Chapter 9
The alert came in fast—too fast. Gwen barely had time to yank her boots on before her watch started vibrating with a high-priority message. There was a rampaging creature near her neighborhood. Big, fast, scaly.
Her blood ran cold when the word "Lizard" lit up the screen.
She’d never fought something like this before.
Swinging out her window, Spider-Woman cut through the dark sky with urgent speed. Her heart thundered in her chest as sirens echoed from nearby streets. The closer she got, the more destruction she saw—park benches smashed, cars flipped, fences mangled.
Then she saw it. A hulking reptilian figure, flailing in confusion, knocking over a streetlamp as it stumbled through the intersection like it was drunk. Its movements were panicked. Uncoordinated.
Like it didn’t know how to be what it was.
Gwen landed in front of it, heart racing, eyes narrowing behind her mask. “Hey! Big, green, and ugly! Let’s not turn this into a whole Godzilla thing, yeah?”
The Lizard roared and charged.
They fought. Or rather—it fought itself as much as it fought her. Gwen ducked and dodged, striking with webs and kicks, watching as it swiped clumsily at her like it didn’t know how strong it was. It thrashed, growled, then paused suddenly, like something inside was breaking apart.
“Just stop!” Gwen shouted as she landed another hit, sending it crashing into a mailbox. “You don’t know what you’re doing!”
It hissed—no, whimpered—as its body began to convulse, the scales flickering, limbs twitching. And then—
Then it deflated.
Right there in the middle of the street, the monstrous form seemed to collapse inward like a popped balloon. Gwen stumbled forward, heart dropping into her stomach.
Because underneath the broken skin and green sheen—
Was Peter.
Her Peter.
His glasses were cracked, his lip bleeding, his sweater half-torn. His eyes were closed, breath coming in short little wheezes. He looked barely alive.
Gwen dropped to her knees beside him.
“No. No, no, no…” Her mask retracted as she touched his cheek. “Peter, no. Please—what did I do—what did they do to you?”
Tears streamed down her face as she shook him gently. “You’re gonna be okay. You’re gonna be fine. I didn’t know, I didn’t know—please don’t leave me too…”
Her voice cracked. She felt like she was shattering right there in the street with him.
A bright light swept over them.
“Step away from him!”
Officer Stacy’s voice cut through the moment like a blade. Gwen froze.
He was standing at the end of the street, gun drawn, eyes locked on her. Her father.
“Now!” he barked, not recognizing her in the maskless daze.
She stood up, trembling. Her body screamed at her to stay, but her legs moved anyway.
One last glance at Peter. Then she turned and ran.
Tears blurred her vision as she shot a web to the nearest rooftop. Behind her, sirens swelled. Her lungs burned. Her chest was hollow.
She didn’t stop until the city swallowed her whole.
Gwen couldn’t breathe.
She stumbled through her bedroom window like she was sleepwalking, like the very air around her had gone heavy. Her hands were shaking, body covered in scrapes, Peter’s blood still staining her fingers. Her brain refused to stop playing it all on loop—his face under the scales, how he collapsed, how he didn’t wake up, how her dad had shown up and she just… ran.
She didn’t even say goodbye.
She collapsed on her bed, staring at the ceiling as the sounds of sirens faded in the distance. Her mask was on the floor. Her phone was in her hand. Her heart was barely in her chest anymore.
She needed someone.
But not just anyone. Not her dad. Not even Peter’s aunt, who would see her and know everything. She needed someone who didn’t ask questions. Someone who held her steady when the ground fell out beneath her.
Her fingers trembled as she pulled up her contacts.
Miles.
She tapped call.
It rang once. Twice. Her throat burned. Her nose was running. She could barely breathe through the sobs starting to rise.
“Hello?” Miles sounded a little breathless. Probably training again.
She opened her mouth to speak, but only a weak, choked sob came out.
“Gwen?”
More tears. She pressed the phone harder to her ear.
“M-Miles, I—I didn’t mean to—I didn’t know—it was him—he didn’t know what he was doing—” Her voice was raw, breaking between hiccupped sobs and broken phrases.
“Hey. Hey, slow down,” Miles said immediately, the concern in his voice sharp. “Where are you?”
“My room,” she managed to get out, curling tighter on her bed. “I—I messed up. My best friend’s—he’s gone, Miles. He’s just gone.”
There was a beat of silence on the line. Then the rustling of clothes. “I’m on my way. Five minutes, Gwen. Don’t hang up, okay?”
She nodded even though he couldn’t see her.
She didn’t hang up.
She couldn’t.
Every second that passed felt like she was unraveling. Her chest ached. Her body wouldn’t stop shaking. The image of Peter’s slack face wouldn’t leave her mind. The way she had hit him. The way he had changed—turned into that thing. What had they done to him? What had she done?
Five minutes felt like an hour.
But then there was a knock on her window. She turned her head slowly. Miles stood outside, hood up, eyes wide. She got up and opened it, barely stepping aside before she launched into his chest.
He caught her instantly.
“I got you,” he whispered, wrapping his arms around her as she completely broke down.
No questions. No expectations. Just his arms around her, grounding her to something real.
She cried harder than she had in years.
And he didn’t say anything else. He didn’t need to.
He just held her.
Miles didn’t let go of Gwen.
Not when her sobs shook through his hoodie. Not when her legs gave out and he had to guide her gently down onto the bed. Not when she curled into his side like someone who had been holding themselves together too long and finally let go.
He just stayed.
The night was quiet except for her soft cries, slowing with each passing minute until they became breathy little hitches in her chest. Miles sat against her headboard, Gwen pressed against his side, knees pulled up to her chest. His hand moved slowly, rhythmically, up and down her arm.
Eventually, her breaths started to even out.
“You wanna talk about it?” he asked softly, his voice low, careful.
Gwen shook her head. “I can’t.”
“That’s okay.”
She went quiet again. The kind of silence that was louder than noise. The kind that said everything. That screamed pain and loss and regret all at once.
“He was my best friend,” she whispered. “Like… the only person who knew all of me. Even the weird stuff. Even when I sucked.”
Miles didn’t say anything. He just listened.
“And now he’s just…” Gwen’s voice cracked, and she pressed her forehead to his shoulder. “Gone. And I don’t even know what happened. I just—he wasn’t supposed to die.”
Miles closed his eyes. He didn’t know the details. She hadn’t said a name. But it didn’t matter. He knew what that kind of pain sounded like. The kind that sticks in your chest and refuses to leave.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured.
She clung to him tighter. “I keep thinking I could’ve stopped it. That if I’d done something different—said something, seen something—maybe…”
“Gwen,” he said, his voice a little firmer this time, “whatever happened, you didn’t cause it.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know you.”
She froze at that, then exhaled something that was part-laugh, part-sob. “God, I didn’t even know who to call. I didn’t want to talk to anyone. Just you. Isn’t that weird?”
Miles didn’t flinch. “Nah. Not weird.”
She went quiet again. But this time, it wasn’t the suffocating kind. Just stillness. Tired, heavy stillness.
Eventually, her head dipped. Her breaths grew deeper, slower. He looked down and realized—she’d fallen asleep.
She looked so small like that. Pale, exhausted. Her fists still curled in the fabric of his hoodie like she was afraid he’d disappear if she let go.
Miles didn’t move.
He stayed.
Because she needed someone. Not to fix it. Not to ask questions.
Just someone who could sit in the dark with her when everything hurt too much.
And he would do that. For her, every time.
The dinner table was unusually quiet.
Gwen pushed her peas around her plate without touching them. Her dad glanced up from his forkful of mashed potatoes, eyes narrowing slightly.
“You okay, kiddo?”
“Peachy,” Gwen muttered without looking up.
Captain Stacy leaned back in his chair, chewing slowly. The silence that followed wasn’t casual. It buzzed, charged with the weight of unsaid things. He sniffed once, frowning.
Then, very carefully, he set his fork down.
“Gwen,” he said, “are you… smoking again?”
She froze.
The fork clattered to her plate.
Her dad’s voice stayed calm, but it had that edge she knew all too well. “You think I wouldn’t notice the smell? You think I didn’t see the ash in the bathroom trash?”
“I’m not a kid,” Gwen shot back, jaw tight.
“No, you’re not,” he agreed, but there was disappointment in his voice, and somehow that hit worse than if he’d yelled. “But that doesn’t mean you get to destroy yourself just because things are hard.”
“You don’t get it.”
“Then help me understand.”
She stood up so fast her chair scraped loud against the floor. “Peter is dead.”
Silence dropped like a bomb in the room.
Her father’s face crumpled slightly, his breath catching. “Gwen…”
“I couldn’t save him. I was supposed to be there and I wasn’t and now he’s gone.” Her voice cracked again, eyes already glistening. “And I can’t breathe sometimes without wanting to scream.”
Captain Stacy got up slowly, reaching for her. “Gwen, I know you’re hurting—”
“You don’t know. You still have your partner, your job, your life. And I have nightmares of blood and—I didn’t even get to say goodbye!”
She didn’t mean to shout. But it came out anyway.
She wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her hoodie, trembling.
“I’m not okay, Dad. I’m not okay.”
“I never asked you to be,” he said quietly. “But this? Smoking in secret? Pushing me away? That’s not how we get through this.”
“I’m not trying to get through anything. I’m just trying to not break.”
For a moment, it was too quiet.
Then her dad sighed, heavy and tired. “If you ever need to scream, you can. Just not like this. Please, Gwen.”
But she couldn’t take it anymore.
Without another word, she grabbed her phone and hoodie and stomped down the hall.
Her dad’s voice followed her. “Gwen—! We’re not done talking!”
“Yes, we are!”
She slammed the door shut behind her.
Everything in her room felt like it mocked her. The old photos of her and Peter, the drum set in the corner, the posters he helped hang.
She leaned against the door, breathing hard.
And then she moved.
Quick, practiced. Out the window, mask pulled down, hoodie flipped over it. It was instinct now. Escape in motion.
She wasn’t Gwen Stacy anymore.
She was Spider-Woman.
And tonight, she didn’t want to save anyone. She just wanted to forget.
The city lights below blinked in a scattered mosaic, humming softly like they always did. Spider-Woman sat perched on the edge of a low water tower, legs drawn in close, arms loosely wrapped around her knees. Her mask was pulled halfway up, just enough for her to breathe in the night air, the stale smoke of her cigarette curling up and out ito the stars.
She didn’t even want it. It just gave her something to do with her hands.
Her comms buzzed to life in her ear, police chatter scratching through.
“Shots fired—corner of 83rd and Blake.”
“Possible mugging, suspect headed eastbound—”
“Prowler sighted—damaged storefront at Edison and 5th.”
Gwen didn’t move.
She just exhaled slowly, watching the smoke drift up into the sky. She could stop any of that. She could be Spider-Woman right now. But something in her chest felt stuck—like every time she reached for that part of herself, she remembered Peter screaming, Peter changing, Peter bleeding on the pavement while her hands shook and her voice cracked around his name.
She swallowed hard.
She hadn’t even told her dad the truth. She couldn’t. Because if she said it out loud—if she admitted Peter turned into that thing and she had to put him down—then it was real. Then it wasn’t just a nightmare she hadn’t woken up from.
The comms buzzed again. She didn’t care.
Another puff of smoke.
Then she heard it—heavy footsteps landing behind her, quiet and calculated. Her body tensed out of instinct, but she didn’t turn.
“…You gonna sit there all night, mami?”
Spider-Woman let out a breath. “What, did you come to gloat?” she asked dryly.
The Prowler didn’t answer right away. His silhouette loomed beside her now, purple eyes dimmed. “Nah. Was gonna rob a pawn shop, actually. Heard about your little pity party and figured I’d check in.”
She didn’t laugh. Didn’t even smirk.
“…That why you do it?” she asked quietly. “The suit, the missions, the mask. Because everything else sucks too much?”
He didn’t answer. The pause stretched between them like a tightrope.
“I used to think being Spider-Woman gave me a purpose,” she mumbled. “Now it just feels like I’m bleeding from two lives instead of one.”
Prowler crouched beside her, the glow of his mask blinking soft in the dark.
“You’re not bleeding,” he said. “You’re just tired.”
“…Same thing lately.”
They sat in silence. A dog barked in the distance. Sirens blurred past somewhere out of sight.
“Why’d you come?” she asked, not looking at him.
“…Don’t know.” A pause. Then a softer, “Didn’t want you to be alone, I guess.”
She turned her head, finally meeting his eyes behind the visor.
He wasn’t smirking. He wasn’t teasing.
Just… there.
“You’re hard to figure out,” she said quietly.
“I like it that way.”
She smiled, faintly. Bittersweet.
“…Can we just sit here a little longer?”
Prowler nodded once, then sat beside her properly. Their shoulders brushed. The city kept buzzing beneath them.