However, Damian seemed to have eyes on the back of his head and suddenly twisted sideways.
Flash's fist grazed the edge of his clothes and slammed into the metal water pipe.
"Bang!"
"Ugh—!"
The pipe dented inward, and Flash's finger bones emitted an ominous crackling sound.
But before he could cry out in pain, Damian had already seized his wrist and hurled him to the ground with an over-the-shoulder throw.
"Boom—!"
The moment Flash's broad back slammed into the floor tiles, the entire bathroom shook. Water pooled in the toilet sloshed upward more than ten centimeters, like a sudden, light rain.
Three minutes later, the bathroom was a scene of chaos—filled with groans of pain and destruction. The cubicle door lay in splinters, the mirror was webbed with cracks, and six members of the football team lay scattered across the floor, moaning in various contorted poses.
Flash lay on his back, chest heaving violently, his right knuckles raw and bloody.
Damian stood on the only clean tile, his breathing steady and calm.
He bent down, picked up the broken mop handle, and tossed it casually into a nearby trash can. Straightening his rumpled collar, he spoke in a voice as placid as if discussing the weather:
"Remember the pain you're feeling right now. As long as you refuse to learn from your mistakes, be prepared to get used to it."
With that, he pushed open the bathroom door—and found Peter Parker pacing anxiously in the hallway.
At the sight of Damian, Peter's eyes widened, then softened with relief. "Huh! Thank God—you're finally out! Where are Flash and the others? I heard all that noise…"
Damian raised a hand to cut him off, pulled a pack of tissues from his pocket, and wiped his hands clean before replying:
"Oh, they're fine. Our conversation went very smoothly. After clearly stating our positions, we exchanged views and held a constructive discussion on several key issues. Through in-depth dialogue—covering multiple angles, a wide range of topics, and every relevant aspect—we've reached full alignment in both thought and action."
Peter Parker nodded slowly, utterly bewildered by Damian's bureaucratic double-speak. But through the narrowing gap of the closing door, he caught a glimpse of the devastation inside the bathroom.
"…"
If I ever believe Damian again, I'll be a dog.
The two walked back down the corridor of the biology lab, their footsteps echoing on the tiled floor, which reflected the cold white overhead lights.
Peter Parker led the way, gesticulating excitedly. "I wish I were as powerful as you! Then I could just swish-swish-swish and knock that gorilla Flash flat on his back—hehehehe…"
Damian glanced sideways at the grinning fool. "And then what?"
"Duh—do exactly what you did! Beat up those bullies! Or enter tournaments and win prize money. And then… hehehe—"
Hearing this, Damian felt a flicker of shame.
If he were honest with himself, had Peter Parker not stepped in to defend him and confront Flash, Damian would never have cared whether Peter lived or died.
"Snap!"
"Ah! My phone—!"
With an overenthusiastic gesture, Peter flung his phone from his hand. It hit the floor with a sharp "bang."
Just as Peter Parker bent down to pick it up, a transparent thread dropped from the ceiling—and at the end of the thread, a spider with bright red and blue patterns on its back was slowly descending.
The spider was no bigger than a fingernail, but the patterns on its body displayed an eerie geometric symmetry and glowed with a metallic luster under the laboratory lights.
It landed precisely on the back of Peter's neck, and its eight legs moved quickly, slipping into the gap in his collar in the blink of an eye.
Damian raised his right hand slightly, as if about to speak and warn Peter Parker—but his mouth, already open, slowly closed again.
He frowned slightly and finally chose to remain silent.
"What's wrong? Why does your face look so strange?"
Peter Parker picked up his phone and looked at Damian, who had suddenly fallen silent, in confusion.
"Nothing. Let's go back quickly—otherwise, if Mr. Jackson can't find us, we'll lose points."
As he spoke, Damian turned around and pushed open the laboratory door.
Just as she returned to the lab, Gwen Stacy looked up and saw the two of them coming back. Just as she was about to speak—
"Hiss—!"
Suddenly, Peter Parker cried out in pain, clapped his right hand over the back of his neck, his face turning pale as beads of sweat oozed from his forehead.
Everyone's eyes instantly focused on him.
Gwen Stacy's stern expression collapsed instantly. She hurried over and asked with concern:
"Parker?! Are you okay?"
Hearing this, Peter Parker forced an awkward smile and said:
"No, nothing's wrong. I just… don't know why, but the back of my neck suddenly hurts. It feels like I was accidentally bitten by something."
His voice grew quieter and quieter, his fingers unconsciously tightening around his collar.
"Bitten by an insect? Then you might want to go to the hospital. This is a biological laboratory—those insects might carry special pathogens."
Damian spoke calmly, his eyes sweeping over the faint redness and swelling on the back of Peter's neck.
Gwen Stacy nodded seriously and added in a concerned tone:
"Z is right. What exactly are you feeling right now? Tingling? Burning? Any numbness or…"
When Peter Parker heard they were talking about going to the hospital, he immediately perked up and said firmly:
"No! No need to go to the hospital! It's just a little painful—like a bee sting. There's no need to waste money on a checkup."
As he spoke, he staggered back to the corner, leaning against the cold laboratory table, his breathing noticeably faster than usual.
But he didn't dare go to the hospital. After all, with the cost of American medical services, if they really found anything wrong, the Parker family would go bankrupt.
...
That evening, in front of an ordinary apartment building in Queens, New York,
Peter Parker, pale-faced, staggered through the door, the back of his shirt soaked with sweat.
"Peter?! What's wrong with you?!"
Seeing him like this, Aunt May immediately rushed out of the kitchen, not even bothering to pick up the soup spoon that had fallen to the floor.
Hearing the commotion, Uncle Ben set down his newspaper and hurried over. His eyes widened behind his reading glasses as he exclaimed:
"Oh my God! We need to go to the hospital!"
"Uncle Ben, Aunt May, I'm fine… I'm just a little tired after a day of shopping… I'm going upstairs to sleep."
Peter Parker waved weakly and started up the stairs. His voice sounded distant.
He took a shaky step upward, but his right leg suddenly gave way, and his knee slammed hard against the wooden stair.
Uncle Ben rushed to support him but recoiled in alarm at the unusually high temperature of Peter's arm.
"You have a fever! At least 40 degrees!"
"Just… a good night's sleep…"
Peter Parker pulled away from his uncle's grip and nearly crawled back to his room.
The moment the door closed, his body finally gave out, and he collapsed heavily to the floor.
In the living room, Aunt May clutched Uncle Ben's hand tightly, staring up at the attic with deeply worried eyes.
"Should we call an ambulance?"
"Don't worry—just keep an eye on Peter's room tonight. If he's not feeling better by morning, I'll take him to the hospital right away."
Uncle Ben glanced at the wall clock and said.