Gwen’s mind raced.
What should she do?
What could she possibly do?
Jump out the window?
She was wearing slippers, and what would her father think?
If he saw the uniform, saw those web patterns—would he guess— She had been praying fervently that her father hadn’t noticed the details.
But George’s gaze had already locked on.
He saw the suit.
White, skin-tight, with a black web pattern.
The suit that had appeared countless times on the news, the one the citizens of New York called “Spider-Woman,” was currently sprawled across his daughter’s desk.
George remained silent for a long time.
So long that Gwen felt like her heart was going to leap out of her chest.
“Gwen,” George’s voice was somewhat raspy, “you…
you aren’t actually thinking of wearing this to the Spring Formal, are you?” Gwen’s brain shifted into overdrive.
She had been prepared to confess everything—to say, “Dad, I’m Spider-Woman.” But seeing her father’s expression—a cocktail of shock, helplessness, worry, and a touch of “has my daughter lost her mind”—she suddenly realized something.
He hadn’t even considered that possibility.
He thought she had simply gotten her hands on a replica Spider-Woman suit.
A severely damaged replica that she intended to wear to the dance.
The corner of Gwen’s mouth twitched.
The tension receded like a tide, replaced by an absurdity so extreme that a laugh bubbled up in her throat.
“Uh…” She opened her mouth.
Admit she was Spider-Woman?
No, too risky.
Go along with her father’s assumption?
A bold thought struck her—maybe she could make a joke out of it.
A joke that would put this matter to rest once and for all.
Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to look indignant.
“Yeah,” Gwen said, tilting her chin up and looking at her father with an “I’m just that cool” expression.
“I’m going to wear this to the dance.
What do you think?
Isn’t it avant-garde?” George’s expression instantly froze.
“You…
what did you say?” “A Spider-Woman suit, battle-damaged version,” Gwen said, picking up a torn sleeve and waving it in front of her father.
“Web-exclusive, one of a kind.
I’ll be the center of attention at the dance.
Did you really think Gwen Stacy would wear a boring old dress?
That’s too dull.” As she spoke, she almost started to believe it herself.
George’s mouth opened and closed, then opened and closed again, looking like a fish that had been tossed onto the shore.
His face turned from pale to beet red, then from red to a bruised purple.
“No,” he managed to choke out.
“Why not?” “Because this—this—this is underwear!” George finally found his voice, which cracked under the strain.
“You’re wearing underwear to a school dance?
Have you gone mad?” “It’s not underwear, it’s a superhero suit,” Gwen corrected him solemnly.
“It has bullet holes in it!” “Battle-damaged version, like I said.” “It’s scorched!” “That’s called pyrotechnic effects.” “Gwen Stacy!” George’s voice boomed through the room, causing even Howard and Simon downstairs to go quiet for a moment.
Looking at her father’s face, which looked ready to explode, Gwen finally couldn’t take it anymore—a “pfft” escaped her, and then she lost it completely, doubling over with laughter until tears pricked her eyes.
“What are you laughing at?” George felt like he was losing his grip on reality.
“Dad,” Gwen said, wiping her eyes and finally catching her breath, “I’m just messing with you.
This is a Halloween costume I bought online; I just hadn’t put it away yet.
The dress for the formal is over there.” She pointed to the delivery box in George’s hand.
George looked down at the box, then back at his daughter’s flushed, laughing face, then down at the tattered white suit on the desk.
“Are you…” his voice was weak, “are you sure?” “I’m sure.” Gwen walked forward, took the box from him, and gave him a kiss on the cheek.
“Thanks, Dad.
I’ll look beautiful for the dance, I won’t embarrass you.” George stood there as he watched his daughter open the box and pull out a simple white dress.
The hem of the skirt gave off a soft luster under the desk lamp, a sharp contrast to the bullet-riddled suit on the table.
“Does this look good?” Gwen asked, twirling with the dress held in front of her.
George was silent for a long time before letting out a long, heavy sigh.
“…It looks good.” “Then it’s settled.” Gwen carefully hung the dress in the closet and pushed George toward the door by his shoulders.
“Alright, Dad, you need to get some rest.
You have work tomorrow.” George was ushered out of the room.
He stood in the hallway, watching his daughter’s door close in front of him, listening to her light humming from behind it.
He stood there for a long time.
Then, he slowly walked downstairs.
As he passed the living room, Howard and Simon were watching him with amused curiosity.
“Dad’s face is really red,” Simon noted.
“Shut up and go to sleep,” George said.
Helen poked her head out of the kitchen, a dish sponge still in her hand.
“What happened?
I heard you shouting.” George opened his mouth, wanting to say, “Your daughter wants to wear a Spider-Woman outfit to the dance,” but the words became: “Nothing.
She found her dress.” Helen gave him a suspicious look but didn’t press the matter.
George walked into his study, closed the door, and sat in his chair.
Rubbing his temples, the image played over and over in his mind—the white suit with the black web patterns, the bullet holes, the scorch marks.
A replica Halloween costume, he told himself.
But for some reason, that thought felt like a splinter lodged in his brain, impossible to pull out.
*** Meanwhile, in Hell’s Kitchen.
Inside a room bathed in silver frost, Karl King stood behind a door, his eye pressed against the peephole.
The circular lens reflected a man’s face—in his fifties, gray-haired, wearing a sensible trench coat, and holding a paper bag.
“Are you asking about my parents?” Karl King tried his best to make his voice sound normal.
“Sorry, they went on a trip and haven’t come back yet.
They’ll probably be back next week.” The man outside the door frowned slightly.
“A trip?
Your parents didn’t mention anything to me about going out.” “It was a last-minute decision.
They left in a hurry.” “I see…” The man pondered for a moment, then set the paper bag on the mat by the door.
“I brought some fruit for you all.
Remember to let me know when they get back.” “Okay.
Thank you, Uncle.” The sound of footsteps gradually faded down the hallway.
Karl King remained pressed against the peephole, watching the man’s back disappear behind the elevator doors before finally pulling away.
He let out a long breath of relief.
If that man had opened this door, he would have been terrified.
Because this apartment had been completely transformed into a dark grotto.
The blinds were in tatters, and thick spider webs were everywhere—draped from the ceiling to the floor, layer upon layer, like gray-white shrouds wrapping the entire space.
Moonlight squeezed through the cracks, casting pale, ghastly streaks across the floor.
The floor was covered in dark red stains, and the walls glistened with the sheen of a viscous liquid.
Occasionally, black spiders dropped from the ceiling, their eight legs splaying in mid-air before landing on the floor with a tiny *tap* and scurrying quickly into the folds of the webbing.
The entire room was filled with a rot-like stench.
Karl King slowly walked up the stairs to the second floor, the wooden boards groaning and creaking under his feet.
He didn’t turn on the lights—he belonged to this darkness.
He pushed open a door.
It was his parents’ bedroom.
Everything was covered in spider webs.
The bed, the wardrobe, the vanity, the windows—every silhouette was blurred under the shroud of webbing, looking like it was buried under a thick layer of ash-colored snow.
His parents were lying on the bed.
No, they could no longer be considered living people.
They weren’t even corpses anymore.
Two human skins hung loosely, sprawled in the center of the bed.
Their features were still clearly visible—closed eyes, slightly parted mouths, the bridge of the nose, the wrinkles on the forehead.
Brown hair was matted against the skins, mingled with white spider silk.
A strange smile appeared on Karl King’s freckled, round face, something between a grin and a twitch.
“Please don’t resent me.
In nature, after a spider lays its eggs, don’t the children devour the mother?
It’s the law of nature; it’s what everyone does.” He gave the two human skins a deep bow, turned, and walked out of the room, gently clicking the door shut behind him.
In the hallway, more spiders dropped from the ceiling, landing on his shoulders, hair, and arms; Karl King didn’t brush them away.
He walked to the door at the end of the hall—his own room.
Inside, it was different from the rest of the house.
There were no webs, no stench, no dark red stains.
The bed was neatly made, textbooks were stacked on the desk, and the wardrobe was shut tight.
The curtains were drawn close, and only a desk lamp was on, casting a warm yellow glow against the wall.
It looked exactly like a normal high schooler’s room.
Karl King sat at his desk, opened a drawer, and pulled something out.
It was a dress.
White, a simple design, made of soft fabric that shimmered gently under the lamp’s light.
He laid it on the desk and used his palm to softly smooth out the wrinkles in the skirt.
“Friday,” he whispered.
He looked up at the photo pinned to the wall—a clipping from the school newspaper showing Gwen Stacy standing on a stage, drumsticks in hand, her blonde hair shining under the spotlights.
“At the Spring Formal.” His fingers slowly traced over the hem of the dress.
“I will eat the spider-girl who dared to reject me.” His mouth slowly widened into a grin.
“And take her power for myself.” The lamp cast sharp shadows across his face.
His freckled, round face looked, in that moment, like a melting mask.
In the darkness, countless tiny black things scurried at his feet, making a never-ending rustling sound.