Chapter 1: A City That Never Sleeps
The sun rose over New York City in a palette of pink and orange, but Peter Parker wasn't awake to appreciate it. His tiny studio apartment was dark, save for the blinking alarm clock on the bedside table.
"7:45 AM," Peter mumbled, squinting at the clock through half-closed eyes. Then his brain registered the time.
"7:45?!"
He shot out of bed, a tangled mess of sheets and panic. His morning ritual was a blur: toothbrush dangling from his mouth while he struggled to pull on pants. Somewhere in the chaos, Aunt May's old words echoed in his mind: "With great power comes great responsibility."
But Aunt May had never had to deal with J. Jonah Jameson.
Peter was out the door five minutes later, his camera slung around his neck. As he sprinted down the street, dodging commuters and street vendors, he muttered to himself, "I can do this. Just need one good Spider-Man photo, and I'm back in Jonah's good graces. No big deal."
Of course, that's when his spider-sense flared.
A sharp tingle shot through the base of his skull, a sensation he'd learned to trust more than anything else. His senses sharpened, and his eyes scanned the busy street. At first, nothing seemed out of the ordinary—just the usual chaos of Manhattan. But then he saw it: a jewelry store down the block, its front window shattered, and two masked men sprinting out with duffel bags of stolen goods.
Peter ducked into an alley, pulling his backpack off and unzipping it with practiced speed. In seconds, his street clothes were stuffed inside, and Spider-Man swung out into the morning air.
The thieves didn't even see him coming.
"Good morning, gentlemen!" Peter quipped as he landed on a lamppost above them. "Beautiful day for some cardio, huh?"
The shorter of the two men cursed and reached for his gun, but Spider-Man was faster. A quick flick of his wrist sent a web shooting out, pinning the weapon to the man's hand.
"Whoa there, partner," Peter said, dropping to the ground in front of them. "You know the rules: no guns, no running, and definitely no robbing mom-and-pop stores before breakfast."
The taller thief lunged at him with a crowbar, but Peter sidestepped effortlessly, his reflexes far outpacing the man's clumsy swing.
"You know, this would be a lot more intimidating if you weren't wearing a ski mask in July," Peter said, shooting another web to yank the crowbar out of the man's hand.
Within moments, both thieves were webbed up and dangling from a nearby streetlight.
"Tell your friends," Spider-Man called as he swung away, "crime doesn't pay!"
By the time Peter made it to The Daily Bugle, his hair was still damp from his rushed attempt at a shower, and his shirt was wrinkled beyond repair. He pushed through the revolving doors and darted toward the elevator, trying to avoid making eye contact with anyone.
Of course, that didn't stop Betty Brant from spotting him.
"Peter!" she called from behind the front desk, waving a stack of papers.
"Hey, Betty! Can't talk—already late!"
Betty gave him a knowing smile. "Jonah's in a mood. Good luck."
Peter groaned as the elevator doors closed. Jonah Jameson being "in a mood" was like saying water was wet.
The elevator dinged, and Peter stepped out onto the newsroom floor. It was chaos as usual: reporters shouting over each other, phones ringing nonstop, and Jonah's unmistakable voice bellowing from his office.
"PARKER!"
Peter winced. He hadn't even reached Jonah's door yet.
The editor-in-chief of The Daily Bugle stood behind his desk, a cigar clenched between his teeth. He pointed a finger at Peter as soon as he entered the room.
"You're late, Parker. Again."
"Yeah, sorry about that, Mr. Jameson," Peter said, holding up his camera. "But I've got some great shots of Spider-Man—"
"I don't want 'great shots,' Parker!" Jonah interrupted. "I want proof that menace is behind half the crime in this city!"
Peter opened his mouth to protest, but Jonah steamrolled ahead.
"And don't give me that look! This paper sells because I tell the truth about that wall-crawling weirdo. Now, what've you got for me?"
Peter sighed and handed over his camera. Jonah flipped through the photos, muttering under his breath.
"Alright," Jonah finally said, tossing the camera back to Peter. "You're lucky these shots are decent. But don't think this gets you off the hook. I want more by tomorrow."
"Yes, sir," Peter said, backing out of the office before Jonah could start another tirade.
The rest of the day passed in a blur of editing photos and dodging Jonah's glares. By the time Peter clocked out, the sun was setting, painting the city in hues of gold and crimson.
Peter's first thought was to go home and collapse, but then he remembered his promise to MJ.
"Date night," he muttered to himself, hailing a cab. "Can't screw this up."
MJ was waiting for him at a small Italian restaurant in Greenwich Village. She looked stunning, as always, her red hair catching the light as she waved him over.
"You're late," she said with a teasing smile as he slid into the seat across from her.
"Crazy day," Peter said, giving her an apologetic grin. "You wouldn't believe the morning I've had."
"Try me," MJ said, raising an eyebrow.
Peter hesitated. He wanted to tell her everything—the robbery, the fight with the thieves, Jonah's ranting—but he knew he couldn't. Not without risking her safety.
"Just… work stuff," he said finally.
MJ's smile faltered, just for a moment, but she covered it quickly.
"Okay," she said, picking up her menu. "Let's just focus on tonight."
For a while, everything felt normal. They talked about MJ's audition for a new Broadway show, about her dreams and her struggles, and Peter felt a flicker of hope that maybe, just maybe, he could make this work.
But then his spider-sense tingled again.
Peter glanced toward the window and saw a commotion down the street. A police car raced past, sirens blaring.
"Peter," MJ said, her tone cautious. "Don't even think about it."
"I'm sorry," Peter said, already standing. "I'll make it up to you, I promise."
Before she could respond, Peter was out the door, ducking into an alley to change.
The rest of the night was a blur of web-slinging and chaos. By the time Peter finally made it back to his apartment, it was well past midnight. He collapsed onto his bed, exhausted but unable to shake the guilt.
He stared at the ceiling, his mind racing.
With great power comes great responsibility.
But sometimes, Peter wondered, what about his own happiness?
End of Chapter 1