Midtown High, open-air stadium.
The synthetic track was scorching hot under the blazing sun, the air thick with the acrid smell of heated rubber.
“On your marks—”
A whistle tore through the stifling air.
Four figures surged off the starting line.
Peter Parker was in lane three, and he was acting.
Acting terribly, at that.
To cover up his earlier “accident” in the cafeteria—crushing the corner of a stainless-steel table with his bare hands—he was currently doing his best to pass himself off as a Parkinson’s patient with zero physical coordination.
He was half a beat late off the blocks, swinging his arms so wildly he looked like he was directing traffic, every step weak and unsteady, as if his shoes were slick with oil.
Barely fifty meters in, the guy even stumbled.
His handsome face contorted into a grimace of agony, practically screaming “my lungs are about to burst.”
By the bleachers.
Leon covered his eyes with one hand, despair oozing through the gaps between his fingers.
Painful to watch.
Truly painful to watch.
“Is Peter okay?” Emily asked from beside him, chewing her straw with a worried look.
“He looks like he’s about to cough up his internal organs…
even though he was so fierce in the cafeteria earlier.”
“That’s the problem.”
Leon swirled the iced Americano in his hand, the ice cubes clinking crisply against the plastic cup.
Without the slightest pang of guilt, he began smearing his brother’s reputation.
“In the cafeteria, he just had a bout of low blood sugar and grabbed the table to steady himself.
It was pure coincidence the weld was rusted out.
Look at him now.
*This* is his true level: End-Stage Motor-Neuron Dysfunction.”
Emily burst out laughing.
“You have a terrible mouth.
He’s your brother!”
“The truth hurts, Emily.
Besides, he’s my cousin.
I can’t let it affect my brilliant brain—that’s very important!” Leon corrected her.
On the track, Peter finally “crawled” across the finish line.
16.8 seconds.
An old man pushing a wheelchair next door could have beaten him.
Hands on his knees, Peter gasped dramatically, his chest heaving like a bellows.
But his eyes darted stealthily toward the bleachers, checking to see if the crowd was buying his performance.
*Overdoing it, completely overdoing it,* Leon thought, deducting ten points in his head.
The acting was so theatrical it screamed fake.
Just then, a dull thud echoed from the adjacent soccer field.
*Thump!*
A varsity benchwarmer, trying to show off his footwork in front of the cheerleaders, wound up his leg and unleashed a thunderous volley.
Maximum power, zero precision.
The ball slammed violently against the sharp corner of a metal post, deforming wildly before deflecting at a physics-defying angle—turning into a high-speed cannonball.
Target: the front row of the bleachers.
Gwen Stacy, who was bent over tying her shoelaces.
“Watch out!”
Before the warning shouts could even settle, a black-and-white blur hurtled toward Gwen’s face.
Too fast.
Gwen looked up in confusion, her blonde hair whipped by the sudden gust.
The rapidly spinning ball expanded in her vivid blue eyes until it filled her entire vision.
She couldn’t dodge.
She didn’t even have time for the instinctual reflex of shutting her eyes.
*BOOM!*
A sudden gale whipped up out of nowhere.
No webbing.
No suit.
Nothing but the terrifying kinetic energy unleashed in an instant by biological muscle fibers.
Peter Parker, who had just been playing dead at the finish line, had his body react before his brain could think.
The ground subtly caved in an inch beneath his feet.
A split second before the ball could shatter Gwen’s nose—
A slender hand materialized out of thin air.
*Slap!*
A shockwave exploded outward.
The spinning ball instantly ground to a complete halt, its massive kinetic energy swallowed whole by that single palm.
The rush of wind blew back the bangs on Gwen’s forehead, strands of hair brushing against her stunned cheek.
Someone had pressed mute on the world.
Gwen stared blankly at the hand in front of her.
Slender, well-defined, and steady as a rock.
Her gaze traced up the arm.
Peter Parker was frozen in a lunging sprint pose, palming the ball in one hand, his face less than five centimeters from hers.
Those brown eyes, usually timid and soft-spoken, were now as sharp as an unsheathed blade.
Carrying a hint of…
pulse-pounding pressure.
Time seemed to freeze.
Complete silence fell over the entire stadium.
The onlookers who had just been laughing at Peter running like a duck now had their jaws hitting the floor.
From the finish line to the bleachers was a straight-line distance of over ten meters.
How did he get here?
Teleportation?
Flash?
Or did he glitch through the server?
The sharpness in Peter’s eyes vanished instantly, replaced by sheer panic.
He stared at Gwen, who was practically touching him, and then looked down at the ball in his hand.
Cold sweat instantly drenched his back.
He was screwed!
There was literally no explaining this away.
He had just pretended he couldn’t run, and now in the blink of an eye, he crossed ten meters to catch a projectile out of midair for the sake of love?!
“Peter…” Gwen’s voice trembled slightly.
“You…”
Just as Peter’s brain short-circuited and he was about to invent some bullshit story like “a radioactive spider bit my sneakers”—
“Oh my God!
Peter!!”
A roar filled with shock, dramatic flair, and exasperation shattered the dead silence.
Leon burst through the crowd like a lion protecting its cub.
Shoving aside anyone in his path, he grabbed Peter by the shoulders and shook him violently, as if trying to rattle out whatever water was sloshing around in his head.
“Is *this* the power of love?!
Peter!
I told you you should confess to Gwen!
Look at this!
Look at this damn adrenaline!”
Leon spun around dramatically, throwing his arms wide toward the baffled onlookers like a cult leader preaching to his followers:
“Did you all see that?
A medical miracle!
A second ago he was wheezing like an old dog, but the moment Gwen was in danger, he unleashed potential beyond human limits!
*This* is adrenaline!
*This* is love!
This is *Titanic* crashing into *Fast & Furious*!”
The students exchanged stunned looks.
Even though it sounded completely ridiculous…
was there really any other explanation?
After all, everyone had heard stories of people lifting trucks in extreme emergencies.
Could love…
really be that powerful?
“Come on, to the nurse’s office!
Move, move, move!”
Leon gave Peter no chance to speak, nor did he give Gwen time to process.
Hooking his arm around Peter’s neck, he forcibly dragged him away while bellowing at the top of his lungs, “You definitely have rhabdomyolysis!
That burst was way too intense—your meniscus is probably ground into dust!
Hang in there, brother!”
Choked so hard his eyes rolled back, Peter could only stumble along under Leon’s brute force.
As they passed Gwen, Leon paused for a brief second.
He threw her a meaningful glance, the corner of his lips curling up.
“Stacy, looks like someone was willing to trade his life for yours.”
Gwen sat where she was, a soft blush spreading across her cheeks.
She watched Peter’s battered, dragged-away figure, her fingertips lightly touching the air where the soccer ball had stopped.
Adrenaline?
As the police captain’s daughter, her instincts told her something didn’t add up.
That blast of wind earlier…
it had stung her face.
“Peter Parker…”
Gwen whispered his name softly, a spark of inquisitive curiosity flickering in her eyes.
…
Meanwhile.
Forest Hills, Queens.
The Parkers’ two-story house was bathed in the afternoon tranquility.
Aunt May was humming jazz in the kitchen, the oven filling the air with the sweet scent of baking blueberry pie.
She had no idea that just beyond the wall, a silent hunt was taking place on the front lawn.
Three men in gray coveralls moved with stiff, unnatural strides toward the front door.
Ominous dark-red light pulsed beneath their skin; wherever they stepped, the lush green lawn withered and blackened instantly.
These were the “sweepers” sent by Norman Osborn.
Injected with a diluted version of the Hellfire Serum, their intelligence had degraded, but their physical strength and destructive urges were infinitely magnified.
“Target…
May Parker…”
The burly leader let out a low roar, his voice sounding as if he had swallowed a handful of glowing coals.
Raising his hand, a ball of dark red energy condensed in his palm, warping the surrounding air with intense heat.
Just as his boot touched the porch step—
*Beep.*
A faint electronic beep sounded.
The countdown of the Grim Reaper.
Across the street, the second-floor curtains of a neighboring house snapped open, revealing two agents disguised as a retired couple who expressionlessly aimed high-frequency sonic cannons.
The side door of a seemingly ordinary maintenance van parked on the curb slid open violently.
*Zzzzt—!*
Four high-voltage capture nets crackling with blue electrical arcs shot out, tightly wrapping the three intruders into neat bundles.
“ROAR!!”
The leader roared as his muscles swelled like balloons, the intense dark-red heat melting through the alloy mesh in seconds.
Conventional physical restraints were useless against such magical-leaning monsters.
“Target energy readings anomalous, composition unanalyzable,” Phil Coulson’s calm voice echoed in the earpieces.
“Execute Plan B.”
The automatic sprinkler system embedded in the lawn activated.
It wasn’t water coming out.
It was liquid nitrogen cryo-agent developed by SHIELD specifically for empowered individuals.
*Pfft—!!*
Dense white mist engulfed the three flaming monsters in an instant.
Extreme heat met extreme cold.
A sickening sound of cracking echoed.
The three mutated men, who had been arrogant moments before, instantly froze into icy statues radiating frost, locked in ferocious poses.
Even encased in ice, a sinister red glow continued to pulse stubbornly from deep within, attempting to thaw the solid shell.
“Pack it up.”
Several agents in black appeared like ghosts, expertly packing the ice sculptures into crates, loading the truck, and replacing the damaged patch of turf.
The entire process took thirty seconds.
Inside the house.
May carried the freshly baked blueberry pie to the window.
“Huh?
Thought I heard something out there.”
She pushed open the window.
The sun was bright, peaceful and serene.
A few utility workers were packing up their tools.
The crew leader took off his cap and smiled, waving to her.
“Good afternoon, ma’am.
Just performing routine maintenance on the underground pipes.
Sorry for the disruption.”
“Oh, thank you for your hard work,” May said with a smile, closing the window.
“Such responsible workers.”
…
The school rooftop.
Leon leaned against the railing as his phone vibrated.
Encrypted number.
Stepping away from Peter toward the edge of the roof, he answered the call.
The playful mischief in his eyes vanished instantly, replaced by icy indifference.
“Mr.
Parker.”
Phil Coulson’s voice was heavier than ever.
“I think we need to talk.
We just intercepted three individuals attempting to break into your home.”
“Norman’s people?” Leon asked, knowing the answer full well.
“Yes, but the situation is…
complicated.”
Phil Coulson stared at the ice sculptures inside the specialized containment chamber in front of him.
Even at minus one hundred degrees Celsius, black smoke still hissed from the monsters’ wounds, giving off a nauseating sulfur stench.
“Our analysts can’t decipher this energy.
It doesn’t belong to tech, nor does it fit known mutations.”
Coulson paused, his voice dropping low.
“Mr.
Parker, the trouble you’ve gotten into has escalated.
This stuff…
it looks like some kind of special energy.
Or a curse.”
Leon’s fingers tightened slightly around the railing.
Rust flaked off under his pressure and trickled down.
He looked out in the direction of Oscorp Tower, as if he could see the madman plunging into the abyss.
“A curse?
Interesting.”