Chapter 6
The wind kissed Gwen’s cheeks as she soared between buildings, the world below her a blur of golden lights and city sounds. She’d lost count of how long she’d been training now—days blurred together, web after web, swing after swing. But something inside her had shifted.
She was getting good at this.
With each movement, her body responded faster. She could sense when her grip was too tight, when to let go, how to flip mid-air with ease. Her suit, now sleek and stitched perfectly by Amaya, clung to her like a second skin as she dipped down low enough to hear a woman shout, “He took my purse!”
Gwen swooped, planted her feet on the side of a wall, flipped off and shot a web. The guy went down with a startled yelp, stuck to a lamppost and whining about his back. The woman blinked in awe, clutching her purse.
“Thanks, uh—Spider-Woman?” she called out.
Gwen paused. “Ghost-Spider,” she corrected, then mentally winced. Did she just name-drop herself? That was so lame.
She zipped off before the woman could reply, landing lightly on a rooftop nearby and taking a breather. Her lungs burned a little. Her smile stretched wider.
She was doing it. Helping. Being someone.
The thought made her chest swell. The city looked different from up here. Like she was part of it now, not just one of the people watching from below.
Her fingers twitched near her web-shooters as she crouched on the ledge, preparing to make her way home.
But then… something buzzed in her head.
A tingle. A prickling behind her neck.
Spider-sense.
She turned her head, heart thudding. Someone was watching her.
In a flash of red and black, a figure darted between buildings just out of reach of the streetlights.
Her breath caught. The silhouette was unmistakable—broad shoulders, that signature swing style, red webbing across a black suit.
Spider-Man.
Gwen ducked behind the ledge instinctively. Her heart pounded in her ears.
He saw me. Did he recognize me?
She crouched there, breath shallow. After a minute, she peeked over the edge again.
Nothing.
He was gone.
The soft hum of lo-fi beats filled Miles’ room, mixing with the occasional click of his keyboard and the buzz of his web-shooters charging at his desk. Ganke lay sprawled on Miles’ bed, a comic book splayed over his chest, while Miles sat hunched over his laptop, still in half of his Spider-suit, mask discarded, curls messy with sweat.
“She’s doing it again,” Miles muttered.
Ganke didn’t look up. “Doing what?”
Miles huffed, pushing away from the desk. “Ghost-Spider. Or whatever she’s calling herself now.”
Ganke finally glanced up, raising an eyebrow. “What about her?”
“She beat me to a robbery on 3rd. Again.” Miles tossed his gloves onto the desk. “Like—I was two seconds away. Two seconds! Then boom, she swings in with her dramatic landings and flashy flips and just... takes over.”
Ganke smirked. “Sounds like someone’s got a little competition.”
“It’s not about that,” Miles insisted, pacing now. “It’s—she’s reckless. Doesn’t follow the plan. Doesn’t check the scene. Yesterday, she webbed a guy’s legs and his arms. The dude just rolled down the street like a stuck-up burrito.”
“Sounds effective,” Ganke offered.
Miles shot him a look. “You know what I mean. I’ve been doing this longer. There’s a rhythm, a process. She’s just… chaotic."
Ganke set the comic down. “Okay, but didn’t you say, like, two weeks ago you wished there was someone else out there doing what you do? Someone to share the load?”
Miles paused.
“Yeah, but I didn’t mean someone who’d constantly swing in at the last second and act like I’m the backup dancer.”
Ganke tried not to laugh. “So...you don’t like sharing the spotlight.”
“It’s not about the spotlight,” Miles repeated, dragging a hand down his face. “It’s just—it feels like she’s everywhere lately. And I don't even know who she is. Where she came from. What if she’s not even trying to help? What if this is some setup? Or worse—what if she’s just messing around?”
Ganke shrugged. “She saved that bus full of kids last week.”
“Yeah, well…”
Miles couldn’t argue that one.
He slumped into his chair again, crossing his arms as he stared at the ceiling. Silence settled between them for a minute.
Ganke nudged him with his foot. “Look, man. Maybe she’s just figuring it out. Like you were, remember? Maybe instead of keeping tabs, you should just talk to her.”
Miles frowned. “How do you talk to someone who disappears the second you turn your head?”
Ganke grinned. “You chase her.”
Miles groaned. “Why do I feel like that’s terrible advice?”
“Because it probably is,” Ganke said cheerfully. “But it’d make a great rom-com.”
“Bro, I have Gwen,” Miles said, grabbing a pillow and chucking it at him.
Laughter filled the room again, but the unease lingered in Miles’ chest—like a thread pulled too tight. Whoever this Ghost-Spider was… she was getting under his skin.
And he couldn’t stop thinking about her.
The park was quiet, the fading sun painting the sky in strokes of orange and pink. Gwen sat on the edge of the fountain, sneakers tapping against the stone, trying to ignore the twist in her stomach. Miles waved as he jogged up, breathless and smiling like nothing had changed.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said, sliding beside her. “Some guy’s chihuahua got stuck in a storm drain.”
Gwen let out a small laugh. “Of course you saved a chihuahua.”
He bumped her shoulder with his. “Would’ve called you, but I didn’t want to risk the dog developing a crush on you.”
She smiled—at least, tried to. “Thanks.”
For a moment, they just sat there. The city buzzed faintly in the distance, and kids screamed somewhere behind them over a game of tag. It was peaceful. Normal. Gwen felt like she was suffocating.
“So,” Miles said, glancing sideways at her. “We haven’t hung out in a while. Been kinda hard to pin you down.”
Gwen swallowed. “Yeah. Sorry. Things have just been...a lot.”
He nodded slowly. “I get that. I really do. I just—” He paused. “I miss you, Gwen. And I feel like you’re pulling away.”
Her throat tightened. She forced herself to meet his eyes.
“I don’t mean to,” she whispered. “It’s not about you. I just—I don’t know how to explain what’s going on.”
“Then don’t explain everything,” Miles said gently. “Just talk to me. You don’t have to do everything alone.”
But she did. She had to.
“I wish I could,” she said, her voice cracking. “But every time I try, it feels like I’m walking into this huge, heavy wall and I can’t breathe. I’m scared, Miles. Of what I’d say. Of what it might mean.”
He leaned in. “Scared of what?”
Her hands gripped the edge of the fountain. Her vision blurred. She didn’t know if it was fear or guilt or the overwhelming pressure of everything crashing down all at once.
“I’m sorry,” she choked, rising to her feet. “I—I can’t do this.”
“Gwen, wait—” Miles stood too, reaching for her, but she was already backing away.
“I’m sorry,” she repeated, eyes shimmering. “Please don’t hate me.”
Then she turned and ran.
Ran from the confusion in his eyes. From the weight of his concern. From the guilt threatening to spill over like water in a cracked dam.
Miles stood there, alone by the fountain, watching her retreat. His chest was tight and his fists clenched, but not with anger. Just confusion. And hurt.
He whispered into the empty air, “I could never hate you.”
But Gwen was already gone.
The suburbs always smelled different—fresher, quieter, like the city couldn’t reach this far with all its noise and rush. Gwen stood outside her childhood home, backpack slung over one shoulder and nerves curling tight in her stomach. She hadn’t been back in weeks.
Her dad opened the door before she even knocked. “There’s my girl.”
“Hey, Dad.” She smiled, letting him pull her into a warm, familiar hug.
“Mom’s in the kitchen,” he said. “She made your favorite.”
“Spaghetti with garlic bread?” Gwen asked.
“Extra crispy. She even let me stir the sauce—under supervision.”
Inside, the house hadn’t changed. Same family photos lining the walls. Same faint scent of laundry detergent and cinnamon candles. It felt like stepping into a time capsule. For a moment, Gwen wished she could stay frozen here.
Dinner was simple but warm. Her mom caught her up on neighborhood gossip while Gwen picked at her garlic bread. Her dad kept sneaking bites off her plate like he always did, and she couldn’t help but smile. It was...nice.
Then he ruined it.
“You guys see the news about that Ghost-Spider person?” her dad asked mid-bite, half-laughing. “What a name.”
Gwen’s fork stopped halfway to her mouth.
Her mom rolled her eyes. “The spider stuff is getting out of hand. Isn’t one enough?”
Gwen said nothing.
“Last thing Brooklyn needs is another masked vigilante swinging around like they own the place,” her dad went on. “It’s dangerous. Untrained, unpredictable. If I ever catch her, I’ll be filing a report myself.”
The spaghetti on Gwen’s plate turned cold. Her appetite vanished.
“Come on, George,” her mom said, noticing Gwen’s silence. “She’s just a kid, probably.”
“Exactly. A kid,” he emphasized. “Who has no business throwing themselves into police business. Look, Spider-Man at least tries to work with us. But this new one? She shows up late, leaves a mess, and disappears. No accountability.”
Gwen’s hands shook in her lap. She pressed them together tightly under the table.
“She’s probably doing her best,” she mumbled.
Her dad didn’t hear. Or maybe he did, and just didn’t think it mattered. “I’m tired of cleaning up these hero messes. One mistake, and someone dies.”
Gwen stood up abruptly, chair scraping back against the hardwood.
“Gwen?” her mom asked, confused.
“I just—I’m not feeling great,” Gwen said, voice thin. “Can I lie down for a bit?”
Her mom nodded slowly. “Of course. Your room’s just like you left it.”
Gwen nodded, mumbled a “thanks,” and left the table.
Upstairs, in the silence of her old bedroom, she stared at the posters on her wall, the fairy lights still strung above her bed. Her vision blurred, chest aching.
They’d never understand. Not the fear, the pressure, the weight of holding so many secrets.