Chapter 7: Rumors about a Spider
{Slade Pov}
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The city never stayed quiet for long, but Slade Wilson had learned to appreciate the moments of stillness between the chaos.
Perched atop a cold, crumbling rooftop, he tightened the bandages around his bruised ribs. The cracked mask beside him bore a jagged line across its right eye—an unpleasant reminder of his last fight.
That kid.
Slade's mind replayed the encounter over and over. At first, he'd thought it was just another masked rookie with more guts than brains. Fast, sure. Agile. He'd seen that before.
But something changed during the fight.
Somewhere between the first blows and the later exchanges, the kid's fighting style sharpened. His moves shifted from raw instinct to brutal precision. His footwork adjusted, counters tightened, reactions accelerated.
That wasn't normal.
Slade narrowed his eye, fingers idly tapping the hilt of his sword as the memory nagged at him.
Not instinct. Not luck.
Adaptation.
His comm crackled to life, a gruff voice cutting through the static.
"Wilson, you picking this up? Word's spreading fast. The docks, the East End—everyone's buzzing."
Slade stayed silent, letting the man continue.
"They say the Bug survived you. That masked freak's still out there, webbing up gangs. People are calling him Spider, Wall-Crawler, Bug-Man. Doesn't matter—he's becoming a ghost story."
Slade's eye twitched slightly, but his voice remained calm.
"Let them talk."
He cut the line with a press of his thumb, ending the call.
Rumors traveled fast in this city. They always did.
He could've finished that fight, ended it right then and there. But now? Now he was curious.
A kid who could adapt mid-battle wasn't someone you killed right away.
You watched them. Studied them.
Then, when the time was right—you ended them.
Slade rose from his crouch, slipping his cracked mask back over his face.
Sooner or later, the underworld would hunt that Bug down.
And Slade would be watching when they did.
{Peter (Ark) Pov}
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Pain wasn't new to me.
But this? This was something else.
I gritted my teeth as I wrapped the last bandage around my ribs, every breath sending sharp reminders through my bruised body.
Deathstroke hadn't pulled his punches.
I winced, leaning back into my couch as the system's familiar glow flickered in front of my eyes.
Trait: Enhanced Tactical Mind (Deathstroke)
Status: Active
It was strange.
Everything felt clearer—sharper. My mind dissected the room automatically, analyzing every angle, every entry point, every weak spot.
I knew exactly how to fortify the door with furniture. I knew which parts of the window frame were weakest. I could even estimate how fast I'd need to move to escape if someone kicked down the front door.
And yet, all the intelligence in the world didn't change the fact that I could barely move without wincing.
I groaned, pulling a hoodie over my bruised torso.
"Great," I muttered. "Now I'm smart enough to realize how much I screwed up."
I wasn't just Ark anymore. I was Peter Parker too—and Peter had school, friends, and a very suspicious Aunt May.
I couldn't hide in here forever.
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By the fourth day, I was finally able to move without gritting my teeth every step.
I threw on my backpack and headed out, every step still feeling like I'd gone a few rounds with a freight train.
Midtown High wasn't ready for this mess.
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The moment I walked through the doors, I felt the eyes on me.
It wasn't just the usual background noise of students rushing through hallways—this was focused.
Whispers followed me.
Then came the voice I expected.
"Peter!"
Harry Osborn jogged over, his usual cocky grin in place. Mary Jane followed, eyeing me like I'd sprouted another head.
"Dude, where the hell have you been?" Harry asked, his gaze lingering on the faint bruises along my jawline. "You just disappeared."
I forced a weak laugh, rubbing the back of my neck.
"Family stuff," I said, using the oldest excuse in the book. "Got sick too. Bad mix."
Mary Jane wasn't buying it.
Her gaze zeroed in on my collarbone, where the hoodie barely covered the bruising.
"You look like you got mugged by a brick wall," she said bluntly.
"Yeah," I chuckled, trying not to wince. "Stairs. They're out to get me."
Harry snorted. "Classic Parker luck."
They didn't press much beyond that—thankfully, Midtown wasn't the kind of place where people dug deep into personal problems.
Still, I couldn't ignore the chatter around me.
The whole school was buzzing with rumors.
{ Random Pov}
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"Did you hear about that masked guy?"
"Yeah! He's swinging through the city, taking out gangs."
"They're calling him Spider-Guy, or Bug-Man, or something like that."
I kept my expression neutral, even as I internally groaned.
Of course. Rumors were spreading faster than I could keep up.
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Classes flew by like a breeze.
Everything felt too easy now.
Physics? Solved before the teacher even finished the problem.
History quiz? Done before anyone else started.
Gym? I weaved through dodgeballs like I could see them in slow motion—which, honestly, wasn't far from the truth.
My tactical mind turned the whole day into a simulation.
And yet, beneath all of that, one fact remained:
Deathstroke had nearly killed me.
If I didn't get stronger—and smarter—I wouldn't last long in this world.
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That night, as the city glowed under the streetlights, I knew what I needed.
A base.
I couldn't keep recovering in my bedroom, hiding from May and dodging nosy neighbors.
I needed a safe space.
Somewhere I could patch myself up, upgrade my gear, and think.
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I swung through the city, higher than usual, scanning every rooftop and alleyway.
The Tactical Mind kicked in automatically, analyzing structures and escape routes.
Then I spotted it.
An old clock tower, rising like a shadow over the surrounding buildings.
Forgotten. Abandoned.
I landed on its cracked stone balcony, curiosity pulling me in.
The massive clock face was frozen at midnight, its hands unmoving—stuck in time.
I slipped inside through a rusted maintenance hatch.
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Inside, it was like stepping into another world.
Dusty wooden floors. Ancient iron gears and machinery looming overhead. Twisting staircases and narrow catwalks weaving through the interior.
The place was huge.
Hidden from view, structurally solid despite its age, and high enough that no one would stumble upon it by accident.
It was perfect.
I could already see it.
Storage for equipment, a corner for research, maybe even space for training later.
I walked toward the frozen clock face, staring out over the sleeping city.
Everything below seemed so small from up here.
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I smirked, a name slipping into my mind naturally.
"The Hourglass," I muttered.
A place outside of time. A place to watch, wait, and strike when needed.
My Hourglass.
My new home.
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[To Be Continued]
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