Chapter 1
Earth-42 didn’t get a Spider-Man.
No radioactive bite, no wall-crawling hero to swing above the sirens and screaming and clean up the blood from the pavement. Just cracked sidewalks, burnt-out streetlamps, and neighborhoods learning how to breathe with bruised lungs.
Gwen adjusted her backpack and kept her steps steady beside Peter, whose nervous eyes kept twitching to the alley up ahead. She could hear the faint hum of a hover-bike somewhere, maybe two blocks over, and the thump of bass from some kid’s speaker blasting underground rap. Nothing unusual.
“You hear that?” Peter whispered, clutching his sketchpad tighter. “I think it’s those guys again. The ones from last week.”
Gwen didn’t look. She didn’t need to. She already felt them—eyes tracking them from the corner, low laughter, the shift of sneakers on concrete. Earth-42 had its own rhythm, and she’d been dancing to it since she was old enough to throw a punch.
Sure enough, three teens stepped out from behind the wire-fenced storefront. They were older, rougher, probably dropouts with too much time and not enough reason to leave people alone.
“Well, well, if it isn’t Parker Picasso,” one of them jeered, eyes dragging over Peter’s notebook. “Gonna draw me something, art boy?”
Peter stiffened. Gwen stepped forward.
“Back off, Manny,” she said, voice even, cool. “Aren’t you tired of getting embarrassed by a ballerina?”
The group snickered, but Manny’s grin tightened. He stepped forward—big mistake.
Gwen didn’t flinch. She tilted her head, cracking her neck like it was just another warm-up at the barre.
Manny reached out like he was gonna grab the sketchpad, and Gwen moved fast—caught his wrist, twisted just enough to send a jolt of pain through his arm, and shoved him back. He stumbled, and the other two laughed this time—for a second.
“Man, whatever,” Manny grunted, rubbing his wrist. “Y’all ain’t worth it.”
They slunk off. Typical. Big mouths, no follow-through.
Peter let out a shaky breath. “Thanks. Again.”
“You gotta learn to keep your stuff hidden better,” Gwen said, nudging his side with her elbow. “Or, you know, learn how to throw a punch.”
“I’m more of a pacifist,” he muttered, trying to act like it was a joke.
She grinned. “And I’m more of a realist.”
They kept walking, boots echoing on cracked pavement. They passed walls tagged with gang signs and murals of people long gone. Peter paused to sketch one for a second, hand moving quick.
“You think the city’s always gonna be like this?” he asked suddenly. “Like… no one ever showing up to fix it?”
Gwen slowed. She looked out over the skyline—smoke, blinking neon, sirens howling like wolves.
“Nah,” she said. “Someone always shows up. Even if it’s not in a cape.”
They crossed the street just before the lights flickered out above them.
The barre was ice cold under Gwen’s hand.
She’d been at it for over an hour now, body moving on autopilot—pliés, arabesques, turns tight enough to make her vision blur. Sweat slicked the back of her neck beneath her bun, her calves burned, and the music from the tiny Bluetooth speaker echoed faintly off the cracked mirrors of the old studio downtown.
Ballet wasn’t about pretty tutus and pointes here. It was about control. Discipline. Keeping your world balanced, even when everything else was tipping sideways.
Her instructor clapped once. “Take five.”
Gwen exhaled, grabbed her water bottle, and collapsed onto the floor in a split without thinking. Her limbs felt like jelly. Her face was flushed. She was tired—but not the good kind.
She was tired the Earth-42 kind. The kind that made your bones ache even when you hadn’t been hit.
Her phone buzzed beside her.
Peter: “U alive?? lol
You still good for tonight?”
Gwen: “If I don’t collapse first
Still on. Need it bad.”
Because ballet was one thing. But breakdancing? That was hers. That was the only place she felt untouchable.
And tonight was the first big underground rave of the spring. Warehouse 12, same as always. Word was, even some known faces were pulling up. She needed that crowd, that chaos, the sweat and music and lights like a strobe heartbeat. She needed to breathe again.
“Stacy,” her instructor called. “Your leg’s not locking clean on your fouettés. You better not be burning yourself out with that... other dancing.”
Gwen wiped her face with her towel, hiding the grin. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
But she was absolutely going to.
After class, she changed quick—threw on some joggers, a cropped hoodie, and a fresh pair of beat-up Nikes. Her ballet gear got shoved into her bag along with the rest of the stress she hadn’t dealt with this week.
Outside, the city growled.
A siren blared two blocks over. A hovercar zipped past with its lights off. A pack of kids were tagging an abandoned bus stop. Gwen walked through it like she belonged—because she did.
She swung by Peter’s, and he was already waiting with a hoodie over his camera bag and a weird mix of nervous excitement and obvious fear.
“Warehouse 12,” she said as they started walking. “You ready?”
“Not even a little bit,” he said, hugging his gear tighter. “But I brought my flash lens and a portable light stick. You know. Just in case things pop off.”
“They always pop off.”
“Exactly.”
She laughed and pulled her hood up. Her steps were lighter now, despite everything. Her muscles still ached from ballet, but this was her time. Her space. The rave scene didn’t care if your pirouette was crooked or your GPA was trash. All it cared about was if you had rhythm, if you could hold your own.
And Gwen? Gwen could dance through anything.
The warehouse thrummed like a living thing.
Neon lights poured from busted windows, leaking onto cracked pavement and dancing along the chain-link fences. Inside, the air was thick with bass and smoke, bodies moving in sync to beats that rattled bones. It wasn’t just a party. It was a rebellion with a soundtrack.
Gwen stepped through the side entrance, Peter trailing her like a shadow. She tugged her hood down and took it all in—half the floor already filled with people, others crowding near the makeshift stage where a DJ was hyping up the mix.
The city might be cracked, grimy, and unforgiving—but here? It was art. Chaos, yeah, but the kind you could dance to.
“Yo!” a voice shouted.
Gwen turned as Reina jogged over, hair tied in colorful bantu knots and hands covered in neon paint. She was part-time DJ, full-time wild card, and Gwen’s unofficial hype-woman.
“Stacy in the building!” Reina grinned and fist-bumped her. “You better hit that floor tonight. Crowd’s dry without you.”
Peter looked sheepish. “I mean, I’ll record if y’all—”
“Nah,” Reina said, winking. “You’re official now. Document the chaos.”
Gwen laughed and hugged her friend. “Where’s the crew?”
“Back corner. They been waiting on you.”
She found the rest of her circle tucked near the back—Dezi with her signature gold headphones, Q rocking a sleeveless hoodie and ripped jeans. A few members of her band were already there too, chilling with drinks and half-tuned guitars beside a couch someone had definitely stolen.
The music dropped. Beat heavy. Dirty synth.
That was her cue.
She threw her bag down, slipped off her hoodie, and stepped onto the open floor. There was no MC calling her out, no spotlight. Just space—and that was all Gwen needed.
She moved sharp, crisp, like her bones had memory. Windmills to footwork, tight freezes and powerful slides. Her ponytail whipped with each spin, her sneakers squeaking just enough to remind the crowd this wasn’t rehearsed. This was Gwen.
She was fire.
And the crowd responded.
A ripple of cheers. Phones up. Hype bouncing from wall to wall.
Peter stood off to the side, camera up, watching through the lens with awe. He always did.
Then, a shift in the atmosphere.
The crowd at the entrance stirred. Heads turned. Voices dropped.
Gwen stopped mid-move, hands on her knees, breathing heavy. She followed the line of stares—and saw him.
Miles.
He didn’t walk in. He arrived.
All black. Hood up. Rings glinting under the strobes. A black-and-purple jacket slung loose over his shoulders. Two guys behind him—his boys, quiet muscle. They didn’t need to say a word. The space parted for them.
He wasn’t loud. Wasn’t flashy. But the energy changed like a storm had rolled in.
People didn’t fear him. Not exactly.
They respected him. Like he was made of the same concrete they danced on.
Gwen kept watching. Not sure why.
Miles scanned the room, slow and deliberate. His eyes landed on the mural wall in the back—the artists’ corner—and with a single nod to his crew, he moved that way.
Didn’t look twice at anyone.
Didn’t have to.
Gwen wiped her face, heartbeat doing something it never did on stage.
“What?” Peter asked, sidling up.
She shook her head. “Nothing.”
But it wasn’t nothing.
Miles Morales had just walked in—and it suddenly felt like the rave was his stage, not hers.
Gwen had no reason to head toward the mural wall.
Except maybe the heat in her chest that hadn’t cooled down since Miles Morales walked in.
She drifted through the crowd like she wasn’t thinking about it—but every step was deliberate. She passed Reina mid-convo, nodded toward her bandmates who were laughing about something Dezi said, and waved off Peter with a half-smile when he asked if she wanted water.
“Be right back,” she mouthed, already slipping away.
The back of the warehouse was dimmer. Not dead—just different.
While the center of the rave pulsed with bodies and smoke, this side was quieter, lit by glowing graffiti and the slow swish of paint on concrete. Artists took their time here. A few were huddled near the wall, headphones in, lost in their work. Neon dripped down from tags, outlines, full pieces still coming to life.
And there he was.
Miles.
Leaning against a crate like the whole world belonged to him.
He wasn’t with his crew now. They’d peeled off somewhere else. He had a mask pulled up onto his head like a headband, a can of spray paint in one hand, and a half-finished mural blooming on the wall beside him—black-purple-blue streaks and a sharp crimson slash down the center.
It was angry. Beautiful.
So was he.
Gwen almost backed out. Almost turned away, pretended she had better things to do.
But she didn’t.
She stepped closer.
He noticed. Of course he did. Eyes sharp under heavy lashes, tracking her like she was a thread pulled loose.
“You paint?” he asked.
His voice was low, even, almost amused.
She raised a brow. “You judging already?”
He smirked, like that was the right answer. “Maybe.”
She stepped beside him, giving the mural an honest look. “You did all this?”
He gave a one-shoulder shrug. “Most of it.”
“It’s…” Gwen hesitated. “It’s good. Kinda intense.”
“City’s intense.”
That shut her up for a second. Fair point.
“You always paint alone?” she asked, glancing around.
Miles didn’t answer right away. He sprayed another line—clean, deliberate.
“Depends who’s watching,” he said finally.
Gwen crossed her arms. “And right now?”
He looked at her. Really looked.
Sharp brown eyes. Quiet steel underneath.
“You seem alright.”
It wasn’t much. But it hit different.
“Cool,” she said, trying not to smile. “I’m Gwen.”
“I know.”
That made her pause. “You know me?”
He nodded once. “You come to these a lot. You break. Good with footwork.”
Gwen blinked. The dude had watched her?
“Guess I know you too,” she said, recovering. “Miles Morales, right? Always walking in like the city owes you rent.”
That got a real laugh out of him—just a small one, but real.
They stood there for a second. Close enough to hear the echoes of the music but far enough for it to feel…still.
She wanted to say something else, but didn’t know what.
He beat her to it.
“You dance to let go,” he said. “That’s what it looks like.”
Gwen didn’t answer. Just nodded slowly.
And for the first time in a long while, she wasn’t performing.
The beat was off.
She was off.
And everyone in the room could feel it—even Lyss, who barely ever looked up from her guitar unless someone physically lit the place on fire.
“Yo, Gwen,” Reina called, swiveling away from her keyboard, lips pursed in mock concern. “You’re drumming like we’re at a funeral.”
Dezi glanced over from where she was adjusting her bass amp. “It’s giving... emotional breakdown.”
Lyss didn’t even look up. She plucked a few lazy notes on her guitar and deadpanned, “Should we play something slower so Gwen can match the vibe?”
Gwen groaned. “You guys are so dramatic.”
“Not us. You,” Reina said, hopping off her stool and crossing the room toward the drum kit. “Something’s got your head scrambled like eggs.”
Gwen leaned forward, resting her elbows on the snare drum, and mumbled, “I’m just tired.”
Dezi gave her a look. “You say that every time, but this time your tired’s got flushed cheeks and a weird smile. Spill it.”
Reina was already plopping down on the floor like it was tea time. “Let me guess… rave boy?”
Gwen sighed. “We didn’t even talk that long.”
“Did he look like he bites?” Lyss asked suddenly, still not looking up.
There was a beat of silence before the whole room burst into laughter.
Gwen turned bright red. “What—no! I mean—ugh! He just... I don’t even know him.”
Reina leaned forward, intrigued. “But you wanna know him, huh?”
Gwen tried to hide behind her sticks. “Maybe.”
“Okay, tell us everything,” Dezi said, dragging over an amp to sit on. “Where’d you meet this mystery man?”
“The rave. Over by the murals.”
Reina’s eyes widened. “Ooh, artsy boy. Did he paint something dope?”
“He was just there. Looking at stuff, did a bit of painting. He didn’t say much, but when he did… it was like…” Gwen trailed off, trying to put it into words. “He didn’t talk a lot, but he said enough. And the way he looked at me—like he already knew me. Like I wasn’t just some girl at a party.”
Lyss glanced up for the first time. “What’s his name?”
“Miles. And he knew mine. Said it real casual, like I was on his radar.”
“Oh hell no,” Reina said. “That’s straight outta a fanfic. You are smitten.”
Dezi smirked. “You sure he’s not secretly famous or something?”
Gwen laughed nervously. “Honestly… it kinda felt like it? People were watching him. Not bothering him, but, like, respecting him. Like he didn’t need to talk to run the place.”
Lyss nodded, plucking a dramatic minor chord. “Main character energy.”
“I don’t even know if he liked me like that,” Gwen admitted, eyes down. “But I felt something.”
“Well,” Reina said, standing back up and pointing toward the drums, “channel that into your snare, girl. Next time we see this mystery mural man, you better be ready.”
Gwen smiled, hands tightening around her sticks.
Yeah. Maybe she was catching feelings.
Or maybe she was catching danger.
Either way… she was hooked.