"I have multiples girlfriends in Marvel."

Thompson didn't blink; he just clutched his basketball and retreated to his side of the court, playing with exaggerated caution. He'd rather miss a shot than risk sending the ball anywhere near that side again.

At one point, he even pulled a dramatic dive just to keep the ball from bouncing toward Ethan's direction—like he was paying tribute to a superhero comic.

Watching him tiptoe around like that, Ethan couldn't help but feel a little disappointed.

If you're going to have a redemption arc, at least let me finish my cool moment first. I just made over thirty grand—I could afford to replace the entire court.

Can't even be a proper school bully. Zero stars. Would not recommend.

Thompson's behavior surprised everyone, but after glancing at Ethan in the stands, it all made sense. Thompson was arrogant, not brain-dead. After getting slammed twice in public, if he still had the guts to act out, he didn't belong in Midtown High—he belonged in a circus.

For Ethan, though, this was just a brief episode in an otherwise ordinary school day.

Tonight was what really excited him.

Tonight, he'd swing through the city—for fun.

New York had enough crime to fill a dozen comic books, more than enough for Ethan to flex his powers and feel like a true hero.

Under the night sky, dressed in a sleek red-and-black suit, Ethan stood atop the edge of a skyscraper in Manhattan.

This city—packed with tall buildings and neon lights—was made for Spider-Man.

Ethan leaned forward, peering over the edge… then quickly pulled back, breath hitching slightly.

It always looked so cool in the movies, he thought. Swinging through the skyline, landing perfectly, doing backflips mid-air…

But standing here, one foot from a multi-story drop, was something else entirely.

What if the web-shooter jammed?

What if the line didn't hold?

What if he missed the building altogether?

It wouldn't be a superhero story—it'd be a one-line tragedy in tomorrow's paper.

"Unidentified teen in a spandex suit dies in late-night fall."

"Cosplay accident?"

"Urban daredevil or mental breakdown?"

Not the kind of headlines a friendly neighborhood hero wanted to make.

After five minutes of intense mental pep talk, Ethan Cole finally took that one terrifying step forward. At this point, he had no choice but to trust himself.

"Alright... screw it!"

The second the words left his lips, adrenaline surged through his veins. It was just a jump—one he'd dreamed about for years.

He leapt.

The wind screamed past him as the ground rushed up with terrifying speed. Every instinct in his body screamed:

DANGER! DANGER! DANGER!

But in mid-air, drawing from every Spider-Man movie, comic, and animated series he'd ever seen, Ethan twisted his body, took aim, and fired a web at the side of a nearby building.

Thwip!

The web caught. It held. It stretched—and then yanked him forward, sending him soaring across the street like a missile with a pulse.

"WHOOA!"

He couldn't help but yell in excitement, exhilaration blasting away the last traces of fear. At the apex of his swing, he fired another web—and nailed it again.

The rhythm came fast. The second swing. Then the third. Then a spin off the next rooftop. It was happening—he was doing it.

Thanks to his spider DNA, his vision and reflexes were enhanced far beyond human capability. That, combined with his decent understanding of physics, let him pick up web-swinging faster than any training montage could teach.

You could say he started at the top—literally.

As he grew more confident in the air, Ethan began scanning the streets and alleys below.

That's when it hit him.

Peter Parker—the real Spider-Man—wasn't just a flashy superhero. He was New York's friendly neighborhood protector. And now Ethan saw just what that meant.

In barely ten minutes of web-slinging, he'd already spotted at least five crimes in progress—muggings, robberies, assaults—some happening in alleys, others out in the open.

New York City at night wasn't just alive. It was chaotic.

If he really followed Peter Parker's code—if he stopped every crime he saw—he wouldn't get a wink of sleep. He'd be a full-time vigilante with a graveyard shift.

Still... flying over all of it and doing nothing? That didn't sit right.

He couldn't pretend he didn't see it—especially not after spending over two decades being raised to stand up for what's right. Even if none of these people knew his name, and none of their problems had anything to do with him...

He couldn't just let it go.

"Oh well. I'm already out here—might as well do something. A hero for fun... still has to be a hero."

Ethan grinned under his mask.

"I don't have to be New York's friendly neighborhood Spider-Man. I could just be... New York's good friend to women!"

He zipped forward, eyes narrowing.

"I can't stand creeps who use their strength to scare women. Scum like that? They deserve to be crushed."

---

In a dim alleyway, a woman with heavy smoky eye makeup, a leopard print dress, and a silver nose ring was pinned to the ground. She'd already lost her purse, but the mugger wasn't satisfied.

The night was quiet, the street deserted. He paused, looking around.

No one watching. No one coming. The city's perfect apathy.

A wicked grin twisted across his face as he shoved the barrel of his gun into the woman's mouth to silence her, and reached to rip at her clothes.

Ploop.

A blob of white webbing dropped from above, slapping onto the gun. The mugger blinked.

"What the hell—?"

Before he could finish the sentence, the web yanked his gun out of his hand. A shadow dropped from the sky.

Two seconds later, he was hanging upside down from a streetlamp, arms and legs bound tight, spinning slowly like a Christmas ornament.

---

Elsewhere, in another part of the city, a woman walking home alone was cornered and shoved into a wall. Her dress tore as she struggled, panic in her eyes.

Then silence.

She turned.

The would-be attacker was plastered flat to the opposite wall in a perfect "T" pose—arms wide, legs stuck, mouth sealed tight with webbing.

He wriggled like a bug. She blinked.

Then, perhaps fueled by rage or adrenaline, she stormed over and kicked him.

Hard.

The "T" pose sagged into an "X."

He went limp.

---

That night, across Manhattan, nearly a dozen women walking alone found themselves suddenly—miraculously—rescued by an unseen force. A blur of red and black.

Back at home, Ethan flopped into bed, feeling a little sore but satisfied.

Still... one thought bugged him.

"Why do so many women walk around alone at night in these shady places? Are they gambling with fate? Or... is it something else?"

Just before drifting off, a very awkward idea hit him:

"Wait... what if some of those women were, um, working?"

He paused.

"…Did I just ruin someone's night shift?"

He winced.

"...Awkward."

Then he passed out.