The next day, Midtown High.
The members of the Spring Formal decorating committee were working on a mural.
It was massive, taking up the entire wall at the end of the hallway.
The paint wasn’t dry yet, shimmering under the afternoon sun.
On Friday night, this painting would serve as the backdrop in the formal hall.
The theme was Spring in Venice.
The more talented volunteers had already sketched the outline in chalk—a gondola floating on a canal, a gondolier in a large straw hat leaning against the oar, and a sky filled with pink and orange.
Just looking at it made one feel lazy.
Gwen stood before the mural, arms crossed.
Her eyes were fixed on the pink clouds, but her mind was clearly elsewhere.
Her eyes were slightly bloodshot, and the dark circles beneath them were deeper than usual—she had slept for less than two hours last night.
In fact, she had hardly slept at all.
Last night, she had mustered the courage to make that call, using every excuse she could think of—late-night TV, things you can’t say during the day, the Spring Formal—and then she got hung up on.
It felt worse than a direct rejection.
The guy just said, “I have things to do,” and the call ended.
No explanation, no apology, not even a “yes” or “no.” Gwen had waited ten minutes, then an hour, as her phone screen went dark and the rain outside turned from a downpour to a drizzle.
Nothing.
What was that supposed to mean?
Had she been rejected?
She was one of the top students at Midtown High; would she really lack for a date?
Gwen rolled her eyes internally.
But that eye-roll felt a bit hollow—she specifically wanted to invite *him*.
“This year’s Spring Formal is going to be the most beautiful one yet, right Gwen?” A familiar voice sounded behind her.
Gwen turned to see Harry Osborn.
He was wearing a deep blue cardigan over a white shirt, holding a book, looking like he’d just come from the library.
“Maybe, for some people,” Gwen replied gloomily.
As they spoke, they were interrupted by another voice.
“Hey, Gwen.” Gwen turned around.
Karl King was standing there.
He wore a rumpled dark blue hoodie, the hood down, revealing a round face covered in freckles.
His expression was nervous, his fingers constantly rubbing against the seams of his trousers.
Gwen frowned slightly.
Although she and Karl King were classmates, they had almost never spoken.
She didn’t have a good impression of him—last semester, when she fished an Asian boy’s backpack out of the trash can, Karl King had stood three steps away, grinning as he said, “It was just a joke.” She still remembered that smile.
“Can I talk to you in private?” Karl King’s voice was tight as he tried to act casual.
“I don’t think we have any private topics that require avoiding others,” Gwen said, her tone lukewarm.
Karl King glanced at Harry, bit his lip, and after a moment of hesitation, spoke up: “Um…
could I invite you to be my date for the Spring Formal?” Gwen was stunned.
She hadn’t expected this person to ask her out.
In her memory, the only interaction she had with Karl King was that backpack incident—she picked it up, he laughed.
Other than that, there was nothing; they wouldn’t even nod to each other in the hallway.
“Sorry, I already have a date,” Gwen said without a second thought.
“Who?” Karl King’s face flushed bright red, his voice rising instinctively, sounding almost like an interrogation.
That was quite rude.
Beside her, Harry frowned but didn’t interject.
“Sorry, no comment.” Gwen’s tone went cold; she didn’t want to dwell on this.
She turned back to Harry, her voice returning to normal.
“Harry, didn’t you say we were going to prep for the history exam together?
Shall we go?” Harry blinked, immediately catching Gwen’s drift.
“Oh, right.” The two turned and walked away.
Karl King remained where he was, his expression grim.
His hands were clenched into fists, knuckles white, eyes locked onto Gwen’s retreating back.
His lips moved, but no sound came out.
Once they were further away, Harry asked curiously, “So, who actually is your date?” Gwen’s footsteps faltered.
She had planned to just use a random name to brush him off, but when the words reached her lips, the first name that popped up was—the guy who hung up on her last night.
He hadn’t agreed, but he hadn’t said no either.
Maybe he was considering it?
Gwen tried to justify it to herself.
Since he hadn’t said “no,” what was wrong with saying it?
“Alex,” Gwen said the name.
Harry looked at Gwen in surprise.
“Alex?
That new transfer student?” “Yes, him,” Gwen said, picking up her pace.
“Sorry, I have to go practice the formal music with Betty and the girls.
See ya.” Gwen waved to Harry and took off.
That night, at the Stacy residence.
Gwen sat at her desk, which was covered by a white skin-tight suit.
It was badly damaged.
Bullets had left two long tears in the uniform, the scorched edges still smelling of gunpowder.
“Yeah, compared to the spider suit, a formal gown might suit me better,” Gwen muttered to herself.
Knock, knock, knock.
“Gwen, your dress for the formal arrived.” Her father’s voice came from the door.
Gwen’s body went rigid—she spun around instantly, using her body to shield the desk.
If her dad saw the uniform, it would be all over.
“Uh…
thanks, Dad.
Just leave the clothes there.” As she spoke, Gwen secretly reached behind her back, stuffing a protruding sleeve back into the pile.
George didn’t leave immediately.
He stood at the door, his gaze lingering on his daughter for a moment.
“The precinct is pretty busy lately.
Disappearance cases in Hell’s Kitchen are on the rise.
If the culprit is really related to Spider-Woman…
wait—” His gaze froze.
George saw Gwen’s hand move behind her back, and a white object peeked out from her side, marked with black bullet holes.
“What are you busy with?” George stepped forward.
Gwen blocked him sideways, her back pressed against the edge of the desk.
She had nowhere to retreat.
“Just…
just a hobby.” Her voice was trembling, and sweat beaded on her forehead.
George took another step, his gaze moving over his daughter’s shoulder—white fabric, black scorch marks.
He saw the suit.
It was skin-tight, with a black web pattern on it.
He had seen it countless times on the news; the citizens of New York called it the Spider-Woman suit.
And right now, it was spread across his daughter’s desk.
George didn’t speak.
He stood there, looking at the suit, then at Gwen’s pale face.