Miles POV:
The Spider-Shed was quiet. Web-like structures housing vehicles and gadgets hung from the ceiling of the Spider-Cave. Tools lined the walls. Rows of spider-suits in cases stood like silent guardians of a undying legacy.
And at the center, waiting on the workbench, was something new. Something beautiful.
A suit. Blank. Matte silver and ash, woven from titanium steel nanoweave that caught the light like ether. It was sleek and was waiting to be claimed. Beside it, a pair of custom web-shooters gleamed with precision. Smaller, tighter, built for a younger grip.
There was no note but I didn't need one. I knew who had left it.
Peter.
Not Peter B. Not the others. The Peter. Cold as steel yet kind as a saint, depending on his intentions and agendas.
He had seen my hesitation. My fear and instead of lecturing me, instead of holding my hand, he had left me the tools. A silent message without words.
Make it yours.
My reflection wavered in the polished surface of the mask. I picked it up, the lightweight material grounding me, reminding me of every word my dad said. I'm also reminded of every Spider's loss.
"You won't always save everyone."
"But you'll be brave."
"Because that's what Spider-Man does."
"You gonna paint it or do I have to?" Aunt May asked with a smile.
"Nah, I got it covered." I say with my confident smirk.
The spray cans rattled. The hiss of aerosol paint escaping from the cans filled the shed.
Black spread across silver. Crimson arcs slashed over the eyes. A bold red spider stretched across the chest. My mark. My statement. My promise and mine to keep.
When it was done, I stood there, heart pounding, the mask in my hands.
And then I put it on.
The world outside seemed to hold its breath.
Brooklyn Heights
The city stretched beneath me, a jungle of concrete and glass. The wind howled in my ears. I stood on the edge of the skyscraper, mask pulled tight, chest heaving.
Fear gnawed behind my mind.
And then I remembered.
Peter B.'s voice. "All it takes is a leap of faith."
The words echoed through me.
I stepped forward.
And jumped.
Glass shattered under my feet as I leapt from the building. For one breathtaking heartbeat, he fell. Weightless, upside down against the skyline. The city wasn't falling away from me. I was rising toward it.
The web-shooters clicked into place on my wrists. Instinct guided him.
Thwip.
The web caught. My body swung wide, momentum whipping through my chest.
I laughed. Raw, unrestrained, electric. Swinging was breathtaking and beautiful.
Another swing. Another. Each arc higher, faster, more confident. Sparks of venom energy danced across my fingertips as he flipped, spun and soared between the towers of his city.
Brooklyn roared around him, alive, vibrant, his.
Miles Morales wasn't just wearing a suit. He was wearing the suit.
He was Spider-Man.
He landed on the roof of a skyscraper, overlooking Fisk Tower, neon glowing against his black-and-red suit. For the first time, the city below looked different.
Not heavier. Not scarier.
It looked like home.
And he was ready to protect it.
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