Chapter 6
The day started like any other—or at least that’s what Peter told himself. The truth was, this week was anything but normal. By Friday, he’d officially be a high school graduate. At twelve.
Peter walked down the hall of Midtown High, a small backpack slung over one shoulder. The familiar stares followed him, as always. To his classmates, he was some kind of prodigy or freak—depending on who you asked. He kept his head down, focused on making it through the day.
In AP Chemistry, Dr. Connors stood at the front of the classroom, his usual friendly demeanor amplified by a proud grin.
“Before we start, I’d like to take a moment to recognize one of our own,” Dr. Connors began, looking directly at Peter.
Peter froze, heat creeping up his neck. He didn’t like being the center of attention.
“Peter Parker,” Dr. Connors continued, “is set to graduate this week. That’s an extraordinary achievement at his age. Peter, I’ve had the privilege of teaching many bright students, but you…” He paused, a genuine smile lighting up his face. “You’re one of the brightest. Congratulations.”
The class clapped politely, though Peter could hear the muttered whispers and side comments. He managed a small smile, nodding at Dr. Connors.
After class, Dr. Connors caught him as he was packing up. “Peter, I know things haven’t been easy for you. But you’ve got a brilliant future ahead. If you ever need a recommendation or someone to talk to, you know where to find me.”
Peter nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat. “Thanks, Dr. Connors. That means a lot.”
---
That evening, Peter stood on the roof of his apartment building, his mask in hand. The ferry fight from earlier replayed in his mind like a broken record.
It had started as a routine patrol. He’d been tracking a weapons deal in the Bronx when he overheard chatter about a big exchange happening on a Staten Island ferry. The moment he swung onto the scene, chaos erupted.
Adrian Toomes—Vulture—was there, leading the operation. His mechanical wings sliced through the air with a menacing hum. The ferry buckled under the weight of the fight as Peter desperately tried to stop the arms deal from going down.
Webbing, flips, and near-misses filled the scene as Peter fought tooth and nail. He managed to disable one of Toomes’ wing turbines, but not before an explosive misfire split the ferry in two. Peter’s heart pounded as he frantically webbed the halves together, his muscles screaming in protest.
It wasn’t perfect. The ferry tilted dangerously before the Coast Guard arrived to stabilize it. Toomes escaped, but the weapons were confiscated, and no one died. Peter had done his job—or so he told himself.
But the guilt lingered. He should’ve done better.
---
Peter swung through the city, his battered suit clinging to his frame. His ribs ached from the fight, and exhaustion blurred the edges of his vision. He didn’t know where else to go, so he headed to Hell’s Kitchen.
When he landed on a rooftop, Daredevil was already there, waiting.
“Rough night?” Daredevil asked, his tone dry but tinged with concern.
Peter sighed, slumping against the edge of the roof. “You could say that.”
“Come on,” Daredevil said, motioning for Peter to follow.
---
Matt’s apartment was small but comforting, filled with subtle warmth. Peter sat on the couch while Matt called Claire Temple.
“Claire, I need a favor,” Matt said, his voice low. “Got someone here who needs patching up.”
When Claire arrived, she was all business until she got a good look at Peter. The moment she gently pulled his mask off, her eyes widened in shock.
“He’s a kid,” she said, her voice filled with disbelief. “Matt, he’s *twelve*.”
Matt’s jaw tightened. “I know.”
Peter squirmed under her gaze. “I’m fine,” he mumbled.
“Fine?” Claire echoed, gesturing to the bruises on his face and the cut above his eyebrow. “You’re a child running around in a mask, getting into fights with criminals twice your size. This is *not* fine.”
Peter winced as Claire started cleaning a wound on his arm. “I have to do this.”
“No, you don’t,” Claire snapped. “You should be home, studying or playing video games, not...this.”
Matt remained silent, his face unreadable, but Peter could feel the tension radiating off him.
Peter’s hands balled into fists. “I don’t have a home, okay?” he blurted.
Claire froze, her expression softening. “What do you mean?”
Peter’s voice cracked as he spoke, the words tumbling out in a rush. “My parents died when I was a baby. My uncle—he died because of me. My aunt…she’s not exactly winning any awards for parenting. This—being Spider-Man—it’s all I have. It’s the only thing that makes sense.”
Claire exchanged a worried glance with Matt, who finally spoke. “Peter, you can’t carry all of this on your own.”
“I have to,” Peter said, his voice barely above a whisper.
Claire sighed, her anger melting into sadness. “You’re just a kid.”
Peter looked at her, his brown eyes filled with a pain far beyond his years. “I stopped being a kid a long time ago.”
---
After patching him up, Claire and Matt tried to get Peter to stay for the night. Too exhausted to argue, Peter finally gave in.
Matt listened from his room as Peter’s breathing evened out. For the first time, Matt allowed himself to admit what he’d been thinking since that rooftop encounter: Peter Parker was remarkable, but he was also a tragedy waiting to happen.
And Matt wasn’t sure how to stop it.