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Aunt May's message was simple: stay home when you get back, I had to go out.
Peter's panic returned in full force. Something had happened. Something bad.
He searched frantically—phone calls, neighbors, hospitals—until he finally found them.
Aunt May was in the waiting room of Queens General Hospital. And Uncle Ben...
Uncle Ben was lying in a hospital bed. Unconscious. But alive.
Peter stood in the doorway of the room, staring.
"Aunt May..." His voice came out hoarse. "Uncle Ben, is he—"
"He was shot," Aunt May said, her eyes red from crying. "But the doctors saved him. They said he lost a lot of blood, but he's going to be okay."
Peter felt his legs go weak.
Uncle Ben wasn't dead.
He'd been so sure—standing on that street corner, watching Uncle Ben go still—he'd been absolutely certain his uncle was gone.
But the doctors had saved him.
Peter felt a crushing wave of guilt. He'd left. He'd abandoned Uncle Ben on that street to chase the robber, and he hadn't even checked properly to see if his uncle was really dead.
If Ben had died because Peter wasn't there, because Peter had run off seeking revenge instead of staying to help...
Peter would never have forgiven himself.
He moved to Aunt May's side and wrapped his arms around her. "It's going to be okay, Aunt May. Uncle Ben's strong. He'll pull through."
Aunt May looked up at him with tired eyes. Something in her expression shifted—recognition, maybe, that Peter wasn't a child anymore.
"I know," she said quietly. "I know he will."
She was exhausted. Both she and Uncle Ben were in their sixties, and the stress of the night had taken everything out of her.
"Get some rest," Peter said. "I'll stay with him."
Aunt May didn't argue. She found a chair in the corner, and within minutes, she was asleep.
Peter sat beside Uncle Ben's bed, watching the heart monitor beep steadily.
He made a silent vow.
I'll protect them. Both of them. No matter what it takes.
A month passed.
Peter graduated from high school. Uncle Ben recovered slowly but steadily. Life began to feel almost normal again.
Almost.
The one bright spot in Peter's personal life was that Mary Jane had broken up with Flash Thompson. Peter allowed himself to hope—maybe now, finally, he'd have a chance to tell her how he felt.
That hope died when he noticed Mary Jane spending more and more time with Harry.
His best friend.
Peter tried not to let it bother him. He failed.
But Peter had other things to focus on now.
After graduation, he'd started going out at night in his spider costume. At first, it was just patrols—swinging through the city, testing his abilities, getting comfortable with who he'd become.
Then he started finding criminals.
Muggers. Carjackers. Burglars. The kind of small-time predators who made New York's streets dangerous after dark.
Peter stopped them. All of them.
Word spread fast. Within a few weeks, "Spider-Man" was the most talked-about figure in the city. Some people called him a hero. Others called him a menace. Everyone had an opinion.
Peter didn't care about the attention. He cared about the work.
Every criminal he stopped was one less person who might hurt someone's uncle.
At the Daily Bugle, J. Jonah Jameson was in a foul mood.
Which, to be fair, was his default state.
The editor-in-chief of New York's second-most-popular newspaper sat at his desk, cigar clenched between his teeth, glaring at the front page of today's edition.
Spider-Man. Again.
"Saves six people on subway," Jameson read aloud, voice dripping with contempt. "Maybe he caused the disaster in the first place!"
He jabbed a finger at the grainy photo. "Look at this! Wherever there's trouble, he shows up. Coincidence? I think not. Spider-Man IS the trouble!"
Marcus sat at his desk nearby, pretending to work while actually doing very little.
"You want me to pull the Spider-Man stories?" he asked mildly.
"Yes! Get that masked menace off my front page!"
"Sure. But you should know—today's edition sold out in two hours. We can't print them fast enough."
Jameson's tirade cut off mid-syllable. "Sold out?"
"Every copy. Newsstands are calling for more."
There was a long pause.
"Put Spider-Man on page one," Jameson said without missing a beat. "Biggest headline. Most prominent position."
Marcus smiled. "We don't have any more photos. Just the one from today."
Jameson's eye twitched. He could tell Marcus was angling for something—probably a raise—but he wasn't about to cave that easily.
"Fine. I'll put out a reward. Anyone who brings me photos of Spider-Man gets cash. You—" he pointed at Marcus, "—go get me pictures. That's what I pay you for."
"Of course, boss."
Marcus left the office with a knowing smile.
Peter needed money.
Uncle Ben's medical bills had been expensive. College was coming up—assuming Peter could afford it—and he refused to burden his aunt and uncle any further.
Harry had offered him a job at Oscorp, but Peter had turned it down. He wanted to earn his own way.
Then he saw the newspaper advertisement.
WANTED: Photos of Spider-Man. Generous reward. Contact the Daily Bugle.
Peter remembered the business card.
After some digging through his desk drawer, he found it. Marcus Reed, photographer, Daily Bugle.
The guy from the Oscorp exhibition. The one who'd given Peter his contact information and said they might be colleagues someday.
Peter had thought it was a weird thing to say at the time.
Now it made a lot more sense.
The next time Peter went out as Spider-Man, he brought a camera.
He found a group of armed robbers hitting an armored truck and intervened. While he was wrapping them up in webs for the police, he also set up his camera on a timer and took several action shots.
The photos were pretty good, actually. Clear shots of Spider-Man mid-swing, mid-punch, mid-web.
Peter changed out of his costume, collected the camera, and headed to the Daily Bugle offices.
The building was exactly what Peter expected—chaotic, crowded, everyone moving at high speed.
He stepped off the elevator onto the fifth floor and found himself in a bullpen of desks, phones, computers, and stressed-out journalists.
Peter looked around uncertainly.
Someone noticed him.
Marcus was sitting at a desk near the back, doing what looked like absolutely nothing productive. When he spotted Peter, his eyebrows rose.
He got up and walked over.
"Peter Parker," Marcus said, recognition in his voice. "The kid from Midtown High. You should be graduated by now."
Peter nodded, a little surprised Marcus remembered him. "Yeah, just finished. Um, hi. Mr. Reed."
"What brings you here?"
Peter shifted awkwardly, then pulled out a folder containing his photographs. "I saw the ad about Spider-Man photos. I managed to get some shots, and I was hoping... well, I need the money. And also, I was wondering if you might have any job openings? For a photographer?"
Marcus looked at the photos. Then looked at Peter.
His expression was unreadable, but there was something in his eyes—amusement, maybe.
"I told you we'd be colleagues someday," Marcus said. "Come on. I'll introduce you to the boss."
Peter followed Marcus through the bullpen toward a glass-walled office in the corner.
"Fair warning," Marcus said as they walked. "Jameson's... an acquired taste. Don't take anything he says personally."
"Got it."
They stopped at the office door.
Knock knock.
"Come in!" a gruff voice barked.
Marcus opened the door and led Peter inside.
J. Jonah Jameson sat behind a massive desk, cigar smoke curling around his head, red pen in hand as he slashed through some reporter's draft.
He looked up at them with obvious impatience.
"Who's the kid?" He turned his glare to Marcus. "And why aren't you out getting me Spider-Man pictures?"
Marcus smiled and gestured toward Peter.
"He's got the Spider-Man photos you wanted."