After the motorcycle incident, Old York stuck to his word. The very next morning, he confiscated Ethan Cole's motorcycle keys and firmly banned him from helping at the pizzeria for the rest of the week.
Although Old York had already handed Ethan a thick wad of U.S. dollars the previous night, he clearly wasn't done worrying. Just before leaving the apartment that morning, he stopped Ethan at the door and shoved a bank card into his hand.
"There's money in there. Use it if the cash runs out. And no arguments," Old York grunted as he stepped out.
Ethan stood in the doorway, sighing. He rubbed his temple and tucked the money and the card into his jacket, suddenly at a loss for where to go. Even after several years in this world, he still didn't know many people.
He had focused so much on studying and working that he'd rarely taken part in student events or parties. Most of the people around him barely knew him—those who did often whispered odd things behind his back.
Some of the other Chinese students had even spread rumors. That he was autistic. That he had some kind of mental illness. That he was emotionally unstable and on meds. None of it was true, but the rumors stuck.
But Ethan had never really cared. He'd always preferred solitude. In truth, he found the flashy lifestyle of some international students—especially those who splurged on luxury cars and clubbing—repellent.
Despite living in the U.S. for over four years, he still couldn't fully adapt to some of the cultural norms. The casual behavior, the open flirtation, the partying—it all made him uncomfortable.
"Whatever," Ethan muttered. "Might as well walk around the city a bit. Maybe I can grab some new clothes for Old York. It's spring, and he's still wearing that old wool coat."
After a quick shower, he changed into a black-and-white outfit—simple, stylish, and clean. With his sharp jawline and lean 6'1" frame, he stood out on the street like a fashion model who had stumbled out of a noir detective film.
Although Old York had banned motorcycles, he hadn't said anything about cars. Compared to a two-wheeler, a steel-caged SUV felt infinitely safer—and it just so happened that Ethan owned several.
He opened the garage to reveal a line of black, armored SUVs—Old York had joked once that "you'd have to crash into a Hulk to die in one." Ethan picked the newest model and eased it out onto the street, his promise to drive slowly still ringing in his ears.
"It doesn't matter if the car gets totaled," Old York had said. "Just make sure you don't get hurt."
Ethan had solemnly thumped his chest. "Promise."
Driving calmly through Midtown, Ethan finally arrived at Fifth Avenue, Manhattan's retail paradise. The sidewalks were packed, tourists crowded storefronts, and luxury brands like StarkWear, Gucci, and Wakandan Imports dominated the windows. The weather was crisp, and the city buzzed with energy.
Ethan wandered casually between shops, keeping an eye out for clothing that would suit Old York's no-nonsense, traditional style. The man hated flashy or overly modern designs. Something durable and plain—maybe a well-made trench coat or a simple wool cardigan.
Time passed faster than he expected. After hours of walking, he stopped at a local café and ordered a black coffee and a chicken panini. The city never really slowed down, but the sun had begun to dip westward, casting long shadows between the buildings.
Ethan decided it was time to head back.
Since he'd expected heavy foot traffic, he had parked several blocks away from the shopping district, near an alley behind a public library. He'd figured walking a bit was better than being stuck in gridlock trying to leave Fifth Avenue.
But when he finally arrived at his car, something was off.
Three men were huddled around the SUV.
One of them, a black man in a gray hoodie, was crouched by the driver's door with a lockpick tool in hand. His companions—a wiry white man with a twitchy look and a burly bald black guy—were acting as lookouts.
"C'mon man," the white one hissed. "You've jacked ten cars before—why's this one so damn hard?"
"Shut the hell up!" the man in the hoodie snapped. "I told you, this car's high-end. Probably StarkTech secured. You're the one who wanted it—so don't rush me!"
The bigger guy didn't say anything. He was just cracking his knuckles and watching the street.
Ethan walked up calmly, setting his shopping bags down as he approached. His expression was cold, voice sharp.
"Hey. That's my car. Step away from it, right now."
The three froze. The white guy was the first to react. He turned, grinned nervously—then drew a switchblade.
"You picked the wrong day to play hero, kid," he sneered. "Hand over your wallet and whatever else you're carrying. We're taking the car, too. Don't make this ugly."
The big guy grunted and stepped forward, towering over Ethan with clenched fists.
Ethan didn't flinch. Beneath the coat, his left hand was already brushing against the holster hidden behind a shopping bag. The Glock was lightweight and loaded. Old York had helped him pick it out after his first run-in with a mugger last year.
More than that, Ethan had trained for this. Self-defense classes. Tactical drills. A few private lessons from a retired SHIELD agent Old York used to know. He wasn't a superhero—but he knew how to protect himself.
Just as the white guy raised his blade and lunged, a blur of red and blue streaked past overhead.
THWIP!
A web shot from the sky and yanked the knife clean out of the mugger's hand, sending it clattering into a trash can nearby.
"What the—?!" the would-be carjackers staggered back.
A second later, a lean figure landed on top of the SUV in a crouch—red suit, black webbing, wide white lenses.
"Is this a private party, or can anyone join?"
Spider-Man quipped, his voice calm and confident, laced with seasoned sarcasm clearly not new to this kind of thing.
"Nice car, by the way. I give it a nine out of ten. Loses a point for attempted theft."
The big man charged him without a word.
THWACK!
Spider-Man kicked him in the chest and sent him flying ten feet back into a newspaper stand.
The white guy tried to run. A second web pinned him to the wall like a fly in a trap.
The man in the hoodie raised both hands in surrender. "I didn't touch anything! He made me do it!"
Spider-Man sighed. "Buddy, I literally saw you with your elbow inside the door."
Within seconds, all three were webbed up in creative and embarrassing positions.
Ethan raised an eyebrow as Spider-Man dropped to the ground and walked over.
"You okay?" the wall-crawler asked, peering at him through those expressive mask lenses.
"Fine," Ethan replied. "Was about to handle it myself."
"Yeah, I saw that. Nice poker face. Glock?"
"Safety on."
"Cool, cool," Spider-Man nodded. "Just a heads-up—Midtown's crawling with tourists and kids. Try not to escalate unless you have to.
"I'll keep that in mind."
As the sound of approaching NYPD sirens echoed in the distance, Spider-Man saluted him casually.
"Stay safe out there, man. And next time, maybe park somewhere less 'mugger bait.' Just saying."
With that, he shot a web to a nearby rooftop and vanished into the city skyline.
Ethan stared after him for a moment, then turned back to his SUV. Still intact. No damage. Just a few web stains he'd have to wipe off.
He opened the door, tossed his bags inside, and got in. As he pulled away from the curb, he glanced in the rearview mirror.
Spider-Man. Real deal.
The world he'd landed in still surprised him.
But he was beginning to get used to it.
After his mysterious rebirth into this world, Ethan Cole—known locally by his English alias, Leon—had swiftly reached the peak of human learning capability. Within months, he'd absorbed martial arts theory and applied combat training at a pace that would make S.H.I.E.L.D. agents raise their brows. With a combination of his past life's discipline and his new body's learning enhancements, his fighting ability now rivaled that of elite military professionals or underground MMA champions.
It was simply bad luck that these three street-level thugs had crossed paths with him tonight.
At such a close distance, Ethan could've drawn his Glock and dropped them before any of them took a second step. The shadow of death was already looming behind the would-be attackers—but they hadn't realized it yet.
Just as Ethan's eyes narrowed and he adjusted his stance, ready to draw his weapon and fire, a sharp THWIP! cut through the tension in the air.
A thin strand of white webbing shot down from the skyline.
Before the two advancing gangsters could react, the web wrapped tightly around their torsos and yanked them into the air like rag dolls. The knife clattered to the ground with a metallic clang, forgotten in the chaos.
The man in the gray hoodie—who had been intently working the lockpick—snapped his head toward the commotion just in time to see his companions flailing midair. He abandoned the car door and bolted, attempting to flee the scene.
He made it three steps.
A second strand of webbing lashed out from above, catching him by the ankle and slamming him to the pavement. In the blink of an eye, he was cocooned like the others, strung upside down from a streetlamp like meat in a butcher's window.
All three gangsters were now suspended midair, bound and immobilized.
"Stealing cars in Midtown?" a bright, youthful voice rang out from above. "Come on, guys. This is literally the worst neighborhood for that. Haven't you heard of… I don't know… me?"
Ethan looked up. Perched sideways on the vertical wall of a nearby building, crouched in defiance of gravity, was a figure clad in iconic red and blue tights—his suit bearing the distinctive web pattern that had become a symbol across all five boroughs.
Spider-Man.
Real. Alive. Right here.
Ethan slowly relaxed his left hand, his fingers sliding away from the trigger guard of his concealed Glock. He gave the masked vigilante a respectful nod.
Ethan stared into the mirror, still processing what had just happened.
"Spider-Man," he murmured the name felt strange on his tongue, like fiction bleeding into reality.
The world he'd landed in still surprised him.
But he was beginning to get used to it.
Spider-Man nodded, his lenses narrowing slightly as he grinned beneath the mask. "The one and only. Your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man. Glad I could swing by in time."
"You injured?" he added, his voice turning slightly more serious as he crawled down the wall in an eerily fluid motion. "Need a lift to the ER?"
"I'm good," Ethan replied, offering a wry smile. "You showed up just in time. Thanks for the save."
"No worries," Spidey said with a thumbs-up. "Just doing my job. Midtown's been a little hot lately with car thefts and muggings. I figured I'd drop in for a patrol."
As they spoke, the sound of police sirens grew louder in the distance. Spider-Man gave a casual nod toward the direction of the noise.
"Guess that's my cue to disappear before the cops get here. They don't love paperwork when I'm involved."
Ethan chuckled, already opening his car door. "I won't keep you, then."
Spider-Man raised a hand in a short wave. "Safe travels, Leon. And hey—next time you see three guys acting sketchy around your ride, maybe keep the Glock holstered until after you say hello."
"I'll consider it," Ethan said with a grin, starting the ignition.
As the black SUV pulled away from the curb and the red taillights disappeared into the Manhattan dusk, Spider-Man backflipped up onto a rooftop, then took a moment to breathe. He tugged his mask halfway up to get some air, staring toward the fading horizon.
"Whew," Peter Parker muttered to himself. "If I saw that right, Leon was about two seconds away from ventilating those guys."
He sat on the edge of the rooftop, deep in thought.
Leon—Ethan Cole—had been his classmate since high school. They'd both been in the advanced placement science track. Peter remembered him well: the mysterious transfer student from overseas, quiet, intimidatingly smart, always ranking just a few decimal points higher than him in every exam.
Back then, Leon had kept to himself. Rumors had spread—whispers of him being emotionally unstable, antisocial, maybe even on medication. The usual high school cruelty. Peter hadn't believed them, but he hadn't gone out of his way to befriend him either.
Now, in college, things had shifted slightly. They'd crossed paths more often in
experimental lab courses and started acknowledging each other with polite nods. Not quite friends, but familiar.
What struck Peter tonight wasn't just Leon's calm. It was his lack of panic. There was no hesitation. No wide-eyed fear. Just cold focus—like a soldier trained for combat.
"He didn't even flinch," Peter murmured. "If I didn't have spider powers, I'd have been freaking out in his shoes. But Leon? He was ready to shoot."
He exhaled and shook his head, recalling the moment he saw the glint of the pistol beneath Leon's coat, already halfway drawn before the webbing had even landed.
"Yeah… sure, he's easy-going," Peter said sarcastically to himself, the image of Leon's calm eyes locked onto his attackers still vivid in his mind.
Somehow, he wasn't convinced.