A week later, news about a new hero began circulating in The New York Times and The Daily Bugle.
Podcasts invited scientists, theorists, influencers—anyone who wanted to discuss one burning question: who is Spider-Man?
Some compared the situation to Tony Stark's bold reveal back in 2010 when he announced himself as Iron Man. Others drew parallels to the Avengers and the alien invasion in 2012, led by Loki.
Meanwhile, back at Peter Parker's small Queens home, he quietly packed a few things into his worn-out backpack. The room was dim, lit only by the faint orange glow from a streetlight outside his window.
His movements were careful, almost mechanical—he didn't want Aunt May and Uncle Ben to wake up. After zipping up his bag, he took a deep breath and slipped out into the cold night.
A few blocks away stood an abandoned factory, its windows shattered, the walls covered in rust and graffiti.
Peter pushed the heavy door open; it creaked loudly in protest. He made his way down the old stairway to the lower floor, where faint echoes of dripping water filled the air.
He placed his bag aside and picked up a dented metal bucket resting near a small pond of murky water.
With a firm grip, he scooped it full, water sloshing over the sides as he carried it toward the figure tied to a reinforced metal chair in the center of the room.
Peter's expression hardened. Without a word, he threw the water onto the man's face.
"Oi, get up," Peter said coldly.
Max Dillon jolted awake, coughing and blinking rapidly. Sparks of faint blue electricity flickered across his skin as his eyes darted around the room.
He tugged at the restraints holding him—custom-made cuffs designed to suppress his powers.
"What the—what the hell is this?!" Max shouted, struggling violently. Then his eyes landed on Peter. "Wait… Peter Parker? You—you're working with that bug?!"
Peter's face remained unreadable. He took a step forward, shadows slicing across his features.
"No," he said quietly. "I am that bug, Max."
Max stared at him, disbelief written all over his face. "Nah, nah… you're just a kid. You can't be—"
Peter interrupted him, his tone sharp and steady. "And yet this kid sucker-punched you last week."
Max's jaw dropped. "Last week?! You mean to tell me I was out for a whole week?!" His voice cracked with outrage, the realization hitting him like a surge of static. He yanked at the restraints again, electricity crackling faintly before dying out.
Peter didn't flinch. His eyes softened for just a moment, pity flickering through them before he looked away. "Yeah," he muttered. "A week."
The room fell silent except for the hum of distant power lines and the quiet dripping of water echoing through the abandoned factory.
"Did I… did I hurt anyone?" Max asked, his voice trembling.
"A few," Peter said quietly, leaning against the damp, muck-covered wall beside him. "But they're all safe now."
Max lowered his head, shame flooding his expression. "My God… what did I do?" His breathing quickened.
"I didn't mean for this to happen. I just—" He swallowed hard. "They all saw me, and then they branded me a villain. Like one of those guys the Avengers fought when those aliens invaded back then."
Peter sighed, watching him closely. "You're not at fault, Max. You just didn't want to listen—and you made assumptions about yourself."
He pushed off the wall and walked over to his bag. Rummaging through it, he pulled out a strange-looking meter cobbled together from scrap parts—wires, old circuits, and pieces of metal fused with tape and solder.
Max squinted. "What the hell's that supposed to be? Looks like it's made from scraps and junk."
Peter smirked faintly. "Because it is, Max."
He stepped closer and pressed the device against Max's chest. It emitted a faint hum before magnetizing itself to his skin with a metallic click.
Max's eyes widened. "What are you doing?!" he yelled, panic flashing through his voice.
"Calm down," Peter said firmly. "I'm fixing you up."
"Fix?! Look at me, kid!" Max shouted, his voice breaking. "My skin's blue! I'm bald as Steve Harvey! My eyes glow like a damn dog in the dark! How are you gonna fix that?!"
Peter didn't answer. The device began to whir and vibrate, glowing with pulses of soft blue light. Sparks danced across Max's body, and he winced in pain.
Within seconds, his glowing blue skin began to fade—slowly regaining its natural brown tone. His scalp tingled, and strands of hair grew back, shaping into a sharp, high-fade low cut. The electric crackle in his eyes dimmed until they returned to normal.
Max stared at his reflection in a cracked mirror nearby, speechless. He raised his trembling hands. "M… my body… it's—"
"Back to normal," Peter said, taking a step back and wiping sweat from his forehead. "But your powers aren't, Max. They're permanently part of you now."
Max's lips parted slightly as he stared down at his hands, faint blue veins pulsing beneath his skin. He wasn't sure whether to feel relief or fear.
Peter's tone softened. "It's not a curse, Max. It's a second chance."
Max's breathing slowed as he stared at his reflection, the disbelief still etched across his face.
His fingers brushed through his newly grown hair, trembling slightly. "I… I don't get it. Why'd you even bother helping me after what happened back in Times Square?"
Peter stayed silent for a moment. He kicked a small piece of debris across the floor, the clatter echoing through the empty factory.
"Because you weren't the enemy, Max," Peter said finally. "You were scared. Angry. Everyone turned their backs on you, and the city treated you like a freak." He met Max's gaze. "I know how that feels."
Max exhaled shakily, a humorless laugh slipping out. "You? Please. You got the whole world cheering for you now. New York's golden boy. The new hero everyone's talking about."
Peter crossed his arms. "Yeah? Last week you nearly fried a bus full of people trying to prove you existed."
That hit hard. Max's expression sank. He dropped his eyes to the floor. "I didn't mean to… I just wanted them to see me. For once."
Peter's tone softened. "They saw you, Max. The problem was—you didn't see yourself anymore."
Max looked up, eyes glinting faintly as he swallowed the lump in his throat. "You sound just like him…"
"Who?" Peter asked.
"Spider-Man," Max said quietly, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.
Peter chuckled under his breath. "Guess that makes sense, I am Spider-Man."
For a moment, neither spoke. The only sound was the slow hum of the old generator in the corner and the faint drip of water echoing from the ceiling.
Finally, Max shifted in his chair, flexing his fingers as faint static rippled around them. "So what now? You gonna hand me over to S.H.I.E.L.D. or whatever's left of 'em?"
Peter shook his head. "No. I'm not turning you in. But you need to learn control, Max. That device on your chest—it'll keep your voltage balanced, but only if you don't push it too far."
Max blinked in surprise. "You're serious? You trust me not to blow up half the city again?"
Peter gave a half-smile. "Let's just say I believe in second chances."
Max let out a slow, tired breath and leaned back against the chair. "Kid… you're somethin' else."
Peter turned toward the stairway, picking up his bag. "Get some rest. I'll check in tomorrow."
As Peter walked away, Max glanced down at his hands—steady now, calm, no more wild sparks. For the first time in years, he didn't feel like a walking power plant. He felt… human.
And for that, he whispered to the empty room, "Thanks, kid."
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Chapter 16 — End.