One hundred dollars.
Peter ran his fingers over the crisp edges of the bill inside his pants pocket.
Rough, yet real.
The night air was a little chilly, and sweat stuck to his back, but he didn’t care.
This was his first real money.
Not an allowance Peter Parker had begged Uncle Ben for, but spoils won by “Spider-Man” with his own fists.
Buy a second-hand camera?
Or get Aunt May a replacement blender?
The last time that ancient machine ran, it rattled loudly enough to sound like a tractor starting up in the living room.
He turned the street corner.
The red-brick house stood just ahead.
The off-key tune Peter was humming abruptly died in his throat.
Red and blue flashing lights.
The glaring light painted the exterior walls of the Parker house in alternating shades of dark and bright.
The sirens wailed with a sharp, grating shriek, like a saw grinding directly against his nerves.
Two police cruisers blocked the intersection.
Wrapped in their bathrobes, neighbors stood on the lawn pointing and gossiping, their faces filled with panic.
Blood rushed straight to his head in a violent roar.
A loud buzzing filled his ear canals.
Something had happened.
“Over there!
He’s running toward the back alley!”
Someone yelled.
Peter turned his neck stiffly, his gaze piercing through the narrow gap between the two buildings.
A figure was frantically scrambling over a fence.
Dark jacket, slinging a canvas bag that looked entirely out of place in this neighborhood.
That was…
Peter’s pupils constricted into pinpricks.
The paint stain on the back of the jacket was shaped like a bird with a broken wing.
Just tens of minutes ago, he had seen that exact emblem in the wrestling arena’s office.
The mugger.
The burglar he had stepped aside to let go, all because of a dismissive “Not my problem.”
An icy chill erupted down his spine, instantly freezing Peter’s internal organs.
This man was running out from the direction of the Parker home.
Inside that house…
Uncle Ben.
Aunt May.
And Leon.
His sanity snapped.
Peter didn’t head for the front door, nor did he pause to ask the police.
He turned on his heel, bent his knees, and the ground under his feet let out a dull thud.
Like an out-of-control cannonball, he vaulted straight over the two-meter-high fence and crashed into the pitch-black alleyway.
…
An abandoned textile warehouse.
Broken bricks littered the ground, and standing puddles emitted a stench of rot.
The burglar’s lungs heaved like a bellows.
Terrifying.
It was too terrifying.
That red four-armed monster…
that look in its eyes…
Fear made him forget his exhaustion; all he wanted was to escape this hellish neighborhood.
Wind howled overhead.
*Thud!*
A dark shadow slammed heavily down right in front of him.
The concrete floor cracked, sending sharp gravel flying onto the burglar’s face, stinging painfully.
“Who…
who is that?!”
The burglar fell backward onto his rear, scrambling through the dirty water with hands and feet.
Peter didn’t say a word.
A comical red mask concealed his face, and a cheap hoodie hung loosely over his frame.
But in the burglar’s eyes, this slender figure somehow overlapped with that red demon from moments ago.
Peter advanced step by step.
His mind was consumed by flashes of red and blue police lights, and the thought of Uncle Ben’s old Ford that was always struggling to start.
“What did you do?”
His voice trembled.
It was the sound of a rage barely suppressed, on the verge of spiraling completely out of control.
“Get back!
Freak!”
The burglar pulled out a folding knife from his waist and slashed wildly through the air.
“Don’t press me!”
Peter stared at the knife.
Too slow.
Peter raised his hand.
Webbing shot from his wrist, sticking precisely to the wrist holding the knife, and yanked back violently.
*Snap.*
The crisp sound of bone dislocating echoed through the room.
“Aaagh—!”
The knife dropped to the ground, and the burglar clutched his wrist, screaming in pain.
Peter lunged forward and grabbed him by the collar with one hand.
The hundred-and-eighty-pound adult male was lifted off his feet and hurled forcefully against the rough brick wall.
*Thud!*
Plaster dust fluttered down, clouding the air.
“I asked you: what did you do to that family?!”
A fist rained down.
One punch.
The bridge of the nose collapsed.
A second punch.
The eye socket cracked.
A third punch.
Teeth flew out alongside bloody foam.
The burglar was like a ragdoll, completely incapable of fighting back.
Peter couldn’t stop.
If anything happened to Uncle Ben…
if it was because of this bastard…
“Stop hitting me…
please…”
The burglar sobbed, his face swollen like a pig’s head.
“I didn’t do anything…
I just tried to run…
there was a monster…
a red monster…”
The fist froze in midair.
Peter ripped away the man’s disguise.
Moonlight streamed through a broken window, illuminating the blood-stained face.
It was him.
It really was him.
The man Peter had personally let walk away.
What had he said back then?
—”That’s not my problem.”
Peter loosened his grip and stumbled back.
If he had just stuck out a foot back then…
If he had just shot out a line of web…
Then this man wouldn’t have ended up in the Parkers’ backyard, and Uncle Ben wouldn’t have been put in danger.
“If you have the power to help people, but choose not to…
then their suffering becomes your responsibility.”
Words Uncle Ben had said at the breakfast table that morning exploded like thunder in Peter’s mind.
At the time, he had dismissed it as an old man’s nagging.
Now, those words were a red-hot branding iron, searing straight into his heart.
It hurt so much he could barely breathe.
“The money’s all in the bag…
I didn’t take a dime…” The burglar curled up on the ground, trembling.
“Don’t kill me…”
Peter looked at his hands.
These hands could lift a car, could scale skyscrapers.
Yet these very hands had nearly severed his own lifeline out of sheer apathy.
With great power comes great responsibility.
It wasn’t just a slogan.
It was a lesson carved in blood.
Peter gasped for breath, the metallic smell of rust and blood in the air clearing his head slightly.
He raised his wrist.
A thick torrent of webbing shot out, binding the burglar tightly to a nearby streetlamp like a cocoon.
“Save your explanations for the police.”
He turned.
He ran.
Peter sprinted toward home at full speed.
The wind dried the tears beneath his mask, only for fresh ones to spill out instantly.
Please let them be okay.
Please, God, let them be okay.
As long as they’re safe, I swear I’ll never say “Not my problem” ever again.
…
The front door of the Parker home was standing ajar.
The police cars had already left to pursue the “suspect.”
Peter stood at the entrance, his hand hovering over the door handle, trembling violently.
He didn’t dare push it open.
Terrified he would see a white sheet.
Terrified he would see blood.
Terrified he would see the woman who always kept the house so immaculate breaking down in tears.
“Leon!
Hurry up!
This wooden board is about to drop!”
From inside, Aunt May’s full-throated shout rang out.
Peter froze.
“Coming, coming!
Mom, even with four arms I can’t act as a hydraulic jack!
This doorframe is way too heavy!”
Leon’s voice.
Laden with complaints, sounding lively and full of energy.
“Stop whining.
Watch your step and don’t step on glass shards.”
Uncle Ben’s voice.
Deep and steady.
Peter shoved the door open.
The living room looked as though a mini-tornado had just torn through it.
The French doors leading to the backyard were reduced to bare frames, through which cold wind howled inside.
The solid wooden door that originally belonged to the bathroom now lay bizarrely across the center of the living room, shattered into several pieces.
A large crater scarred the floorboards, looking as if a meteorite had struck it.
Grimy and covered in dust, all three family members stopped what they were doing at once and turned to look at him.
Leon was wearing a loose T-shirt, exerting himself as he heaved half a sofa over his shoulder.
Uncle Ben held a broom.
Aunt May gripped a cleaning rag.
Hearing the door open, all three stopped their work simultaneously and turned toward the doorway.
Peter stood in the doorway, his red hoodie caked in dust, his mask clutched in his hand, his hair a messy bird’s nest, and wet tear tracks staining his face.
“Peter?” Aunt May blinked in surprise.
“Goodness, what happened to you?”
Peter stared intently at Uncle Ben.
Watching the older man standing there completely unscathed, gazing back at him with warm, concerned eyes.
“Uncle Ben…”
His voice choked up.
The next second, like a child who had suffered immense grievance, he rushed forward and threw his arms around Ben Parker in a desperate hug.
He held on so tightly it was as if he wanted to merge the man into his own body.
“Hey…
hey!
Easy, kid, my old back,” Ben grunted, staggered back a step as his broom clattered to the floor.
He felt the violent trembling of the boy in his arms.
The joke he was about to make died on his tongue.
Raising a rough hand, he patted Peter gently on the back.
“It’s all right, Peter.
It’s okay.”
Ben’s voice was warm and reassuring.
“Just a petty burglar.
Nobody got hurt tonight.”
“I thought…
I thought…” Peter sobbed uncontrollably, burying his face into Ben’s shoulder.
“I’m sorry…
I came back too late…
I’m so sorry…”
“Silly child, how could this be your fault?” Aunt May walked over, gently touching Peter’s hair, her own eyes moistening.
“It was our fault for not making sure the back door was locked.”
In the corner.
Leon set down the sofa, casually picking up a broom handle to twirl.
Looking at the weeping Peter, an almost imperceptible curve touched the corners of Leon’s lips.
Though it had been a close call, Peter had learned the lesson.
Even without the death of Ben Parker, Spider-Man was still born.
And he would be a Spider-Man burdened not by a curse of despair, but lifted by love and protection.
Peter lifted his head and wiped his face haphazardly.
His vision blurred by tears, he looked over at Leon in the corner.
Although he didn’t know the exact details of what had transpired, looking at the destruction around the house—resembling a demolition site left behind by the Incredible Hulk—Peter could roughly guess what kind of “horrific” ordeal that burglar had suffered.
Their eyes met.
Leon raised an eyebrow, pointed at the dustpan on the ground, and mouthed two words:
“Get working.”
Peter laughed through his tears.
The profound relief of surviving a near-tragedy filled every corner of his chest.
“Alright, now that Peter’s back, stop putting on a sob story,” Aunt May clapped her hands, instantly switching back to matriarch mode.
“We have to clean this place up tonight, or the freezing wind tomorrow morning will turn us all into popsicles.
Leon, especially you!
You broke that doorframe, so that money comes out of your allowance!”
“Why?!
I was trying to save you guys!” Leon cried in protest.
“That was self-defense!”
“Does saving people require ripping off the bathroom door to throw it like a projectile?!” Aunt May glared.
“And the coffee table—you smashed that with your feet, too!”
“Peter!
Come help me reason with her!”
“I think Aunt May is right,” Peter said, picking up a broom, a lighthearted smile on his face that hadn’t been there before.
“And I think you should fix the window, too.”
“Traitor!
This is utter betrayal!”
In the cozy living room, shouting, sweeping, and playful banter intertwined.
Under the warm yellow light, dust danced gently through the air.
Peter swept with his broom, watching his family around him.
He swore in his heart.
In this lifetime, even if it cost him his life, he would protect this noisy, beautiful warmth.
…
Late at night, on the roof of the Parker house.
Peter sat cross-legged beside the chimney, threading a needle by the dim light of the moon.
That red hoodie had been altered beyond recognition.
Over the chest, he had outlined a large spider emblem using a black marker.
This time, the stitches were no longer crooked.
With every stitch, he sowed his newfound resolve.
…
Midtown Manhattan, the Daily Bugle Building.
The editor-in-chief’s office was brightly lit.
J.
Jonah Jameson—the mustache-wearing man who lived in a permanent state of fury—was roaring at a set of photographs spread across his desk.
They were blurry pictures snapped by passersby.
A red figure tossing someone through the air at a wrestling ring.
A red figure stringing up a robber from a streetlight in the middle of the avenue.
“Look at this!
Look at this!”
Jameson slammed his hand down on the photos, spraying spit all over his assistant’s face.
“A masked freak!
Swinging around our city!
Who is he?
What does he want?
He’s running around playing vigilante!”
“But, boss, he seems to have caught that wanted fugitive…” the assistant offered timidly.
“That’s a cover-up!”
Jameson stood up abruptly, his face turning beet red.
“Anyone who hides their face behind a mask has something nasty to hide!
He’s a threat!
A menace!
An unsanctioned thug!”
He grabbed a red pen and drew a massive X over the red figure in the photo.
“I want tomorrow’s front page!
Put this photo right on it!
Largest font available!”
Jameson narrowed his eyes, staring at the guy with the spider emblem on his chest in the photo, a cold sneer forming at the corners of his mouth.
“The headline will read—”
“‘Spider-Man: Threat or Menace?'”