Absolute Spider-man

A slow, steady electronic beep was the first thing Peter heard as consciousness began to return. The sharp sting of antiseptic filled his nose, his jaw felt stiff, and he could barely open his eyes before they welled with tears.

"God, that hurts," was the only thing Peter could think as his thoughts slowly rearranged themselves, waking in what felt like a luxury hospital bed—the sheets and mattress were far too comfortable for any normal hospital.

But Peter didn't care about that. He couldn't enjoy the comfort anyway; he felt like he was in hell. His entire body was weak and sore, as if someone had beaten him senseless and broken every bone just to stitch them back together again.

"Where... am I?" Peter groaned in a hoarse, exhausted voice. His throat was parched, and he barely had the strength to speak, let alone sit up. He tried anyway, managing only a few inches before a searing pain shot through his back like a branding iron. He collapsed back onto the mattress with a gasp, breathing heavily.

"Stay still, dumbass. You still look half-dead," said a dry voice to his right—familiar, sarcastic.

Peter turned his head slowly toward the source. Sitting in a chair with her legs crossed was a girl with reddish-brown hair tied in a braid down one side. Her blue eyes matched his own, and her face was narrow, not much older than his.

On her face, Peter could read a blend of emotions—but the most prominent were tension and genuine relief.

His head throbbed and his mind was foggy, but the name came back to him immediately: Teresa Parker, his older sister.

"You gave the whole family a hell of a scare, you little gremlin," she said, handing him a glass of water. Judging by the way he'd been sweating, she knew he'd need it now that he was awake.

"Teresa?" Peter rasped after downing the water. His throat still hurt, but no longer from dryness. "What… are you doing here?"

"Looks like you hit your head harder than the doctors thought," she replied, with barely concealed anger in her voice. "I'm here to make sure you don't die, idiot!"

"Die?" Peter echoed, confused.

"Yeah, didn't you hear?" Teresa snapped sarcastically. "Aunt May almost had a heart attack when she got the call. I swear, her face went completely white."

"What happened?" Peter asked. He already knew exactly what had happened—but he wanted to hear the official report.

"According to the doctor, you had some sort of massive allergic reaction—the worst he's ever seen, apparently. Said you were lucky that girl was with you when it happened, or you might not have made it."

"A girl?" Peter asked, and then the image of Felicia flashed into his mind. That's right—she had startled him, causing the spider to bite him and then escape.

"Yeah. Blonde. A little shorter than you. Nice ass," Teresa added casually, thinking of the girl they'd found crying at the hospital when they arrived. "Just so we're clear, if you're cheating on MJ with her, I'm siding with MJ."

"What are you even talking about?" Peter asked, completely thrown by the direction the conversation had taken.

"Oh, come on. You really expect me to believe a girl cries her eyes out in the ambulance and refuses to leave your side for no reason?" Teresa raised an eyebrow, arms crossed, already having judged him.

Peter stared wide-eyed, stunned.

"Crying? Felicia… was crying?" he asked, struggling to picture it. He just couldn't match that image with the cold, snarky girl he knew.

"I don't know if her name was Felicia. I didn't ask. I was a little distracted watching her dab tears with a tissue while yelling at the paramedics that 'Peter can't die, he owes me an ice cream or something ridiculous like that!'" Teresa rolled her eyes. "Typical over-the-top teen drama scene. I almost filmed it. Still… she did look genuinely scared."

She chuckled lightly at the memory, but the best part was still to come.

"The real show started when MJ arrived. I swear, shrimp, they didn't throw punches, but the passive-aggressive conversation they had? I regret not recording it. It got so intense the nurses had to kick them both out for blocking the hallway—too many people were watching."

Peter stayed silent, trying to process it all. Felicia had been scared. She'd actually cared. That wasn't what he'd expected. She was usually cold, distant, even mean…

A tsundere, Peter thought, eyes squeezing shut. In his past life, he'd been an anime fan—he recognized the behavior pattern immediately.

"I'm not cheating on MJ," he finally said, voice still rough.

"You don't have to convince me. Try telling her that when you see her," Teresa replied, standing and walking toward the door.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

"Food. A walk. And to call Aunt May—let her know you survived."

"Before you go… where are we? And how long was I out?"

"Oscorp Medical Wing. You've been asleep for three days," she said, opening the door and stepping out.

Once she was gone, Peter let out a long, deep sigh.

"Not sure if this is better or worse than I imagined," he muttered, staring at the ceiling. He summoned what little strength he had and lifted his hand to inspect it. Nothing unusual—just normal skin… except for the faint marks where the spider had bitten him.

Maybe it didn't work…

Peter recalled every version of the Spider-Man story he'd ever known. The transformation never took more than one night. By morning, Peter always woke up feeling like he'd been injected with pure adrenaline.

That's when the door opened again—but it wasn't Teresa, nor a doctor checking up on him. It was a man in his 40s, immaculately dressed, perfectly groomed, and with a face that radiated I could murder you with my thoughts.

Norman Osborn.

Even if Peter hadn't recognized him from his rare visits to Midtown—or for being Harry's father—his presence alone would've changed the entire atmosphere. The air felt denser. Colder.

He wore a crisp black suit, wrinkle-free, with a white shirt that gleamed under the artificial lights. His hands were clasped behind his back, and while his expression was neutral, his eyes... his eyes didn't blink.

They pierced through Peter like scalpels.

"You're finally awake," Osborn said in a low, restrained voice. Not angry. Not even annoyed. Something worse—interested.

Peter swallowed hard and tried to sit up a little. The pain was still there, but the tension now gripping his chest made him forget it.

"Mr. Osborn…" he murmured, voice still rough.

"It's good to see you recovering, Peter," Osborn interrupted, stepping forward. His shoes gleamed on the sterile floor. "Harry's been asking about you nonstop since you were brought here."

Norman stopped at the bedside, studying Peter with clinical precision and what seemed like genuine curiosity. Peter felt like a specimen—not a person.

"Are you evaluating me?" Peter asked quietly.

"I always evaluate," Osborn replied with a humorless smirk. "Especially when my company's reputation is on the line."

Peter frowned. He didn't need a PhD to guess where this was going.

"So… you're here because you're afraid I'll sue Oscorp?"

Norman tilted his head slightly, as if Peter had passed a small test.

"Sharp as ever. That's why I like that you're friends with my son. You're smarter than most of the parasites crawling through my offices."

Peter knew better. Norman wasn't a talker. Manipulative sociopath? Yes. But chatty? Never. His presence here now could mean only one thing: he'd come to intimidate him into silence. There was probably a camera in the room, waiting to alert him the second Peter woke up alone.

"Peter, as much as I genuinely care about your health, this visit is about avoiding a scandal." Norman reached into his jacket and pulled out a black folder stamped with the Oscorp logo. He placed it on the bedside table but didn't open it. "If this gets out and your aunt, sister, or anyone from your family talks, Oscorp will face lawsuits, fines, investigations, audits… the usual."

Peter stared at him. No rage. Just a chilling clarity.

"I wasn't planning on suing anyone," he said truthfully. After all, this was exactly what he'd wanted: superpowers. People would pay fortunes for what he'd just gotten.

Norman's smirk returned—this one tinged with disdain.

"Sure, and I believe you, Peter. But your intentions don't matter—to me or to my lawyers. What matters is risk. And I don't leave loose ends. Ever."

He finally opened the folder, revealing legal documents and a non-disclosure agreement on top.

"This is a confidentiality agreement. Very simple. Very direct. You, your family, and any future descendants waive all rights to sue Oscorp, me, or anyone in my family. And you also agree never to speak publicly about what happened here. In plain English: If anyone asks, it never happened."

Peter scanned the documents. His body was weak, but his mind was still sharp. Buried in the fine print were clauses that did exactly what Osborn said—total legal immunity for Oscorp, forever.

"I understand, Mr. Osborn. But what do I get?" Peter asked, knowing full well that deals like this always came with hush money.

Norman smiled—that smug smile of a man getting exactly what he wanted.

"In addition to covering all your medical and recovery expenses," he said, reaching into his jacket once more, "I'll offer you one hundred thousand dollars. Tax-free, yours to use however you wish."

Peter swallowed hard. It was a lot. Tempting.

"That's it?" he said flatly, and Norman's brow arched. The conversation had taken a turn.

"Mr. Osborn, if this goes public, it could severely damage Oscorp's reputation. Your lab nearly killed me. Insurance alone would cost millions, not to mention a drop in stock prices—which would really upset your shareholders. As far as I know, a hundred grand is less than one percent of what you'd lose."

Norman's expression flickered—half furious, half impressed. Peter even noticed the slight clench of his jaw. He wasn't wrong; Osborn's shareholders had been circling for a coup for months. An incident like this could give them the excuse they needed.

"So how much would be enough, in your opinion?"

Peter did the math. He had about $15,000 saved from selling schoolwork, but if he wanted to be Spider-Man—and start off right—he'd need more. One of Spider-Man's biggest problems had always been money. Even after building Parker Industries in the comics, he somehow destroyed it and ended up broke again.

Not this Peter.

"Five hundred thousand," Peter said calmly, as if asking for coffee. "Immediate transfer. Tax-free. Untraceable. Give me that, and I'll sign. If anyone asks, it never happened."

Norman stared. He was used to getting his way—no pushback, no negotiation. But a 16-year-old boy blackmailing him so smoothly? That earned respect.

Osborn tilted his head. A predatory glint passed through his eyes. Then, chuckling softly, he opened his checkbook and signed with elegant ease. He tore out the check and held it out.

Peter, stunned, swallowed hard. It was the most money he'd ever seen—in two lifetimes.

"Sign," Norman said firmly. No more negotiations.

Peter grabbed the offered pen and quickly signed his name next to each X—six in total. Norman promptly closed the folder, gathered the documents, and handed Peter the check.

Peter took it with trembling hands—not from pain, but excitement. Half a million dollars. His mind raced with possibilities: tech, materials, suit components, gadgets. This wasn't just money. It was freedom.

"Get well soon, Peter," Norman said as he turned to leave. "I'm sure you'll do something interesting with that brain of yours. Just…" He paused at the door and glanced back with a sly smile. "Try not to surprise me too much."

And with that, Norman Osborn left the room.

Silence returned—but the air didn't feel any lighter. If anything, it felt heavier.

Peter looked at the check again, then folded it carefully and tucked it under his pillow. He was still weak, but he felt something new: a tingling in his spine, a sharp pressure behind his eyes.

He focused. Breathed deeply. Closed his eyes and listened.

His breath was slower. Deeper. Every sound in the room reached him with startling clarity—the faint hum of the lights, the steady beep of the heart monitor, even footsteps in the hallway.

Something had changed.

With effort, he pulled back the covers and swung his feet to the floor. The cold made him shiver, but that wasn't what caught his attention. It was the lightness. His muscles still ached, but he no longer felt broken.

"Come on, body… don't fail me now," he murmured, rising to his feet.

He walked—slowly, unsteady at first—until he reached the bathroom mirror. Leaning against the sink, he looked up.

His eyes looked different. Sharper. More focused. As if the world had shifted into high definition. He touched his face and felt something else: smoother skin. Firmer muscle. His body—still healing—had changed.

Peter Parker smiled. Just a little.

"It worked…" he whispered, a mix of disbelief and restrained excitement.

Behind him, the door opened again.

"What the hell are you doing out of bed?!" Teresa shouted, face pale with panic. "You're gonna pass out again, idiot!"

Peter raised his hands in surrender but said nothing. Just smiled.

Because deep down, he knew—

His life had just changed forever.

------------------------------------------------------

Thanks for reading, I hope you liked it, please leave your votes if you liked it and don't hesitate to leave a comment if you have any suggestions or ideas.