Dropped In, Spooked Out, Still Hot
It happened in the blink of an eye.
One second Peter Parker was late for rent—jogging down 44th with a bagel in his mouth and a crumpled bill in hand. The next? His Spider-Sense went nuclear.
A buzz like bees in his skull. A light—a rip—a scream.
Then falling.
He didn’t remember hitting anything, but gravity dragged him like it had a vendetta. Wind tore at his hoodie. His body twisted midair, instincts snapping online like muscle memory in overdrive. Hands up—webs fired—thwip.
The line caught something. His arm jerked back in its socket. Pain flared. He flipped, ricocheted off a wall, hit the ground with a grunt and a roll.
Everything stopped.
Dust in his mouth. Cold concrete under his palms.
His first breath tasted like ash and rot. Burnt rubber. Oil. Wet metal. Something about the air felt… heavy. Like it didn’t want him breathing it.
Peter groaned, lying there for a second, sprawled in a dim alley between two industrial buildings that stretched like old gods over his head.
He blinked.
"Okay… that’s new."
He pushed himself up, wincing as his knee protested. Hoodie half unzipped; mask tucked under it. He reached back to pull it out—then froze.
The skyline wasn’t New York.
It was darker. Colder. Like a gothic painting someone left out in the rain.
Towering spires. Blinking red lights. A blimp—a freaking blimp—lurking above like a silent eye. Everything dripped shadow, even the neon signs.
Peter’s brow furrowed. “Where the hell…?”
He checked his phone. No service. His screen glitching like it was being jammed.
His Spider-Sense whispered. Not screaming. Just… watching. Like something was perched on the edge of the world and had just noticed him.
A chill ran down his spine.
His voice cracked into the silence:
“This better not be Jersey.”
________________________________________
Peter pulled his hoodie tighter and hopped off the alley wall, boots hitting pavement with a soft thud. No sirens, no honking, no bodega yelling matches. No Aunt May humming over the TV. Just... the quiet hum of a city that looked like it forgot how to sleep and started smoking instead. Peter shivered. Shoved that thought somewhere dark and locked the door. He had a new nightmare to deal with now.
Okay. Not New York. Definitely not Jersey. Probably not Hell. Though, jury’s still out.
He passed a rusted street sign half-covered in ivy that read: Otisburg. That felt made up. This place had that kind of vibe—like someone broke up during a funeral and made it an architectural style.
Peter sighed, adjusting his web-shooters under his sleeves as he walked. “I’m in a Tim Burton fanfic,” he muttered, crossing a street where the crosswalk light was permanently stuck on Nope.
Peter walked a few blocks with his head down, quietly trying not to draw attention. Something flickered in the corner of his eye—too fast to catch. A whisper that wasn’t a whisper, brushing the base of his neck. He stopped. Looked up.
Nothing. Just a gargoyle glaring down like it knew something he didn’t.
“Right,” he muttered. “Not haunted. Definitely not haunted.”
A cracked phone in one pocket. Wallet, $240.83, and a MetroCard that now might as well be a bookmark.
Gotta lay low. Find a place to crash. Figure out how reality cracked like Aunt May’s floorboards.
A neon-lit building up ahead caught his eye—Kane’s Hotel, red cursive letters flickering like they owed someone money.
“Bingo,” he said under his breath.
And then it happened.
He bumped into someone. Hard. The other guy staggered back, dropping his cigarette and scowling like Peter just insulted his leather trench coat (which, in fairness, was deeply insultable).
The guy looked like he hadn’t slept since 2002. Chain around his neck, rings on every finger, half his face hidden under a too-low beanie.
“You blind, freak?”
Peter blinked. “Huh. Didn’t realize the city’s dress code included edgy hobo-chic. My bad.”
“You wanna go?”
Peter gave him a once-over, unimpressed. “Dude. You smell like expired Red Bull and disappointment.”
The guy stepped forward. “Say that again.”
“Sure,” Peter said, shrugging. “You smell like—”
Then, real fast:
“—your mom.”
Silence.
Peter just stared at him with the most deadpan expression known to man. Like he’d delivered the punchline of a Shakespearean tragedy.
The guy looked confused “My mom’s dead.”
Peter paused. Tilted his head. “So is my dignity, but we don’t bring that up in alleys, do we?”
The man screamed something profane, but Peter didn’t catch it over the sound of his own smug satisfaction. A woman walking her dog across the street stopped to stare. Peter waved. She pulled her Pomeranian closer like it might catch his mental instability.
he sighed. “The weirdos judge you here… Great.”
He turned back toward Kane’s Hotel, muttering, “God, I miss New York. At least the psychos there wear tights and give speeches.”
Inside, the hotel lobby looked like someone had tried to make it classy and halfway succeeded. Dark marble, a little gold trim, and a potted plant in the corner that looked like it was dying of mood.
Peter approached the front desk, doing his best to look like he hadn’t just insulted someone’s bloodline two minutes ago.
The desk clerk didn’t look up. Middle-aged. Male. Hairline in denial. Sweater vest. Gotham-issue dead eyes.
“Checking in?”
Peter nodded. “Yeah. One room. One night. One crisis.”
The clerk looked up for the first time. Peter gave a charming little smile. Glasses slipping down his nose. Hoodie damp. Chaos in his eyes.
The clerk just typed something and handed him a room key.
“No refunds.”
Peter took it. “No expectations.”
He glanced at the key—a cheap metal tag with the number “307” printed in faded ink. He shoved it into his pocket with a quiet sigh and turned toward the elevator. The lobby, despite its attempt at luxury, felt oppressive, like a place stuck in time—a place that remembered the decay before the polish, the grime under the shine. His Spider-Sense hummed, low and steady, the prickling sensation never fully leaving him.
As he approached the elevator, the doors creaked open, a gust of musty air escaping as though it hadn’t been used in years. The inside was cramped. A small mirror reflected his tired face back at him, eyes wide and lost. He wondered if he looked as broken as he felt.
A chime rang out as the elevator started moving, the jerky motion making him grip the railing. The city outside continued its silent scream of blacked-out streets and glimmering shadows. It was like the whole place was just waiting for something—anything—to happen.
"Maybe I'm already in hell," Peter muttered under his breath.
The elevator stopped on the third floor with a soft jolt, and the doors slid open with a groan. The hallway looked just as old as the rest of the hotel—flickering lights, cracked wallpaper peeling at the edges like it couldn’t be bothered to stay put.
Room 307 was at the end of the hall. The door was half-open. A sliver of dim light flickered inside, casting long, distorted shadows on the floor.
Peter hesitated, feeling that same crawling sensation from earlier—that sense of being watched, even though he couldn’t see anyone. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. His breath caught in his throat as he stepped forward, every instinct telling him to turn back. But, of course, he didn’t. He was Spider-Man. He didn’t turn back.
He nudged the door open with his shoulder.
The room wasn’t much to look at—bare walls, a cracked window, a bed with tangled sheets as though someone had just left in a hurry. Dust was everywhere, thick enough to make his skin itch.
Peter stepped in and closed the door behind him, the faint sound of the lock clicking into place.
The moment the door shut, the air in the room changed. It was colder. The floor creaked under his boots, and the walls seemed to press in, like the space itself was alive and breathing, something that wasn’t quite right.
His Spider-Sense flared. His body tensed.
He swung around, scanning the room in an instant, expecting someone—or something—lurking in the corner.
Nothing.
Just the room.
Peter let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He wiped his face with his hand, trying to steady himself. The overwhelming sense of unease hadn’t lifted. In fact, it was growing, crawling under his skin like ants, making his pulse quicken.
He needed a plan. He needed to get his bearings, figure out where the hell he was.
First step—find a way out. Second step—stop panicking.
He walked to the window, tugging it open and sticking his head out. The skyline stretched before him—Gotham. The weight of it was crushing, suffocating. His heart pounded harder. He tried to ignore it, but he couldn’t. Not here. Not in this place.
His fingers tingled, and he reached for the webs on his wrist, but—nothing. The web-shooters were malfunctioning. No thwip. No webbing. Just a dry click.
Peter swore under his breath.
“Great,” he muttered, his hands shaking as he stuffed the web-shooters back under his sleeves. “Just great. No webs, no way out.”
He turned, his eyes falling on the bed in the center of the room. The bed where the sheets were still warm.
The room felt like it was waiting for him to do something, waiting for him to make a choice.
The floor creaked again. Peter glanced down, his breath hitching.
A shadow.
It wasn't the kind of shadow that belonged to an object. No, this shadow was... different. It moved in a way it shouldn’t. It flickered, stretching, bending as if it were alive.
His heart raced.
“Uh, yeah. No,” Peter whispered, taking a cautious step backward. His fingers twitched, itching for the familiar comfort of his webs. “I’m done with haunted, thanks.”
But just as he was about to bolt for the door, the light above him flickered violently, plunging the room into darkness.
Then—there was a voice.
Low. Haunting. Almost like a whisper—but too deep. Too old.
“Welcome, Spider.”
Peter froze.
The voice wasn’t coming from anywhere he could pinpoint. It was coming from everywhere.
The air grew thick again, the pressure returning tenfold. He could feel it now—an oppressive, invisible presence. Something vast. Ancient. Watching him.
A cold chill gripped his spine. And then, a presence spoke again, but this time, it wasn’t a whisper. It was clear.
“Do you know why you’re here, Peter Parker?”
He spun around, but there was no one. No one but the oppressive, cold, twisting air.
Peter’s pulse hammered in his throat. His voice barely came out. “Who... who are you?”
The temperature in the room dropped even further, and the shadow flickered again, twisting into something far darker, more menacing than anything Peter had ever faced.
A laugh echoed. Faint, but growing louder.
And Peter Parker, late for rent, caught in a city he didn’t recognize, realized one thing:
He wasn’t alone.