Ethan shut the apartment door behind him and leaned against it, letting out a breath that felt heavier than it should have. The city murmured outside — cars, sirens, life going on. Normally, that noise grounded him, proof that the world still worked according to predictable patterns. Tonight it sounded like static.
His question to Peter wouldn't stop replaying in his head: 'Are you happy?'
He'd asked it so casually, like it was a simple thing. But the way he'd said it — tired, honest, unguarded — had cut deeper than any interrogation. He wanted to know if Peter was happy, but more than anything, he wanted to know if he could be happy too.
Ethan dropped his bag on the bed and sat at the desk. His reflection in the dark window looked back, pale and still, a ghost caught between admiration and envy. Spider-Man was supposed to be the blueprint for endurance — the man who kept fighting no matter what. Ethan had spent his childhood idolizing that idea. Now that he'd met the real man behind the mask, he wasn't sure whether to feel inspired or disillusioned.
More than anything, he was happy to have been able to talk to Peter Parker. Before he became Ethan Kane in this world, Peter and Bruce Banner were the two heroes he liked most because he could see his own experiences and pain within them. He always wished they could be content and happy, as if wish the same for himself.
He booted up his laptop. The familiar hum of the processor was comforting. His head was pounding—deep, throbbing pain pulsing at the base of his skull like a warning beacon. He leaned back against the wall for a moment, eyes closed.
Truth be told, that headache was the real reason he'd faked being sick and left school early. He had planned to sleep off the pain, maybe run diagnostics on the safehouse in the evening.
But then he'd seen Peter.
It was supposed to be a short walk to the hotel. Instead, it had turned into an information-laced exchange laced with emotionally traumatic questions, perfectly timed to further Ethan's long-term plans. Still, talking while manually running simulations through Sage's supercomputer-level thought processes, along with holding the conversation with Peter, the headache had been… unpleasant to say the least.
The pain spiked again as he got up and sat down heavily on the bed. It felt like his brain was fracturing around the edges, split between his human limitations and the network of enhanced cognition constantly feeding him patterns and probabilities. Although he had Sage's abilities, it seemed his human brain limited its true capabilities.
Finally, he lay back and closed his eyes.
The silence welcomed him.
Sleep came quickly.
He was woken up hours later by a soft knock and his mother's voice through the door. "Dinner's ready, Ethan. Come eat before it gets cold."
His eyes fluttered open, the room dim in the filtered light. He checked his phone.
2 hours gone. Just like that.
The headache was gone, at least. Nothing more plagued his mind.
"I'm not hungry," he called back, his voice just loud enough to carry through the door.
"You should eat something."
"Okay, mom," he said, already sitting up and stretching. 'I'm not really hungry, but if I don't eat, they'll end up worrying again.'
By early evening, the smell of garlic and soy sauce drifted from the kitchen. Ethan's mother had made stir-fry again — the same meal she always cooked when she sensed something off with him. He wondered if this was Ethan's favorite meal or something. Well, regardless, he liked it, so it didn't matter.
He joined them at the table, the three of them eating in a silence that felt almost peaceful. His father flipped through his newspaper between bites; his mother kept fussing over whether Ethan was getting enough sleep.
He nodded in all the right places, said "fine" when asked about school, and "busy" when asked about friends. The answers came automatically, placeholders that filled the space between clinking silverware and the faint hum of the refrigerator.
He hadn't eaten with them in a day or two. The routine felt foreign now — almost intrusive.
His mind wandered back to Peter's words:
"Preparation's fine. But you start stockpiling power, planning for everything, and pretty soon you're not protecting the people around you anymore — you're protecting yourself from forming connections with them. You do it with excuses like, 'They'll be safer if I'm gone.'"
He pushed the rice around his plate, watching the grains shift like a sand timer.
Was that what he was doing?
He told himself distance kept them safe — that the more layers of secrecy he built, the farther they were from danger. But what was the point of safety if it meant erasing himself from their memories and lives?
Could he really protect them that way? Watch them twenty-four hours a day? No. Even with every algorithm, every camera, every contingency, he couldn't stop randomness — the wrong place, the wrong moment, the wrong stranger.
He could remove himself from the equation — cut the line that connected his world to theirs. That was the logical answer. If he vanished, so would the risk.
But logic had blind spots.
If something ever happened to them, and he wasn't there — if they needed him and he'd already disappeared — would safety still matter?
His mother refilled his glass, smiling the same tired, gentle smile she always had. "Eat more, honey. You barely touch anything lately."
He forced a small nod. "Yeah… sorry."
He took another bite. The food tasted normal — good, even — but something in his chest felt hollow.
Peter's voice wouldn't leave his head. 'You're not protecting people anymore — you're protecting yourself from them.'
Maybe Peter was right. Maybe his preparation was just another kind of fear.
He looked at his parents — his father distracted, his mother humming softly to herself — and realized how fragile the moment was. How easily it could vanish, like everything else he'd ever tried to hold onto.
When dinner ended, his mother kissed his forehead. His father told him to make sure not to stay up too late before going to bed.
Ethan stood in the quiet kitchen for a long while after they'd gone to their room, staring at the half-empty dishes on the counter.
He whispered to the empty room, "I can't protect you forever… but maybe I don't have to disappear to try."
Then he turned off the light, went back to his room, and got back to work.
His laptop screen lit up with a list of vetted local contractors. He began making inquiries—one for renovating the print shop, another for a certified electrician to repair the defunct elevator system. The property was still technically classified as "light commercial," but he intended to convert the print shop into a small newsroom. He would offer it to Peter if he accepted the deal, while below would maybe be a small research lab, or he could just make a hideout for Peter.
Just as he finalized a shortlist, his phone buzzed.
A message from the real estate attorney.
"Deal closed. Final amount: $55K for the property, $5K legal processing. Please wire funds to this account."
Ethan wasted no time. He transferred the full amount in two clean waves—one from a Rourke-linked holding account, the other from a subsidiary rental service.
Then he sent a message:
"A colleague of mine will be contacting you shortly to inquire about an acquisition of her own. She comes recommended. Name: Felicia Harper."
Along with the message, he included the secure P.O. Box—registered under the alias Samuel Rourke—as the delivery address for the property deed and keys.
That done, Ethan exhaled slowly and turned to the next task.
Felicia Harper.
He reused the same alias Felicia had used to infiltrate Midtown High—clean, familiar, low risk.
This part was easy. The identity was already scaffolded through the same education system shell Samuel Rourke "attended." Ethan simply linked her new records, manipulated archived databases, and added a deceased-but-unnoticed young woman as the foundation. Then, using adaptive image modeling software, he created a modified driver's license photo: Felicia with black hair, a younger facial structure, slight asymmetry, and altered bone metrics.
To the human eye, she'd only vaguely resemble Felicia Hardy. Enough for plausible deniability.
He uploaded the image to the DMV backend. Since licenses lasted eight years in New York, she wouldn't raise suspicion unless she actively sought high-level scrutiny.
He nodded once. "Perfect."
Now, for the safehouse.
Ethan opened the draft message again and addressed the attorney on behalf of "Felicia Harper":
"I'm interested in the condemned laundromat in Brooklyn. I was referred by Samuel Rourke. I'm looking for a quiet investment opportunity. Prefer off-grid."
The laundromat was worthless above ground. But the basement…
It was dry. Structurally sound. Disconnected from city surveillance. A rear-access alley gate, shielded by dumpsters and a collapsed fence. No working cameras nearby. Zero foot traffic.
Total asking price: $65K.
Seller: an anonymous property group eager to close with cash.
Once the attorney confirmed the conditions, Ethan would transfer funds discreetly—most likely within 24 hours.
He turned to the last task for the night.
Felicia Harper needed income—something low-key, traceable, but not suspicious.
Ethan began establishing accounts. Using layered shell companies across three minor jurisdictions, he scheduled small, randomized deposits under rental income and web development invoices. Nothing too large to flag the system. All of it was automated, and scrubbed clean through misaligned timestamps and noise data.
As he clicked through the final confirmation window, he leaned back and stretched again.
The hotel room remained silent and dim—just the way he liked it.
Getting up, Ethan went to the kitchen since it was now almost 10 p.m. and grabbed a snack. His parents seem to have fallen asleep watching TV.
J. Jonah Jameson was on the screen, embracing Prodigy, a bright, Superman-like hero in gold and blue armor with a noble demeanor as a "real hero". Sadly for Jameson, this was just one of the alternate personas Peter was using to try to clear his name after Norman Osborn framed Spider-Man for the murder of a small-time crook named Joey Z.
Ethan almost chuckled as he went about his way to get himself a glass of water. Paying attention to the current timeline, this is about when Peter, under an alias, the Hornet, helps fight off the villain Delilah, who works for the Rose. Ethan was very interested in Delilah, a superhuman female assassin who could shrug off full-power hits from Peter even when he didn't hold back.
Besides allies, Ethan needed minions, and Delilah would be a perfect choice. Delilah is a highly skilled hand-to-hand combatant and assassin. She was also particularly adept at using various types of firearms and bladed weapons. An ideal choice now, Ethan just needed to locate her and make sure that she could not refuse his offer.
'I wondered what Peter would think of me recruiting killers. Probably the same thing he thought about everything I have been doing — that it was smart, but it wasn't right.'