Chapter 2
He didn't scream.
He didn't even speak.
Not when the spider bit him. Not when he felt the sting surge through his hand like a spark from a frayed wire. Not when it died at his feet like a snuffed-out secret.
He simply walked away.
Not because he wasn't afraid. But because Silas Throne knew one thing about the world: when something breaks, people look for someone to blame.
What if that spider was something Oscorp had invested millions in? he thought, hands in his pockets, walking behind the rest of the class. What if it was their golden goose, their next big patent?
He imagined a boardroom full of men in suits, their faces blank and angry. Then he imagined himself strapped to a table, the sterile white lights humming above his head.
Option one, he thought grimly. They blame me. Doesn't matter that I didn't touch it. Doesn't matter that it bit me. People throw their failures on whoever's nearby.
Option two... They don't blame me. They take me. Experiment. Cut me open to find out what's inside.
His fingers curled into a fist.
No. Silence was safer. Secrecy was survival.
So he didn't speak.
He rejoined the group, walked the rest of the tour with that same half-smile he always wore. But it didn't quite reach his eyes this time. And when Peter asked if he was okay, Silas just gave a short nod.
Even MJ noticed.
"You're quiet," she said.
"Just tired," he replied.
It was the only lie that didn't taste like poison on his tongue.
---
The bus ride home was long and full of chatter. Flash cracked jokes. Peter tried to explain something scientific about neural synapses to a student who wasn't listening. MJ looked out the window, earbuds in.
And Silas sat quietly.
Still.
His body felt wrong.
Not just a headache. Not a fever. No.
This was something deeper. Like his very blood had turned to fire. Like lava replaced his veins. Every heartbeat sent pain flooding through him like molten iron.
He gripped the seat in front of him and tried not to shake.
His skin felt like it was burning from the inside out. His back itched like something was crawling under it. His fingers trembled. His vision blurred in and out like someone was flicking a light switch inside his head.
He felt like a glass bottle filled with screaming.
But he didn't scream.
When the bus finally pulled to a stop outside his block, he stood on shaky legs and stepped off without a word.
"See ya, Silas!" someone called from the bus.
He lifted a hand in goodbye without turning back.
---
The door to his small house creaked open and shut behind him with a quiet click. The moment it did, the smile fell from his face. He staggered through the dark hallway like a drunk, one hand braced against the wall.
The pain got worse.
Hotter.
Angrier.
He barely made it to the center of the room before collapsing to his knees. The world tilted. His skull felt like it was being hammered from the inside.
He screamed.
Or—he wanted to.
Instead, he clamped both hands over his head and forced his mouth shut. Blood ran from his nose. From his ears. Even from the corners of his eyes, red lines trailing down his face like tears.
He doubled over, shaking. His palms pressed hard against his temples, and something... grew from them.
It felt like a thousand tiny needles pressing outward from beneath his skin. He looked down. His breath caught.
His palms—his skin—were changing.
Tiny black hairs sprouted like bristles. And in between them, pin-like barbs emerged. Not metal, not bone—something else. Organic. Alien.
When he grabbed his head again, the bristles latched on to his scalp like glue. His hands were stuck.
Panic exploded inside him. He yanked, hard—and felt skin tear at the roots. His eyes rolled back.
He couldn't scream.
Don't scream. If you scream, the neighbors will come.
So instead, he grabbed his belt, shoved it between his teeth, and bit down.
Hard.
The leather gave way instantly. He bit through it like it was meat. The belt snapped in two and fell from his mouth. Blood dripped from his gums.
He convulsed, falling to his side on the floor.
The pain was endless.
Time meant nothing. Maybe it was five minutes. Maybe it was five hours. Maybe it was a lifetime.
And then...
Something changed.
Silas opened his eyes.
Or maybe he didn't.
Because suddenly, the roof of his house was... gone.
Or it felt gone.
He looked up and saw the sky. But it wasn't the normal sky—there were no stars, no clouds, no moon.
Just a massive, endless void.
And in the center of it, something stirred.
Something alive.
A shadow moved—huge, lumbering, impossibly distant and yet intimately close. Its shape was wrong. Disgustingly familiar.
Eight legs.
So many eyes.
Limbs that stretched beyond the sky.
A body too vast for comprehension.
A spider, in the sky.
It didn't speak.
It didn't move.
But it watched.
Silas blinked, and the vision shattered.
He was back on the floor of his living room. His heartbeat thumped in his ears. Blood still dripped from his mouth and nose, pooling beneath him. He couldn't breathe right. Couldn't focus.
But something else was happening now.
From his wrists... something was spinning.
Thin, white strands.
Webs.
They crept outward, coiling over his arms, his chest, his legs—wrapping around him like silk. Thread after thread spun out of his skin, weaving a cocoon around his trembling body.
Silas didn't fight it.
He let it happen.
As the last strand wrapped over his face, his vision dimmed. His thoughts slowed.
And just before the darkness took him, he had a final, fleeting thought:
This isn't a gift.
This is a warning.
Then the world went silent.
---
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