The wheel spun inside his head.
Miles saw a giant virtual wheel spinning before his eyes—red, blue, gold, purple, colors flashing and interweaving.
The needle flickered a few times before stopping on a single slot.
[Congratulations! You obtained: Spider-Man (Rare)]
[Injecting abilities…]
A surge of heat exploded from his chest.
Miles’s pupils contracted sharply.
He heard his own heart beat—thump, thump, thump—every beat hitting like a drum.
Then he heard even more: the hum of the fluorescent light inside the convenience store, the rapid, shallow breathing of Mrs.
Park, and the sound of the thug’s baseball bat whistling through the air behind him.
The world had changed.
Not metaphorically.
It had literally changed.
He could feel the texture of every crack in the concrete beneath his feet and the subtle warmth of the old ceramic tiles on the wall.
The actions of the three thugs—in his eyes, they were moving as slow as snails.
The one holding the register drawer had just taken a step, his foot not yet touching the ground.
The one with the baseball bat was raising his arm, his elbow joint not yet fully extended.
The third was pulling a folding knife from his pocket, his finger still fumbling with the lock on the handle.
Miles took a deep breath.
Then he moved.
A punch slammed straight into the first thug’s face.
The moment his fist landed, Miles felt the man’s nasal bone collapse under his knuckles with a sharp, crisp crack.
The thug flew backward, smashing into the shutter door with a deafening crash, denting the metal inward.
Miles stared in disbelief.
He looked down at his hand.
It didn’t hurt.
He felt nothing at all.
“Holy shit—”
The second thug’s baseball bat was already swinging down.
Miles didn’t even look.
But his body moved on its own—his head tilted three centimeters to the left, and the baseball bat sliced through the air right above his shoulder.
He could even feel the gust of wind it created.
Spider-Sense.
He hadn’t consciously dodged.
His body just intuitively knew how to dodge.
The bat hit the ground, chipping the concrete and spraying gravel onto Miles’s shins.
He glanced down, then looked up at the thug—the guy’s eyes were wide as saucers, his mouth agape, clearly unable to comprehend how that swing had missed.
The corner of Miles’s mouth twitched upward.
He snatched the bat by the barrel and yanked it back.
The thug was dragged forward, and Miles brought his knee up straight into the man’s stomach.
“Ugh—”
The thug doubled over, coughing up stomach acid as the bat slipped from his hands.
The third thug finally managed to pull his knife—a switchblade, its blade glinting under the streetlights.
Gripping the handle, his wrist shaking, he lunged at Miles.
Miles raised his right hand.
He flipped his wrist.
A strand of white webbing shot out from his palm, sticking to the blade.
Miles yanked back, and the switchblade tore free from the thug’s grip, flying through the air and pinning itself into a nearby utility pole, its handle vibrating with a low buzz.
All three thugs were on the ground.
The first was clutching his bloody nose, blood dripping through his fingers.
The second was curled on the ground, dry-heaving.
The third stared at his empty hand, then at the knife stuck in the pole, looking like he’d seen a ghost.
It had taken less than ten seconds.
Miles stood at the entrance of the convenience store, catching his breath.
He looked down at his right hand—there was a tiny pore in the center of his palm, from which a thin trace of white liquid was oozing out, glistening under the streetlight.
Webbing.
He touched it with his finger.
Sticky.
He pulled on it—stretchy.
“Fuck.”
He laughed.
Not a bitter laugh.
Not a polite smile.
The kind of chuckle squeezed out from the throat, completely uncontrollable.
“Holy fuck, this is amazing—”
Mrs.
Park peeked out from behind the register.
Seeing Miles standing at the doorway and the three thugs groaning on the ground, she froze for several seconds.
“Are… are you alright?”
Miles wiped the corner of his mouth and dialed back his grin.
“I’m fine. How much damage did they do to your store?”
Mrs.
Park looked at the overturned shelves, then at the pried shutter door, and shook her head.
“Forget it. As long as nobody’s hurt.”
“That won’t do.”
Miles crouched down, fished the cash register drawer out of the first thug’s pocket, and handed it to Mrs.
Park.
Then he searched the other two’s pockets, pulling out a few hundred dollars in cash and a phone, placing it all on the counter.
“Take this for now. If it’s not enough—”
He paused.
The system panel popped up again.
[New Quest: Locate the victim covered up by Vought News.]
[Quest Details: Vought News is covering up an incident of superhero abuse of power. Find the truth and expose it.]
[Reward: Unknown]
Miles stared at the panel for three seconds.
“…What the hell?”
Thinking he was talking to her, Mrs.
Park blinked in confusion.
“What?”
“Nothing, not talking to you.” Miles waved his hand, standing up.
“Go ahead and clean up. I’ll—”
He glanced at the three thugs on the ground.
The first had already sat up, clutching his face, blood dripping between his fingers.
Miles walked over and squatted in front of him.
“Want another round?”
The thug shook his head frantically.
“For the store’s damages, bring three thousand dollars tomorrow.”
“…Okay.”
“Can’t hear you.”
“Okay! Three thousand! I’ll bring it tomorrow!”
Miles stood up and patted the dust off his pants.
Mrs.
Park stood behind the counter, staring at him.
Her eyes had changed—it was no longer fear or resignation, but something else.
Like disbelief.
“Are… are you a Vought hero?”
Miles thought about it.
“Nope.”
“Then you’re—”
“Just a guy passing by.”
He stepped out of the store, turned into a nearby alleyway, and slid down against the wall into a squat.
His heart was still pounding.
Not from fear, but excitement.
Adrenaline surged through his veins, making his wrists tingle.
He raised his right hand and looked at the tiny opening in his palm again.
The webbing was still oozing out, sparkling under the lamp.
He tried controlling it—retract.
The tiny pore sealed shut.
Open again.
Out it came.
“Alright.”
He stood up and brushed the dirt off his pants.
“Might as well.”
The system panel flashed once more.
[Spins remaining this week: 0/1]
[Next refresh in: 7 days]
[Current Ability: Spider-Man (Rare) — Duration: Until Sunday, 23:59]
Miles glanced at the panel and closed it.
He walked out of the alley and headed toward the subway station.
After a few steps, he paused and looked back at the convenience store.
Mrs.
Park was bending over to pick up the fallen drink bottles.
Her movements were slow, but it was no longer that resigned slowness—it was a steady, grounded, taking-it-one-step-at-a-time kind of slow.
Miles watched for a few seconds, turned around, and kept walking.
He had saved someone.
In this fucked-up world, he had actually saved someone.
His phone buzzed.
He pulled it out—a text from an unknown number with a single line of text:
“Vought News already knows about what happened tonight. You better watch your back.”
Miles stared at the screen for five seconds.
Then he shoved the phone back into his pocket and stepped into the subway station.