The next few days were a whirlwind of paperwork and procedures. I woke up early each morning, rushing to the bank and dealing with all the other formalities. There simply wasn't enough time to focus on anything else, especially my website. Without a phone—something I had no intention of buying when I could just build my own—I didn't even have an easy way to check on the comic I'd published.
I tried to stay on top of things, even squeezed in some exercise sessions to keep myself grounded. But those two days flew by in a blur, and by the time I was ready to take a breath, I realized I had made a huge mistake.
I had been so wrapped up in the logistics and routines of everything else that I hadn't once looked at the progress of my comic. I hadn't checked how the audience was reacting or if any issues had arisen.
After Four months.
I woke up to a light tugging on my shoulder. Groggily, I let out a soft groan, trying to drift back into sleep. But then I heard it—my sister's voice, sharp and urgent.
"Ben… Ben! Wake up!"
I blinked and slowly opened my eyes, still disoriented. My sister's face was pale, her eyes wide with panic.
"What's going on?" I mumbled, still half asleep, as I reached for my omnitrix instinctively, worried the bald man had finally found me. But my sister's voice snapped me out of it.
"Ben, there are reporters and people outside, asking for interviews!"
I froze, realizing what she was saying. That's when the weight of everything hit me—my comic was out there, and the world had noticed.
I stumbled out of bed, trying to shake off the haze, and started walking down the stairs. The closer I got to the door, the louder the noise became. I could hear police sirens, trying to keep the reporters and crowds contained. But the second I stepped outside, it all came crashing down. The noise from the reporters hit me like a wall.
"Mr. Ben! Mr. Ben! How do you feel about your success in comics?"
"Ben! Why would you write a horrific story like Death Note?"
"Why would you write such a sad story like Naruto?"
It kept coming—question after question. But there was one that made my blood boil.
"Mr. Ben, do your parents treat you unjustly? Did they beat you?"
I couldn't believe it. That question… it hit me like a punch in the gut. My vision blurred with anger, and before I even realized what I was doing, I ripped off my slipper and hurled it at the reporter's face.
"Why would they treat me unjustly?" I roared. "What kind of question is that?"
Just as I was about to say more, my father appeared from behind me, his voice cutting through the chaos.
"What are you doing?" he demanded, his tone sharp. "Get inside."
It took nearly two hours for the NYPD to disperse the reporters and onlookers. By the time the crowd started thinning, I was exhausted—mentally and physically. My father, frustrated but composed, left to speak with the head officer, George Stacy. Yeah, that George Stacy. The name sparked a train of thought I couldn't resist.
Sitting in the living room, I let my mind wander. If there really were a Spider-Man in this world, would it be Andrew Garfield's version? Out of all three Spider-Men, he was my favorite. The guy had been through so much—losing Uncle Ben, then Gwen. And even after all that, Sony still hadn't given him the third movie he deserved.
"Poor guy," I muttered to myself. "He deserved better."
The irony of my thoughts wasn't lost on me. Here I was, dealing with my own whirlwind of chaos, and I was worried about a fictional superhero's lack of closure. But in a weird way, it made me feel better—like I wasn't alone in the madness.
"Ben," my father's voice called out, firm and steady. I turned to see him standing in the doorway, arms crossed. "What were you thinking, throwing a slipper at a reporter's face?"
"You know what that guy said!" I retorted, the frustration still fresh.
My father sighed, shaking his head. "Ben, acting irrationally isn't the solution. You have to think before you do something like that. Being impulsive won't solve anything."
I clenched my fists. "I sinned, huh? Yes, Dad, I sinned. But—"
Before I could continue, my sister grabbed the remote and turned on the TV. The screen lit up with a familiar face—J. Jonah Jameson on Daily Bugle News. And of course, he was talking about me.
"Fourteen-year-old kid throws a slipper at a reporter's face," Jameson ranted. "Is this how a fourteen-year-old should act? Just because he's made a name for himself in Four months? Look at his comics—brutal stories, brutal mentality. What can we expect from kids like this? Such a shame!"
I stared at the screen as Jameson continued to ramble, dissecting every aspect of my work and personality like he'd known me my entire life. He ended with his usual dramatic flourish.
"Keep up with the Daily Bugle News, where we expose the truth about people's real faces!"
Before I could process it all, my father walked over and turned off the TV. The room fell silent.
"Ben," he said gently, "don't let this get to you. They'll say whatever they want—it's just noise. We'll handle it. George is a good friend; he'll help us figure this out."
I nodded, but inside, I wasn't so easily calmed. As much as I wanted to brush it off, the sting of Jameson's words lingered. I couldn't let it go.
"Don't worry, Father," I thought to myself. "He'll pay for this."