May insisted. If it were up to him, he'd be working in Uncle Ben's garage instead.
People talked about him. Friends tried to be there for him. He didn't care. Before the field trip, he was already drifting through life, caring about little outside of Aunt May.
He stared out the window during class. When Harry approached him at his locker, Peter didn't even look up.
"Hey, man... you okay?" Harry asked, his tone careful.
Peter shrugged. "Fine."
"You haven't answered any of my texts."
"I've been busy."
Harry frowned. "You don't have to do this alone. I get it. About your uncle. I'm—"
"I said I'm fine," Peter snapped, slamming his locker shut. He started to walk away.
"Peter, please, just talk to me. I lost my mom too. I get it."
Peter stopped. Slowly turned.
In a flash, he grabbed Harry by the collar and shoved him against the lockers.
"You get it?" Peter's voice was low, trembling with rage. "You? A rich pretty boy like you?"
Harry grabbed Peter's wrist, pushing back. "Peter, stop—"
"You don't know what it's like," Peter cut him off. "You don't have to watch someone you love work themselves to death just to pay the mortgage. You got to know your parents—your actual parents. And me?"
Peter's grip tightened. His voice cracked.
"The man who housed me, clothed me, fed me—he laughed with me, taught me everything I know. And what do I do? I get him killed."
His hand shook. "So don't you ever say you understand me."
Peter stormed out of Midtown high without another word to Harry, the echo of his own anger still ringing in his ears. He didn't care if people stared. He didn't care if teachers stopped him in the hall.
He just went home.
The house was empty. Aunt May was still at work. Peter went straight to the garage, shutting the door behind him. The familiar smell of motor oil, sawdust, and Uncle Ben's tools hit him instantly.
He took a deep breath. If I'm going to stop guys like that mugger i need better ways to retrain them i cant keep breaking ther arm to stop a mugging
He started digging through boxes, pulling out scrap electronics, wiring, and parts from old projects he'd worked on with Ben.
The first thing he built was a small tracking device. Then a reinforced utility belt with compartments for gear. But halfway through, he stopped, realizing something important.
'Even if I catch them… without proof, they'll be back on the streets in a week.'
He turned toward the old box of camera equipment in the corner. His fingers brushed against a busted DSLR. That's when the idea hit him.
What if I could take pictures… while it's happening?
Peter stripped the camera apart, keeping only the sensor, lens, and a few circuit boards. Hours later, he had it wired into a compact housing he could mount inside a mask. It would snap photos whenever he triggered it and wirelessly send them to his computer.
But then another thought crossed his mind. The Daily Bugle buys photos.
If he could get pictures of himself catching criminals, he could sell them — and help Aunt May with the bills. That meant a second camera — portable camera.
Peter worked well into the night, bouncing between projects. In his focus, he reached for a set of chemical containers to clean some tools. One slipped, spilling its contents onto another vial of polymer solution. The mixture bubbled violently before cooling into a strange white residue.
Curious, Peter touched it — and it stuck to his fingers like glue. No matter how much he pulled, it wouldn't let go.
His eyes widened.
"Its pretty strong"
With some careful tinkering Hours later, sitting on the workbench in front of him, were two sleek devices — wrist-mounted launchers with trigger pads in the palms. The moment he tested them, a perfect line of white web shot out and stuck to the far wall with a loud thwip.
Peter grinned for the first time in days.
Now I'm ready.