The next day, sunlight at Midtown High spilled over the red brick walls of the school building, casting shifting shadows of climbing vines across the surface.
When Gwen walked into the building, a small crowd had already gathered in the hallway.
A group of students was huddled near the lockers, discussing something in hushed but excited tones.
Their voices were loud enough to carry down the entire corridor.
Gwen hadn’t intended to pay them any mind, but a few words drifted into her ears—”missing,” “mummified,” “Spider-Woman”—and her feet slowed of their own accord.
She leaned against the wall at the corner of the hallway, pretending to check her phone while keeping her ears pricked.
Larry Kenny stood at the center of the crowd.
He was tan, with his school uniform sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing thick forearms.
He was a starter on the school football team and one of Midtown High’s most notorious bullies.
Four or five lackeys surrounded him, a few of whom Gwen recognized—the types who usually treated the hallways like they owned them.
Larry occupied the space directly in front of the lockers, hands on his hips.
Occasionally, a younger student would try to approach to open their locker, but seeing the intimidation factor of the group, they would tuck their heads and take the long way around.
“I’m telling you guys, have you heard about that mummified corpse killer in Queens lately?” Larry’s voice was gruff and loud, as if he wanted the whole hallway to hear.
“My cousin is a clerk at the police station, and he told me—those bodies at the scene, man…
they’re nothing but skin!” A chorus of gasps rose from the crowd, mixed with a few exaggerated “Whoas.” “Quit bullshitting, Larry,” a tall, thin boy with glasses said, pushing his frames up.
“Doesn’t your cousin work at the DMV?” “That’s my cousin’s uncle’s neighbor!
Who cares who he is—the point is, this killer is hardcore, get it?” Gwen rolled her eyes internally.
Larry’s talent for exaggeration was far better than his football skills.
“Maybe Spider-Woman did it.” A dull, muffled voice cut in.
Gwen shifted her gaze—the speaker was a short, chubby boy wearing a rumpled deep blue hoodie.
The collar hung loosely, revealing a patch of pale red freckles on his neck.
He had a round face covered in a dense layer of freckles.
Karl King.
One of the core members of Larry’s clique.
Gwen had never had a good impression of Karl.
Last semester, when she pulled an Asian boy’s backpack out of a trash can, Karl King had stood three paces away, grinning as he said, “It was just a joke.” She had remembered that smile for a whole week.
And now, this person was claiming Spider-Woman was a serial killer.
Gwen’s fingers tightened around the edge of her phone.
She spent every night swinging through New York in a white suit, she’d broken ribs, had her cheek grazed by bullets, and been called worse things by criminals.
She didn’t do it to be thanked, but she at least shouldn’t have dirt thrown at her name so carelessly.
Furthermore, she thought of those dead spiders at the scene.
If she closed her eyes, she could still see them—curled legs, shriveled bodies, and that tiny puncture in the abdomen.
Those things had nothing to do with Spider-Woman, but she couldn’t say it.
She couldn’t explain, *I’ve seen the scene, those spiders aren’t mine.* Because she wasn’t supposed to have seen the scene.
She could only remain silent.
“Weren’t there dead spiders found at the scene too?” Karl King’s voice was very low.
Gwen heard something beneath the facade—a nervous tension, like a thief afraid of being caught.
“Maybe it has something to do with Spider-Woman.
Maybe she’s the one doing it.” Gwen stared at the back of Karl King’s head, a voice in her mind asking: *What are you afraid of?
Why are you pointing the finger at Spider-Woman?
Is it a coincidence, or are you trying to divert attention?* Her Spider-Sense didn’t tingle.
But a more primitive intuition was gently plucking at her nerves.
“Come on, Karl,” Larry said, slapping Karl King on the shoulder so hard he stumbled.
“That’s a bit of a stretch.
If Spider-Woman was a killer, why would she spend every day swinging around the streets?
Is she collecting skin to make a new suit?” The people around them laughed.
Gwen didn’t.
She noticed that Karl King didn’t laugh either.
The corner of Karl’s mouth twitched, but it wasn’t a smile; it was a muscular spasm, a mechanical reaction made to hide something.
“Hey guys, maybe you could find somewhere else to hang out…” Harry’s voice was calm and steady, carrying a natural composure.
Gwen looked at Harry, a strange feeling rising within her.
She wasn’t particularly close to Harry, but they weren’t strangers either; they were the type who nodded in greeting in the hallways and chatted occasionally at parties.
But in their last few encounters, she felt like something about Harry had changed.
She couldn’t put her finger on it.
His smile seemed a bit thinner than before, and there was a layer in his eyes she couldn’t see through.
“Wait, Larry!” Harry called out to Larry as he was about to leave.
“Did Flash Thompson not come to school today?” Flash Thompson.
Gwen’s stomach tightened sharply.
She looked down at her phone screen, but it had already auto-locked, reflecting her own face in the black glass.
She knew where Flash was.
No, she didn’t—and that was the terrifying part.
She didn’t know where he had gone because Flash Thompson no longer existed.
That person had his neck snapped by a hooded man and was devoured by something black and living until not even a bone remained.
She had watched it all happen with her own eyes and could do nothing.
*Crack.* The sound exploded in her ears again.
Gwen’s fingertips left a faint nail mark on her phone case.
She took a deep breath, pushing the image out of her mind—forcefully, roughly, without hesitation.
She couldn’t break down in the hallway; she couldn’t think about it here.
But could she really stop thinking about it?
“Nope,” Larry’s voice drifted over.
“Maybe he got sucked dry by the mummy killer, who knows?” Gwen closed her eyes and opened them again.
Larry was joking, but the joke made her already frayed nerves ache.
Did Flash’s death have anything to do with the Mummified Corpse Killer?
Were the hooded man and the killer the same person?
The dead spiders—the more she thought, the messier it became.
Harry and Larry exchanged a few more words, but Gwen didn’t listen.
Her attention drifted elsewhere—the hooded man’s build, Alex’s shadow, the details of the crime scene she shouldn’t have seen but had.
Until Harry’s voice rang out again: “Gwen.” She looked up and slipped her phone into her pocket, her expression switching back to its everyday state in less than a second—a slight upward curve of the lips, relaxed eyes.
“Good morning, Harry.” Her voice was steady, flawless.
“Did you hear about Flash?
What Larry was saying.” “A few bits.” Gwen opened her locker and stuffed several textbooks into her bag, her movements natural and fluid.
“But you know Larry.
You have to take everything he says with a grain of salt.” She even managed a smile.
It was just right—neither cold nor overly enthusiastic.
But inside, she was screaming: *About Flash?
Flash is dead.
I saw it with my own eyes.
You don’t know, Larry doesn’t know, nobody knows.
That secret is heavy in my chest, and I have to pretend it doesn’t exist every single day.* “Alex…” When Harry uttered the name, Gwen’s movements faltered for a moment.
It was very slight, so slight she wasn’t sure if Harry had noticed.
“What kind of person do you think he is?” Gwen looked up at Harry.
His expression was serious, not just idle small talk.
There was a focus in his blue eyes she hadn’t seen before—Harry was scrutinizing Alex, and he was scrutinizing her reaction.
“Why the sudden question?” Gwen asked in return.
She didn’t want to show her hand first; she needed to know how much Harry knew.
“Nothing, just curious.” Harry shrugged, returning to his nonchalant demeanor.
But Gwen wasn’t fooled—the shrug was too deliberate.
“A transfer student who beats the school’s biggest bully into running away on his first day isn’t exactly common.
Besides, I always feel like he’s…
different.” *Different.* Gwen’s heart skipped a beat.
She felt the same way, but she had never dared to admit it.
Admitting it meant facing a possibility: the hooded man might be Alex.
The thing that had killed a man and devoured a corpse right in front of her might be the same transfer student who sat in the back row and helped her with physics problems.
She didn’t want to face it.
But she already was.
“Maybe he’s just strong.” Gwen closed her locker and turned to face Harry, deliberately changing the subject.
“How have you been?
I heard you took sick leave.
Are you feeling better?” “Much better,” Harry said.
“It was just a cold.” Gwen nodded, not pushing further.
“If you need any help, you know where to find me.” She meant it.
She didn’t know what Harry was going through, but she could at least let him know someone was willing to listen.
Harry looked at her, a complex emotion flickering in his blue eyes.
He opened his mouth—Gwen could sense he wanted to say something, the words were right there at the tip of his tongue.
But in the end, Harry just nodded and walked away.
Gwen stood by the lockers, watching Harry’s retreating back.
Sunlight streamed through the window, casting patches of light on the floor, but none of it reached Harry.
The noise in the hallway gradually returned to normal.
Gwen slung her bag over her shoulder and headed toward the classroom.
As she walked in, the bell rang.
Students took their seats in pairs and threes, textbooks and notebooks piling up on the desks.
Gwen’s gaze swept the room—Peter Parker was sitting by the window, head down and writing something in his notebook, his glasses slipping to the tip of his nose, looking small and hunched over.
Gwen felt a slight pang of sympathy.
Peter had become even more silent lately; since Flash was no longer there as a target, other bullies had started turning their attention toward him.
Harry sat in the third row, holding his thick notebook, but his gaze was drifting out the window.
Gwen followed his line of sight—outside, there was only a grey-blue sky and a leafless oak tree.
Larry and his lackeys occupied the back few rows, laughing and talking loudly.
Gwen’s gaze slid past their faces without pausing.
Then she looked at the seat in the last row by the wall.
It was empty.
Alex hadn’t come today.
Gwen sat down and flipped open her textbook.
The scent of paper reached her nose, the smell of ink usually providing a sense of comfort.
But she couldn’t concentrate on the pages; the letters blurred together, failing to form meaningful words.
She was thinking about that thin transfer student.
She was thinking about the inexplicable tension Karl King showed when mentioning Spider-Woman and the dead spiders.
Harry’s “different” kept echoing in her ears, along with those desiccated spider corpses and that sharp *crack*.
The shadow of the hooded man loomed over every image.
The height wasn’t right.
Gwen ran the memory through her mind again—Alex was a few centimeters shorter than the hooded man.
But that night, the hooded man had been half-crouched, deliberately keeping low.
And a difference in physique didn’t prove much—her own arms looked slender, yet a full-power strike from her could flip a car.
Alex looked frail, but if he really was the hooded man— Then he was faking it.
Gwen held her pen between her fingers, twirling it unconsciously.
The pen flipped around her knuckles over and over.
She thought of the way Alex looked while explaining physics problems—he hadn’t flipped through the book once, reciting every formula and derivation from memory.
His physics was too good for a high school student.
She needed more evidence.
But before she found it, she had to suppress these thoughts, push them to the lowest level of her consciousness, and cover them with a lid of normalcy.
If she spaced out in class, if her gaze lingered too long on Alex’s empty seat, if anyone noticed— At the front of the room, the teacher began the lecture.
Gwen forced her attention back to the blackboard, writing today’s date in her notebook and drawing a tiny question mark beside it.
Taking a deep breath, she pinned her gaze to the teacher’s chalk-written notes, copying them word for word.
But the thoughts of spiders and killers clung to her, impossible to shake.