The room was bathed in the pale light of the night sky, a chaotic landscape of books strewn across the floor. In the midst of the disarray, a fifteen-year-old boy slept fitfully on his bed. He tossed and turned, his face contorted as if plagued by a nightmare.
Suddenly, he shot upright, a cold sweat clinging to his body. His chest heaved with ragged breaths as his hand flew to his heart.
"I didn't die?" he whispered, confusion clouding his mind.
His eyes darted around the unfamiliar room. This wasn't where he was supposed to be. "Shouldn't I be on a road? Whose house is this?"
His disorientation deepened when he noticed his hands, they were smaller, younger. Spotting a mirror across the room, he scrambled from the bed, only to tumble out and land face-first on the floor. The impact was dull, barely hurting.
"Argh," he grumbled in annoyance, pushing himself up and stumbling to the mirror. The face staring back was not his own. It was younger, framed by an unfortunate "butt" haircut, and completely unfamiliar.
'Who am I?' He spun around, taking in the alien room. 'What is going on?'
Driven by a need for answers, he began rifling through the room's clutter. His search led him to a wallet. Flipping it open, he froze. The ID card bore a name that sent a jolt through his system: Peter Parker.
"What the..." The words died in his throat, his brain stalling for a second as it tried to process the impossible. "Is this some kind of joke?" He dropped the wallet onto a table. "Probably." He tapped his forehead with his fist, over and over, as if to jump-start his thoughts.
'I've been transmigrated... and I became the unluckiest person in the Marvel Universe. If that's the case, which Earth am I on?' His survival depended on the answer. He found himself accepting the situation almost casually; it was easier than fighting the reality and risking a mental breakdown.
"Do I have the spider powers?" he wondered aloud.
He pressed his palm flat against the wall, concentrating on making it stick. When he tried to pull away, his hand remained firmly attached.
"Calm down," he muttered to himself. After a moment of focused relaxation, his hand released.
"I need to figure out my relationships." He found a flip phone and scrolled through the contacts: Aunt May, Uncle Ben, Harry Osborn, and a few other non-prominent names.
'I must be a day after I got my powers,' he deduced, formulating a plan. 'But I need to confirm if Uncle Ben is still alive. I can find out tomorrow morning.'
"I also have other things to confirm, but that will require the internet," he muttered. He looked back at his reflection in the mirror. "I guess I have to live as Peter Parker from now on. But let's go to sleep first."
For now, the new Peter Parker succumbed to exhaustion.
— The Next Day —
A loud, blaring alarm shattered the morning silence.
"Urgh, five more minutes," Peter mumbled into his pillow, swatting at the noise before falling back into a deep sleep.
He slept through the incessant beeping until the sound of a loud knock was followed by his door swinging open. An elderly man stood in the doorway, Ben Parker.
"Peter, you're late for school!" Uncle Ben called out.
"I already finished school. Wake me up later," Peter grumbled, his words muffled by the sheets.
"Peter, get up!" Uncle Ben insisted, walking over to the bed and shaking his shoulder firmly.
Peter finally stirred and sat up, rubbing his eyes. "What time is it?"
"It's already 8 a.m.," Uncle Ben said. "You are late for school."
"I already graduated. Why would I need to go to school?" Peter argued, his mind still foggy with sleep.
Uncle Ben sighed in exasperation. "Peter, wake up. Why are you still dreaming?"
"Who are you?" Peter asked, his vision still too blurry to see clearly.
'This is bad,' Uncle Ben thought with a spike of concern. "What time did you sleep last night?" he asked aloud.
"I don't know," Peter mumbled. He finally wiped his eyes, blinking several times until his mind began to clear. The face of the man in front of him came into focus, sparking a memory from the ID card and phone contacts. "Are you... Uncle Ben?"
"Yes, I am! Now, Peter, get ready for school. You are very late," Uncle Ben urged.
Peter's eyes snapped to the alarm clock. Seeing the time, he scrambled out of bed so quickly he nearly tripped, but a surprising strength in his legs steadied him. He darted toward the bathroom, only to rush back a moment later, frantically searching his room.
"Uncle Ben, do you know where my towel is?"
"In the bathroom! The blue one!" Uncle Ben called back.
"Thanks!" Peter yelled over his shoulder as he ran back to clean up.
When he returned to his room a short while later, Uncle Ben was gone. Peter dressed quickly, but then stared blankly at his stack of books, unsure which ones to bring. He settled on stuffing as many as would fit into his backpack before hurrying downstairs.
An elderly woman was sitting on the sofa watching TV. It was Aunt May.
"Peter, Ben is waiting for you outside. Here's your breakfast," she said, handing him a paper bag with a sandwich inside.
"Thanks, Aunt May," Peter said. On impulse, he leaned down, hugged her, and gave her a quick kiss on the forehead before heading out the door.
Aunt May was slightly surprised by the affectionate gesture, but a warm, gentle smile quickly appeared on her face.
Outside, Peter opened the car door and slid into the passenger seat next to Uncle Ben.
"Do you have everything you need?" Uncle Ben asked.
"Yeah," Peter said, buckling his seatbelt.
Uncle Ben put the car in drive and pulled away from the curb, taking Peter to school.
In the passenger seat, Peter massaged his temples in disbelief. 'I can't believe I'm going to be late. On my first day as a high schooler... again.'
Uncle Ben glanced at him and smiled, mistaking Peter's existential dread for simple morning grogginess.
When they finally arrived at Midtown High School, Uncle Ben said, "See you later, Peter."
"Got it. Bye," Peter replied. He got out of the car and strode into the school building as if he owned the place.
He walked through the halls acting like nothing was wrong, but soon realized a critical problem: he had no idea where his class was.
"Shit," Peter muttered under his breath.
'Wait, I think there's a timetable in my bag.' He quickly rifled through his backpack and found a planner with his schedule. "Ah, English," he nodded, now knowing where to go.
He headed straight to the classroom. Peering through the window in the door, he saw the teacher was already lecturing. Undeterred, Peter casually entered the room without a word of apology, scanned the seats, and sat down at an empty desk that he assumed was his.
The English teacher was so appalled she stopped mid-sentence. Everyone in the class stared, shocked by his audacity. They were already on the second lesson of the day.
"Peter Parker," the teacher said, her voice tight. "Who said you could sit down?"
"I did," Peter replied with blunt honesty, all filters gone. "Are you my slave owner who decides what I can and can't do? No. So, continue with the teaching."
The English teacher's voice rose. "Peter, you will report to detention during lunch!"
"Okay. Now go back to teaching; you're wasting everyone's time," Peter said, utterly unfazed.
The teacher gritted her teeth, furious that one of her smartest students was being so deliberately rude. Her eyes scanned her desk and landed on a wooden ruler.
"Peter Parker, come to the front of the class. Now," she demanded, her voice trembling with anger.
"No. You try to drag me up there, and I'll put you on the floor," Peter said, his voice low and laced with a fatigue that bordered on fury. "I didn't get enough sleep, and I am not in the mood. I'm not afraid of being expelled, but I promise you'll be missing a few teeth if you lay a hand on me. So, do your job and continue with the teaching."
He wasn't thinking straight. The combination of being violently ripped from his old life, thrust into this new one, and then woken up at an ungodly hour for a high school he'd already mentally graduated from had pushed him past his breaking point. He was simply pissed.
"I will make sure the principal hears about this!" the English teacher seethed, her face flushed. "You'll be in detention for a month!"
Peter finally met her gaze, a cold, unimpressed look in his eyes. "Cute."
The class continued in a tense, awkward silence, the teacher's lecture now punctuated by nervous glances shot in Peter's direction.
When the period ended, the student in front of him turned around, his expression a mix of confusion and concern. "Peter, what was that?"
Everyone nearby leaned in, wondering the same thing.
"Who are you again?" Peter asked.
A collective gasp went through the students around them. The boy in front of him was Ted, one of Peter's nerd friends.
"It's me, Ted!" he said, hurt evident in his voice.
"Listen, from now on, don't bother me," Peter stated coldly. In his mind, he reasoned, 'I don't have time to play the good student. I need to graduate early and get my certificate.'
The small group was stunned. Ted looked as if he'd been slapped, shocked that Peter would cut off their friendship so callously.
Without another word, Peter opened his textbook and began reading, memorizing the page with his enhanced recall.
This pattern continued until lunchtime. Peter gathered his bag and headed out of the classroom, only to find the disciplinary teacher waiting for him in the hallway, sternly holding a wooden paddle.
"Turn around, Parker," the teacher commanded, his voice low and threatening as he moved to isolate Peter from the student traffic.
"You must get a real thrill from ordering kids around. Fucking pedo," Peter shot back, his voice loud enough for passing students to hear.
A few students stifled their laughter, while others quickened their pace, deliberately avoiding eye contact.
Enraged, the disciplinary teacher made a sudden grab for Peter's arm. But Peter effortlessly leaned back, the teacher's hand swiping through empty air.
'So, this is how the Spider-Sense works,' Peter realized with an internal nod. It was a faint, instinctual pull, a premonition of movement.
The teacher, now humiliated, tried again and again to grab him, but Peter weaved and dodged each attempt with unnatural ease. The situation escalated until, in a fit of fury, the teacher swung the wooden paddle directly at Peter's head.
A sharp smirk touched Peter's lips. He dropped into a low crouch, the paddle whistling harmlessly over him. His first instinct was to strike back, to lay the man out flat. But he hesitated, aware he was still new to this power and the damage he could cause.
Instead, as the teacher stumbled forward from the missed swing, Peter swiftly hooked his foot behind the man's left ankle and lifted, sending him crashing to the floor.
"You're lucky I'm going easy on you," Peter said, looking down at the stunned teacher. He then turned and walked calmly toward the detention room as if nothing had happened.
Everyone who witnessed the event stood in shocked silence. And in the age of flip phones, several students had already fumbled to record the entire interaction.