***
**Rain-Soaked Revelation**
In the shadowed throat of a narrow alleyway, Peter's screams tore through the night, utterly swallowed by the relentless roar of the downpour. Sheets of rain hammered the cracked pavement like a thousand accusatory fists, drowning out his agony as if the city itself conspired to erase him. Clutching the sides of his head with white-knuckled desperation, he collapsed to the filthy ground, curling into a fetal ball. His body convulsed, a newborn's innocence twisted into something primal and broken, as mind-numbing waves of pain ripped through his skull.
Flashes of memories erupted between the bursts of torment—vivid, jagged shards that pierced deeper with each one. Uncle Ben's lifeless eyes staring skyward; Gwen's hesitant form seeing his heartbroken face then another of her plummeting and vanishing into the night; MJ's tear-streaked face amid one betrayal after another. Each recollection amplified the agony, a vicious crescendo that clawed at his sanity.
These weren't just his memories they were someone elses, of different versions of him shown on TV, in comics the sheer absurdity of it all chocked his breath midway.
Minutes stretched into an eternity of howling torment. Spider-Man—Peter Parker, the friendly neighborhood hero—screamed until his voice cracked into a ragged whisper, throat raw and burning, until the pain finally halted. Abruptly. Mercilessly. Right on the precipice of unconsciousness.
*Huff... huff... huff...*
Peter lay sprawled in the pooling rainwater, chest heaving like bellows, his mind a fog-shrouded wasteland. The physical torment had ebbed, but a lingering fear coiled in his gut like icy venom—a primal dread that whispered of truths too vast and cruel to comprehend. He didn't speak; words felt alien now. Silently, he gripped a rusted trashcan for leverage, its foul stench invading his nostrils as he hauled himself upright. His legs trembled beneath him, unsteady as a fawn's. He clutched his masked head, steadying his breath, until...
*Heh... heh... hehe... hah... hahaha... HAHAHAHA!*
What began as a low, hesitant chuckle swelled into an earth-shattering cacophony of madness. Peter doubled over, clutching his sides as laughter exploded from him like shattered glass—a maniacal torrent echoing off the alley walls. Rain lashed his suit, but he laughed on, oblivious, the sound raw and unhinged, as if the universe itself had finally cracked its first real joke.
*Hahahaha... haaaa... hahahahaha!*
He crumpled to his knees, slamming his forehead against the unyielding pavement in rhythmic thuds—*thump, thump*—yet the laughter refused to die. It bubbled up from some abyssal pit within, uncontrollable, a dam burst after years of stoic heroism.
The storm raged on, unyielding, mirroring the chaos in his soul. Only when the deluge softened to a mournful drizzle did Peter lift his head from the muck. Water streamed from his mask, mingling with whatever salt traced his cheeks. He was still chuckling, the sound hollow now, laced with an undercurrent of shattering grief.
*Haaah... haaa... hahahaha... So all the suffering I've endured in this life—all the pain, the betrayals, Uncle Ben... it was because of trashy writing? Because I was *Spider-Man*? Heheheh... haaa... HAHAHAHA!*
He raised a trembling hand to cover his face, the gesture futile against the mask's impassive red lenses. Laughter tore from him anew as he drove his fist into the brick wall beside him. *CRACK.* Chunks of masonry exploded outward, dust mixing with the rain into a gritty slurry. He laughed harder, wilder—a sound that teetered between hysteria and heartbreak. Did tears fuel it? None could tell; the drizzle washed away all evidence, leaving only the echo of his unraveling.
*Heh... So... am I Peter Parker? Or am I Lucian Hayes?* The question hung in the air, directed at the indifferent night. It didn't feel like transmigration, not some soul-snatching invasion. No—this was worse. Lucian's memories had embedded themselves into Peter's mind like parasitic roots, viewed from a haunting third-person haze. Experiences of another life, another self, now fused with his own. Who—or what—was he now? The question gnawed at him, but in that moment, comprehension slipped through his fingers like the rain. He simply... didn't care.
The shock hit like a venom blast: every stab of pain, every heartbreak, scripted by some motherfucker in a swivel chair, chasing "character development." *Hahahaha...* The sheer, cosmic cruelty of it pulverized his defenses. Years of forged resilience crumbled; hot tears welled behind the mask, Spider-Man's emblem now a mocking shroud. He wasn't just a hero—he was the tragedy incarnate. Peter Parker, the boy who rose from ashes time and again, reduced to a punchline in the universe's grand farce. While Spider-Man swung eternal as the "greatest hero," the man beneath bore the weight of scripted suffering. A miracle life? No—a sadist's pen strokes.
Rage boiled up, pure and scorching—anguish for the lives lost, sorrow for the innocence stolen, fury at the predestination of it all. If every joy and death was inked in advance, what was the point? Saving strangers from crumbling buildings, dodging bullets for a city that half-hated him... all predetermined plot beats? The absurdity crashed over him like the earlier storm, hurling him off the edge of reason.
Then, his phone buzzed insistently in his pocket—a shrill lifeline piercing the madness. He fumbled it out, rain-slicked fingers nearly dropping it. *Aunt May.* His beloved aunt, the unyielding pillar of his fractured world. She must be worried sick, pacing their cramped apartment, her voice trembling on the line. But doubt slithered in: *Was even her worry scripted? Her love a writer's contrivance?*
The thought ignited a spark of self-loathing. He slammed a fist into his own cheek—*CRACK*—the impact jolting stars behind his eyes. *No.* He could question his life, his rage-warped emotions, the very fabric of his existence... but not hers. Not the woman who'd scraped by to raise him, who'd fed him through lean years with love fiercer than any web. Her pain was real. Her grief for Uncle Ben, her quiet pride in him—those were anchors in the storm. For now, they were all that mattered. Everything else could burn.
*Forget it all,* he thought, steeling himself. *Go home. Don't let her worry.* He fired off a quick text—"On my way, Aunt May. Love you"—and launched into the night, a red-and-blue blur cutting through the drizzle faster than lightning.
For all the cosmic lies unraveling his soul, one truth held: her love was his north star. Even if he questioned everything else... even himself.
***
A;N : So, the gist of it all is that Peter will go through an identity crisis, he didn't go crazy like Charles because the memories of his past life helped stabilise him. For now it's all angst or most of the story will be until he realises his real identity. Also I like sue or susan storm for Peter or spiderman always have she just clicks for me idk... What to do y'all think should I add her? As his harem