The night in Queens was thick and heavy, like ink that refused to run.
Peter Parker sat on the edge of his bed.
The red hoodie was spread across his knees, a needle pinched between his fingers.
The stitches were crooked, crawling across his chest like centipedes, barely securing the blue cloth to the front.
This was his suit.
It was kind of ridiculous.
Crude, even.
Peter faced the mirror and pulled down the red ski mask, hiding the timid face of a high school kid.
The person in the mirror was no longer Peter.
It was power.
He pushed open the window, and the night wind rushed down his collar.
With a flick of his wrist, a line of webbing shot toward a streetlight.
This time, he didn’t hesitate.
His body launched into the air, swallowed by the dark.
…
A community gym in Queens.
The air was a stale mix of sweat, cheap tobacco, and fermented malt.
Around the steel cage, gamblers waved wads of cash, their deafening roars practically blowing the roof off the place.
“Next up!”
The announcer spat as he bellowed, “From Queens, an absolute nobody—Spider-Man!”
The steel cage slammed shut.
Peter stood in the center.
Opposite him stood a six-foot-six mountain of meat.
Bonesaw wore a skull mask and casually snapped a folding chair in half like a cracker.
“Go home to your mama, kid!”
“I bet he doesn’t last ten seconds!”
Mockery washed over him like a tide.
Peter kept his hands shoved into the pockets of his hoodie, the corners of his lips curving up beneath the mask.
“Hey, big guy.”
His voice came out muffled through the fabric.
“Did you buy those tights a size too small?
They look a little tight around the middle.”
Bonesaw roared.
Charging like a runaway tank, his fist whistled through the air with enough force to shatter a watermelon.
To Peter, the world slowed down.
He was all openings.
Leaning too far forward, light on his feet, his whole body a giant target.
Peter bent his knees slightly.
And leaped.
His body released like a fully compressed spring.
He flipped nimbly in midair, landing solidly behind his opponent.
“Too slow.”
Peter patted the beefy back.
Bonesaw spun around with a violent backhand.
Peter leaned back, planted both hands on the floor, and whipped his feet upward.
*Bang!*
The soles of his shoes slammed straight into the man’s chin.
Twenty percent power.
Just twenty percent.
Bonesaw’s massive frame shuddered violently, staggering backward.
“Still not enough?”
Peter pushed off with one hand, flipping his wrist.
*Thwip!*
White webbing plastered over the man’s bloodshot eyes.
“Sleep tight.”
A quick run, airborne, spinning kick.
*BOOM!*
The three-hundred-pound mountain of meat hit the canvas, kicking up a cloud of dust.
The entire crowd went dead silent.
Then, the place exploded into cheers.
“Spider-Man!
Spider-Man!”
Peter stood in the center of the cage, hands raised high.
This feeling…
It was more addictive than any drug.
…
Backstage office.
The fat promoter was counting wads of cash, his ashtray overflowing with cigar butts.
Peter pushed the door open and slapped the flyer onto the desk.
“Three thousand dollars,” Peter panted, unable to suppress the excitement in his voice.
“I won.”
The promoter didn’t even look up.
He pulled out a single hundred-dollar bill and tossed it to the corner of the desk like he was throwing scraps to a beggar.
“A hundred.”
Peter froze.
“The ad said three grand!
I knocked him out!”
“The ad said three minutes in the ring.”
The promoter blew a smoke ring, his eyes full of contempt.
“You took him down in two.
That’s breach of contract.
The audience didn’t get their money’s worth.
Take the cash and get lost before I call security.”
Peter clenched his fists.
His nails dug deep into his palms.
Anger burned in his chest—a raw urge to tear the man to pieces.
With a flick of his finger, he could slam this pig straight into the wall.
But he held back.
“I need that money.”
“And I need to keep sitting in this chair for a few more years,” the promoter sneered.
“Beat it.”
Peter snatched the hundred-dollar bill, turned, and headed for the door.
Just then, a commotion broke out down the hallway.
“Hand over the cash!”
A man wearing a baseball cap rushed in, pointing a pistol and tossing a canvas bag onto the promoter’s desk.
Pale with terror, the promoter scrambled to shove the wads of cash on his desk into the bag.
The robber grabbed the bag, turned, and bolted.
Peter was right at the doorway.
Seeing Peter in his way, the robber flicked his gun, eyes fierce.
“Outta the way!”
Peter stepped aside.
He even obligingly held open the glass door.
The robber burst through and ran for the elevator.
A security guard ran up, out of breath, and roared at Peter, “Are you crazy?
All you had to do was stick out a foot to trip him!”
Peter leaned against the doorframe, clutching the crumpled hundred-dollar bill in his hand.
He looked at the fat-faced promoter, his tone as cold as ice.
“Sorry, pal.”
Peter shrugged and turned into the stairwell.
“Not my problem.”
…
The Parker house, Queens.
Warm yellow light filtered through the window.
Ben Parker was balanced on a stepladder, fixing the flickering chandelier.
May was humming in the kitchen, the scent of apple pie drifting through the air.
“Ben, watch your back,” May said, coming out with a plate of fruit.
“Why isn’t Peter back yet?”
“Teenagers.”
Ben tightened the lampshade and wiped his forehead.
“The kid’s been a lot more confident lately.”
“As long as he stays out of trouble,” Aunt May sighed.
“And then there’s Leon.
That doorknob last time…”
*BANG!*
The glass patio door shattered.
Shards flew everywhere.
A dark figure stumbled inside, clutching a canvas bag in one hand and aiming a pitch-black gun barrel with the other.
It was the robber.
Fleeing from pursuing police cars, he had panicked and climbed over the fence into what looked like the weakest defense on the block.
“Don’t move!”
The robber screamed hysterically, sweeping the barrel between May and Ben.
“Close the blinds!
Quick!”
The fruit plate hit the floor.
Shattering loudly.
“May!
Get behind me!”
Ben Parker instinctively jumped off the ladder, spreading his arms to shield his wife.
His face, usually wearing a warm smile, was filled with absolute resolve.
“Listen, son,” Ben raised his hands.
“Take whatever you want and go.
Don’t hurt anyone here.”
“Shut up, old man!” The robber’s nerves were stretched to the breaking point, the wailing sirens outside driving him into a frenzy.
“Back off!
Or I shoot her!”
The gun pointed right behind Ben.
Ben Parker didn’t back down.
He took a step forward, staring straight into those frantic eyes.
“No.”
His voice wasn’t loud, but it slammed down like a stake in the ground.
“Not unless you step over my dead body.”
The robber’s pupils contracted wildly, his finger tightening on the trigger.
The shadow of death blanketed the living room in an instant.
At that critical moment—
*BOOM—!!!*
The wooden bathroom door on the first floor exploded into countless splinters as if struck by a cannonball.
The heavy solid wood door whistled through the air, crashing down violently between them.
Wood chips flew everywhere, leaving a crater in the floorboards.
The robber’s hand jolted, nearly misfiring.
He turned in terror.
From the dusty doorway, heavy footsteps echoed.
*Thud.*
*Thud.*
With every step, the floor groaned under the weight.
A massive red figure—hardly looking human—busted through the frame and stepped out slowly.
Ten feet tall.
Muscles like solid rock.
Crimson skin gleamed with a metallic sheen.
Four thick, powerful arms.
Four eyes gleaming with feral brutality.
Four Arms.
Leon kept his head low, forced to hunch over so he wouldn’t crush the ceiling.
A massive shadow fell, completely swallowing the robber.
*Gulp.*
The robber’s Adam’s apple bobbed, his gun trembling.
What was this thing?
A demon crawled out from hell?
Leon’s four eyes rolled, locking onto the tiny human.
He recognized that face.
This was the robber Peter let slip away.
The Tactical Analysis module spun wildly in Leon’s head.
If he didn’t intervene, Dad would die.
But if he killed the guy outright, Peter would never learn that lesson.
He had to let him run.
Let him run into the night full of terror, off to fulfill the destiny he was meant to complete.
“ROAR—!!!”
Leon opened his mouth and unleashed a deafening roar.
The shockwave tore through the air like a solid barrier, instantly shattering the remaining living room windows and blasting the vase on the table to pieces.
Blood oozed from the robber’s ears from the sheer volume, his legs buckling beneath him as he collapsed to the floor.
Leon reached down with a massive hand, grabbing the robber’s gun-toting wrist like a chick.
*CRACK.*
With just a gentle squeeze—
The pistol and the robber’s wrist bones were crushed together in a sickening crunch.
Steel twisted into scrap metal, clattering to the floor.
“AAAHHH!”
The scream was bloodcurdling.
Leon released his grip, his four eyes radiating a soul-chilling frost.
A low, rumbling thunder rolled from his throat:
“Get out.”
The robber’s mind completely shattered.
Ignoring the excruciating pain in his wrist and leaving the bag of cash behind, he scrambled on all fours toward the broken back door, fleeing into the darkness like a mad dog that had seen a ghost.
Silence returned to the living room.
Only the cold wind howled through the broken windows.
Ben Parker remained frozen, arms outstretched to protect his wife.
His chest heaved, sweat soaking his shirt.
He stared blankly at the crimson giant before him, his mind completely blank.
“Uh…” Ben swallowed hard, his voice dry.
“Th…
thank you?”
The crimson giant turned around slowly.
The overwhelming presence made Ben instinctively step back.
Right then—
Her face was pale and her body trembled slightly, but her eyes locked onto the monster.
Aunt May strode right up to Four Arms.
Looking up—
She could only reach the belt around the giant’s waist.
*Smack!*
May raised her hand and delivered a hard slap right to Four Arms’ thick thigh.
“Leon Parker!”
Her voice was sharp, bursting with anger and the release of surviving a nightmare.
“I know it’s you!”
Leon, who was just about to strike a cool pose before making his grand exit, froze on the spot.
All four eyes blinked in unison.
Awkward.
“First it was that flaming guy, and now a red giant?” Aunt May pointed at the wood splinters and broken glass covering the floor, her hands shaking with rage.
“Look at what you did to the living room!
Your father just painted that bathroom door last week!”
Ben Parker froze.
He looked at May, then back at the red monster.
“Le…
Leon?”
Ben couldn’t believe his ears.
Four Arms sighed, his massive frame crouching down slowly as a helpless expression washed over his terrifying face.
“Mom…”
Leon grunted, his voice deep and booming, though the apologetic tone in it was impossible to hide.
“It’s not a red giant, it’s Four Arms…
Besides, it was an emergency.”
He reached up with his lower pair of hands to awkwardly scratch his bald red head, while his upper hands hovered uselessly in midair.
“The guy had a gun.”
Ben Parker sank into the sofa, feeling his heart overload.
“My God…” Ben wiped his face.
“Leon, this one doesn’t look like that Fire Guy from before…
and you just crushed a gun with your bare hand.”
“That’s not the point, Ben!” May put her hands on her hips, pointing at the wreckage.
“The point is who’s going to fix this door?
And the windows!
This is the fourth time this month!”
Leon pulled back his nonexistent neck.
“I’ll fix it, I’ll fix it…” Leon muttered quietly.
“I’ve got four hands, so it’ll be fast.”
May snapped back,
“Change back right now!
Do you want all of New York to know we’re raising a four-armed red sweet potato in this house?!”
“Alright, alright.”
A red flash flared.
Leon transformed back to his normal self.
He looked out at the heavy night through the window, the corner of his lips tugging into an imperceptible smirk.
Peter.
You better run into him.
“What are you still standing there for?!”
May slapped the back of Leon’s head.
“Are these wood splinters going to grow legs and walk themselves out?!”
“On it, on it, dear Mom.”