( A;N: Ayo y'all sorry I've been sick so I update really late these days, if y'all like the story please do give it Power Stones and Hey if we reach 50 power stones quick I'll upload two chapters per day from then on. So whatcha waiting for !!)
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Plopping down on the edge of his bed after a quick, steaming shower, Lucian—or rather, Peter—tried to settle the storm raging in his mind. Or at least, he tried.
Safe to say, discovering that his entire life was just a scripted page from some comic book pissed him off beyond measure. *Sigh...* He replayed the conversation he'd just had with May, her voice still echoing in his ears like a lifeline in the chaos.
*"Peter? My God, where were you? You stayed out so late—I was worried sick!"*
Her face had been etched with that familiar worry, lines of exhaustion creasing her brow, her love for him shining through like sunlight piercing storm clouds. Everything else in this twisted world might be fake—a comic panel scripted for drama and tragedy—but not her.
Never.... her.
*"Sorry, May. I got held up in traffic, and it took forever to snag a cab with all that rain. But I'm fine now, really."*
*"Good... good. Peter, call me next time you're late. Last time you came back like this, you were all bruised up, covered in cuts. I can't take it anymore."*
*"Heh... sorry, Aunt May. I swear, nothing happened this time. Just what I told you."*
*"Good. Now go in quick and take a bath—you must be freezing, dear."*
Looking back, her hair was already stark white, her face wrinkled like weathered parchment, though she still carried the vitality of someone in her late thirties. Truth was, she was nearing fifty now, her body worn thin from double shifts at the hospital and odd jobs just to keep food on their table. How had he never truly *seen* it before? He scolded himself harshly, fists clenching the damp towel around his waist. Sure, before the memories hit, he'd been just a seventeen-year-old kid buried under responsibilities—school, classes, scraping by. That oversight felt valid back then, a blind spot in his naive world. But not anymore.
With the flood of memories from his old life as Lucian Hayes—a regular twenty-three-year-old guy from another world—he felt aged beyond his years. It was like he'd lived two lifetimes crammed into one fragile body. The weight pressed down on him, heavier than any web-slinging acrobatics.
*"Sigh..."* Peter shuffled through those merged memories, his mind a whirlwind of timelines and heroes. *"The Avengers have already formed... and the Fantastic Four haven't yet. Hmm... but Reed Richards is already famous, isn't he?"*
He muttered the words aloud, voice low and gravelly in the dim room, testing their reality against the comic lore rattling in his skull. The biggest twist? The Avengers didn't assemble against the Chitauri invasion like in the movies. No, they formed in the heat of a brutal fight, with Loki manipulating the Hulk into a rampaging beast. So, not the MCU he knew from binge-watches. The comic version? But that didn't fit either—events from his life mirrored *Spectacular Spider-Man* and *Ultimate Spider-Man*, yet the timelines were a jumbled mess. Heroes popping up out of sequence, villains striking too early or late.
*"Urrgh... I'm not some comic nerd deep into timelines and crossovers. I mostly just watched the movies and shows back home,"* he grumbled to the empty room, rubbing his temples. *"Speaking of which... no R.O.B. dumped me here. No One Above All zapping me with cosmic powers. Hell, I don't even remember how I died."*
*Huff.* Plopping fully onto the bed, he ruffled his wet hair in frustration, strands sticking to his forehead like defeated spider silk. The mattress creaked under him, a familiar groan in their house.
*"So I've got no clue about the timeline. That sucks ass."* Good news: SHIELD hadn't come knocking yet, no black vans or stern agents with badges. Bad news: Half the city saw him as a murderer now, thanks to that botched fight with the Goblin, the smears in the Daily Bugle painting Spider-Man as a menace. J. Jonah Jameson's rants had turned public opinion toxic—vigilante turned killer in the eyes of the masses.
Silence enveloped the room like a heavy shroud. Peter lay there, one arm draped over both eyes, blocking out the faint lamplight seeping through the blinds. The air smelled of rain-soaked concrete and his cheap soap, a mundane anchor in the madness. His chest rose and fell in slow, deliberate breaths, chasing some semblance of respite. Minutes stretched into what felt like hours, his mind replaying failures on an endless loop: the basketball he threw at Flash, Uncle Ben's blood on the pavement because he walked away from a petty thief, May's weary sighs over unpaid bills.
Then he shifted his arm, blinking into the shadows. His gaze drifted to the bedside lamp, then settled on the photo frame beside it—a snapshot of him and Uncle Ben when Peter was just nine. Ben, with his warm brown hair and easy smile, had one hand on Peter's shoulder. The kid in the picture looked uncomfortable, shoulders hunched, but that genuine grin betrayed his shyness, eyes sparkling with unspoken adoration.
Peter reached for it, fingers trembling slightly as he lifted the frame from the nightstand. In the dark, he caressed the glass with his thumb, tracing Ben's face, the texture cool against his skin. A lump formed in his throat, eyes stinging with unshed tears.
*"I'm sorry, Uncle Ben,"* he whispered, voice cracking like fragile ice. *"I tried... Peter tried. God, I tried so hard."*
The words hung in the air, heavy with two years of sacrifice. He could still hear Ben's voice that fateful night, calm and profound amid the chaos: *"With great power comes great responsibility."* Those words had chained him, turned him into a symbol—a quipping web-slinger fighting in the shadows while his life crumbled.
But tonight, something snapped. He exhaled deeply, the breath shuddering out of him. *"I can't live the life of a tragic hero anymore, not while it hurts the people I love. Especially May."*
He sat up straighter, clutching the photo like a talisman, his reflection faint in the glass. Resolve hardened in his chest, a fire kindling where despair had festered. *"For two years, I've protected this city at the expense of everything. May's health, my friends' trust, my own damn life. And what did I get? Nothing. Zilch. I never expected a parade or a thank-you, but maybe I should've. I tried to honor your legacy, Ben, but maybe I went at it all wrong."*
Flashbacks assaulted him: swinging through rain-lashed nights, bones cracking against brick walls, the flash of cameras capturing his "crimes." May's disappointed glances when he stumbled home late, bruises hidden under baggy clothes. Harry's fading loyalty, MJ's wary distance, Gwen's hesitation. The city he'd saved turned on him, headlines screaming "Spider-Menace!" while real threats like Kingpin pulled strings from the shadows.
*"What use is power—or this so-called responsibility—if May has to suffer for it? Working herself to the bone because I can't hold down a job without masks and secrets? No more."* His voice rose, edged with fury, fists balling around the frame. *"I don't care about the ones I used to call friends anymore. They laughed behind my back, whispered about the 'freak' in science class. But for her... and for myself... Spider-Man has to die."*
The words ignited something primal. He stood, pacing the small room, bare feet cold on the worn floorboards. Shadows danced on the peeling wallpaper, mirroring the chaos in his soul. *"Tonight. I'm sorry, Ben. I hope... when I see you again, you'll forgive me. I gave it everything, but this script—this goddamn comic life—it's written for suffering. If the universe wants tragedy, I'll flip the whole table."*
His eyes blazed now, no longer the wide, uncertain gaze of a teenager. Lucian Hayes' cynicism fused with Peter Parker's pain, forging something unbreakable. No more naive kid suffering for ingrates. The Avengers were out there—Cap, Iron Man, Thor. The X-Men lurked in whispers. Fantastic Four on the horizon. *"It's not like I'm the only hero in this world. Spider-Man occupied this spot too long; people just dumped it all on me. Someone else will step up, see the damage, pick up the slack. And if they don't? What does it matter?"*
He laughed bitterly, a hollow sound that echoed off the walls. *"They never liked me anyway. J. Jonah's headlines, the cops' bullets, the mobs chanting for my head. I'll be damned if I play the schmuck again for these ungrateful bastards. Peter Parker gets to live—for May, for a normal life, for once."*
Setting the photo down gently, he moved to the window, peering through rain-streaked glass at the glittering skyline. Sirens wailed in the distance, a call he used to answer without question. Not tonight. He stripped off the towel, pulling on sweatpants and a faded hoodie—civilian clothes, a disguise for the man he was becoming.
*"Goodbye, Spider-Man,"* he murmured, the words final as a eulogy. His spider-sense tingled faintly, a ghost of old instincts, but he ignored it. For the first time in two years, his heart felt light, unburdened. May's soft snores drifted from the next room, a reminder of what mattered.
Lucian Hayes and Peter Parker were one now—wiser, harder, ready to rewrite his page. The city could burn without its friendly neighborhood guardian. He'd build something real: a job, stability, a life where love didn't come second to masks. And if the villains came calling? Let them chase shadows. He was done dancing to their script.
For tonight, Spider-Man would never come again.
***