"Ha-yawn~~"
Early in the morning, on his way to Midtown High School, Damian looked utterly exhausted—as if he'd pulled an all-nighter gaming marathon. He stood by the roadside, waiting for the school bus whose arrival time remained a mystery even to the bus company.
He'd already fended off several overly concerned aunties who, mistaking him for a down-on-his-luck youth working in the service industry, had tried to sell him everything from energy tonics to dubious "male vitality supplements." (He politely declined the sildenafil and definitely did not accept any diacetylmorphine—thank you very much.)
At last, the Midtown High School bus rumbled into view! Damian sprinted like his life depended on it and leapt aboard.
But the moment he stepped inside, he sensed something was… off.
The usual morning chaos of the school bus had vanished. Silence fell like a dropped textbook. Every student turned to stare at him. Even the burly members of the football team instinctively ducked their heads.
The cheerleading squad blushed furiously, whispering behind their hands, their eyes sparkling with something between awe and mischief.
Strangest of all was Flash—the school's resident loudmouth and self-proclaimed troublemaker, who normally lived to pick fights with Damian. Right now, he was hunched in the far corner, baseball cap pulled low over his eyes, looking like a deflated teddy bear who'd just lost his stuffing.
Compared to him, even Goto Dokuna—who was usually about as cheerful as a Monday morning—seemed positively radiant.
"Z! Over here!" came a familiar, overly enthusiastic voice.
Peter Parker was waving wildly from the back row, bouncing in his seat like he'd swallowed a pogo stick.
As soon as Damian slid into the seat beside him, Peter thrust his phone forward with the urgency of breaking news.
"Bro… you're famous!"
"Hiss! What did I do?!" Damian gasped, sucking in a sharp breath.
The last time someone said that to him, he'd accidentally commented "beautiful?" instead of "beautiful!" on a coworker's selfie. One misplaced punctuation mark later, he'd been dragged into twelve group chats and became office legend overnight.
Now, on Peter's screen, a high-definition video played:
In it, Damian—cool as ice—delivered a flawless side kick that sent Flash flying into a mud pit. Without missing a beat, he spun, whipped an umbrella from his back, and cracked it across the knees of three other thugs. The whole sequence was brutal, elegant, and over in under ten seconds—a masterclass in cinematic street justice.
Peter Parker was practically vibrating with glee. "From now on, you're the new top dog at Midtown High! Everyone's calling you 'Master'! Doesn't it sound totally epic?!"
The bus grew even quieter. Flash tugged his cap down so far it nearly covered his nose. Every eye in the vehicle swiveled toward Damian.
Damian stared at Peter with the dead-eyed expression of someone who'd just realized their best friend was also their greatest liability. He muttered under his breath:
"You're the kind of guy who can't last five minutes as a top, melts at the first sign of pressure as a bottom, gets carpal tunnel as a switch, and somehow still manages to be the dumbest dom in the room."
Aloud, he snapped:
"…No! Who the hell posted this?! I'm suing them for violating my portrait rights!"
Peter glanced around guiltily, his expression screaming, "Pretend I'm already dead," and whispered:
"Maybe… just maybe… a handsome, kind, upright, and brave American exchange student accidentally filmed it, accidentally edited it, and then accidentally uploaded it to every social platform in existence? Since it was clearly an accident… maybe we should just… let it go?"
He paused, then added with sudden, suspicious cheer:
"Oh! By the way—we're visiting Columbia University's brand-new biology lab today! They've got these ultra-advanced microscopes. Rumor has it they're studying a rare mutant spider…"
As Peter Parker chattered, the Midtown High School bus slowly came to a stop in front of the gate of Columbia University.
On either side of the ancient stone arch stood statues inspired by classical Greek design, symbolizing the union of science and art.
The gate itself wasn't large, but it exuded solemn dignity. An iron fence separated the campus from the bustling energy of Broadway, yet still maintained an open, inviting atmosphere.
Sunlight filtered through the ivy-covered trellises, casting dappled patterns on the red-brick pathway. Students hurried past with books tucked under their arms, and the air hummed with the quiet intensity of academic life.
"Attention, all twelfth graders from Midtown High School!"
As soon as they stepped off the bus, Mr. Jackson—the student advisor—raised his megaphone and called out in a steady, clear voice:
"Before we begin the tour, let me remind you once again: stay with the group at all times! No running, no roughhousing, and absolutely no shouting or yelling.
Remember—you are guests of Columbia University. It's an honor to be here, so please show the respect and courtesy that proper guests should.
If you have any questions, raise your hand…"
Damian and Peter Parker lingered at the end of the line, listening to the advisor's lecture with bored expressions.
Suddenly, a very familiar voice rang out from behind them:
"Hey! Peter! Z!"
They turned to see Harry Osborn striding toward them. He wore a sharply tailored dark blue suit, his blond hair catching the sunlight, and carried two elegantly wrapped gift boxes in his hands.
Peter's eyes widened. He grinned and hurried forward. "Harry?! Weren't you in Switzerland? Why are you back so suddenly?"
Harry smiled and handed each of them a beautifully wrapped box. "I just got back to New York this morning. Heard you were touring Columbia today—I happened to be passing by, so I figured I'd stop in and say hi."
He winked. "Surprised? Didn't see that coming, did you?"
Damian accepted his gift with a smile, though a pang of sympathy stirred in his chest.
Poor kid—he'd lost the worries of ordinary life at such a young age, along with any real sense of normalcy.
According to the original memories he carried, Norman Osborn was already suffering from a hereditary illness at this point, and there were clear signs his time might be limited.
To prepare a successor, Norman had begun handing over parts of Osborn Industries to Harry.
After a few minutes of catching up, Peter, almost without thinking, asked, "How long are you staying in New York this time? It's been ages! And how's Uncle Norman doing lately—?"
Before he could finish, Damian quickly clamped a hand over Peter's mouth and interjected smoothly, "It's so rare to see you free! We haven't hung out in forever—why don't you come in and join us for the tour?"
Just then, Mr. Jackson's slightly hoarse voice cut through the air:
"Assemble! Anyone late by more than three minutes will have to write a 3,000-word essay on 'The Importance of Punctuality'!"
Harry's expression softened for a moment, touched by the invitation—but after a brief pause, he shook his head regretfully. "I wish I could, but… there's been some unrest within the company lately, and I've got too much on my plate."
Damian and Peter exchanged a quiet glance, then stepped forward and pulled Harry into a quick, wordless hug.
Damian gave his shoulder a firm pat, looked him straight in the eyes, and said with quiet conviction:
"Don't worry, Harry. Uncle Norman's going to pull through."
Harry offered a strained smile, said his goodbyes, and hurried toward a Rolls-Royce Phantom idling at the curb—then drove off into the New York afternoon.