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Sylas vaulted across the rooftops and slipped back into his bedroom window.
He peeled off the black gear, tossed it into the Shadow Dominion for storage, and set the new blade on his desk under the lamp.
Clean lines. Balanced weight. Snow-pale steel.
"Not bad," he murmured. He spun it once and laid it flat. "You need a name… Shadeblade works."
He stretched out on the bed, too wired to sleep.
...
Midtown High — Next Day
"Much better," Mr. Klein said, tapping the fresh report. "Best part? You didn't copy."
Sylas gave a harmless smile. "Wouldn't dream of it, sir."
Klein stared over the rims of his glasses.
"Last time was a one-off," Sylas added quickly.
"Mm-hmm. Back to class."
Sylas escaped to homeroom, where Missy Barton leaned over her desk. "So? Did we pass?"
He put on Klein's flat voice: "Adequate. Dismissed."
Missy burst out laughing. "That impression is criminally accurate."
A broad shadow fell across them. Jelf Frank, six-foot-something, school power forward, clapped a hand on Sylas's shoulder. "Yo, man. Quarterfinals are at our gym. You're coming."
Sylas shrugged. "Text me the time. I'll swing by."
Missy cut in, testing the waters. "You like basketball, right?"
"Ehh… It's fine."
"Got it," she said, filing the intel away with a polite smile.
.
.
.
.
.
After School
Sylas packed up, ready to head home and maybe wring a few new tricks out of the Dominion. He looked for Peter to walk together and got a gentle brush-off.
"Rain check," Peter said. "Got a club tryout."
"Have fun." Sylas bumped fists and watched him go.
On the cab ride home, a thought hit him like a cold splash. A 'club'… today… money for a 'gift'…
His stomach sank. Underground fights, and if Peter's there… Uncle Ben.
He paid the driver, sprinted inside. "Aunt May, where's Uncle Ben?"
"Working late," she called from the kitchen. "You okay?"
"Just tired of going to crash early!" he said, already bolting upstairs. He locked his door, slipped into black, and ghosted back out the window.
.
.
.
.
.
From a rooftop across the street, Sylas tracked Ben Parker through end-of-shift traffic, ready to intervene at the first ripple of wrong.
Nothing, Ben clocked out, stretched, got in his car, and headed home.
Sylas exhaled. "Good." He stayed high and close anyway, shadowing him all the way to Queens.
...
Elsewhere — The Basement Ring
Neon buzzed. Sweat, beer, money.
"At the window, you said all the winnings are mine if I win," Peter confirmed, voice a little too young for the venue.
The registrar chuckled. "Sure, kid. Or you could go home and finish your homework."
"I said what I said," Peter replied, jaw set.
Backstage, a mountain of a man, the crowd's darling "Goliath," hurled his opponent through the ropes to end the last bout.
The emcee shouldered past a curtain and squinted at Peter's waiver. "Name?"
"Human Spider."
The emcee grimaced. "That's the best you can do?"
"Yes."
He sighed into the mic: "Three thousand bucks to anyone who can drop Goliath! Make some noise for the amazing, spectacular… Spider-Man!"
Peter flinched. "It's Human Spider—"
Too late, the curtain snapped open, and a shove sent him stumbling into the light.
Boos washed over him the second the crowd saw his homemade suit.
"Goliath's gonna break your eight legs!"
"Go home, kid!"
"Kill! Kill! Kill!"
Goliath flexed and pointed like a pro wrestler. "Get in here, little bug. I'll make it quick."
Peter climbed through the ropes. Overhead, a steel cage rattled down and locked with a clang.
He looked up, wide-eyed, and tried a smile at the nearest official. "Hey, so… I didn't sign up for cage—"
Nobody cared.
"Fight!"
Goliath charged like a freight train.
Peter simply wasn't there anymore. He sprang up, stuck to the fencing twenty feet over the mat, hanging there like it was the easiest thing in the world.
Goliath slammed into steel, staggered, and roared. "Where'd you go?!"
"Up here," Peter said. "Also… nice top. Did your boyfriend pick it out?"
The crowd howled. Goliath went red, grabbed the fence, and started to climb.
Peter dropped behind him, tapped his shoulder, and skittered away again. The giant swung at the air, stumbled, and ate canvas.
The chant turned gleeful and vicious all at once: "CAGE! CAGE! CAGE!"
Peter flexed his hands, surprised by how natural it felt the rhythm, the angles, the tingle warning him a split-second before every haymaker.
He hadn't come for glory. He'd come for cash for a gift, for home, for them but as Goliath thundered forward again, he realized something else:
For the first time since the bite, he wasn't afraid.
...
Across Town.
High in the catwalks, far from the lights, a black-masked figure crouched and watched ready to intervene if the night twisted the way the story used to.
Sylas's jaw unclenched when Ben's sedan rolled safely into the Parkers' driveway on the Find-My alert he'd quietly… borrowed.
"Different timeline," he whispered. "My timeline."
He looked down through the grate at the ring just as Goliath whiffed another wild swing and Peter flipped him into the cage with a clang.
"Attaboy," Sylas said under his breath, a smile hidden behind the mask.
If the city wanted to turn them into what it needed, a hero and a shadow, then fine.
Tonight, the hero would win his first purse.
And the shadow would make sure no one stole it from him on the way out.
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