Chapter Text
New York, 1999, Alchemax headquarters
Dr. Connor Grady has been standing at his station for the past few hours, time slipping by unnoticed as he’s focused on the task at hand.
The faint hum of the machines fills the otherwise quiet lab while the fluorescent light above washes the room in sterile white, reflecting off glass vials and the polished steel counters.
Connor’s sleeves are rolled up, sterile gloves pulled tight over his hands. A thin syringe rests between his fingers, filled with a translucent, faintly shimmering liquid. It almost looks alive when it catches the light.
He watches it carefully as he places only one single drop into the culture dish sitting beneath the microscope. He knows that even the smallest wrong movement could make a full day of work end up in ruins.
Years of hard work sit inside that fragile cylinder, just as much as years of failed iterations, recalibrations, and endless nights that blurred into mornings. He’s mapped every variable, rewritten every model. He’s adjusted protein chains until they behave exactly as they should, until the human body might finally keep up with itself.
He sets the syringe down with deliberate precision, and turns back to the monitor. Data scrolls across the screen, his eyes scanning the numbers. They’re better than they’ve ever been. Not perfect, but close enough.
Close enough that the upcoming investor meeting in about three weeks might finally change everything, and all the work he’s put into this will eventually be worth it.
Connor exhales slowly through his nose, pressing his fingers briefly against the bridge of it. He knows he doesn’t sleep enough. He’s depriving his body of the basic human needs, because to him, none of that really matters anymore.
What matters is that this works.
The soft click of the lab door opening breaks the silence.
Connor doesn’t turn immediately. His eyes are still focused on the data, on the numbers blurring into each other in front of his eyes.
The door opens fully, and he can hear footsteps approaching behind him.
“Dr. Grady,” a familiar voice says. “Still at it, I see.”
He recognizes who it is instantly.
Connor sighs, then he pulls off the gloves, dropping them onto the metal surface next to the microscope, and turns.
“Mr. Rowe.”
Walter Rowe, one of the senior directors at Alchemax, steps into the lab like he belongs to a different world entirely. He’s wearing a crisp suit, and not a single crease is out of place. He looks around with polite interest for a moment, even though they’re both fully aware he doesn’t understand a single thing in this room any more than a five-year-old understands astrophysics.
When his eyes land back on Connor, he places his hands behind his back, watching him with a smile that looks like he’s practiced it in the mirror a little too often.
“I was beginning to think you lived down here,” Rowe continues, glancing at the cluttered workspace. “You’ve been putting in... what, fourteen-hour days?”
“The project requires it,” Connor shoots back without hesitation.
“Of course.” Rowe smiles faintly, as if indulging him. “Dedication like yours is hard to come by.”
Connor studies him now, and he can’t help but notice that something’s off about the entire situation. First of all: why is he here, in the middle of the day? Second: his tone is wrong, almost like he’s choosing every word carefully.
“What can I do for you?” he eventually asks, making sure Rowe finally gets to the point so he can get back to his project faster. He’s got another five samples to test today waiting for him in the lab fridge.
Rowe lingers a moment longer, his eyes drifting over the monitors, the equipment, the neatly labeled vials. It almost looks like he’s searching for the right words before he keeps going.
Then he exhales eventually, the practiced smile fading just enough to show something more official underneath.
“I’ll get straight to the point,” he says.
Connor’s shoulders stiffen, almost instinctively so, as if his body is already bracing himself for something his brain hasn’t caught up to yet.
“The board reviewed your project this morning.”
“And?” Connor asks immediately, sensing that this conversation is about to take a turn he wasn’t expecting.
Rowe meets his gaze. “We’re shutting it down.”
He says it without hesitation, without any sign of doubt.
For a second, Connor doesn’t react. It’s as if the sentence doesn’t quite connect, like a misfired signal he can’t fully comprehend just yet.
“That’s not...” He stops himself, then tries again, sharper. “That’s not possible.”
“I’m afraid it is.”
“No.” Connor shakes his head, stepping closer. “No, you’ve seen the projections. The stability rates alone... this is the closest we’ve ever been. I’m weeks away from-”
“Connor.” Rowe’s voice cuts in, calm but firm. “You’ve been weeks away for over a year.”
That hits.
Connor’s hands curl slightly at his sides, the anger flaring up, but he reins it in for now. He needs Rowe to understand this, to understand how important this is, and he won’t be able to do that if he starts to insult him now.
“Because I’m not cutting corners,” he snaps. “Because I’m making sure it works. Do you have any idea what this could do? What it means? This could change humanity entirely!”
Rowe doesn’t flinch or so much as blink at his words. He looks completely disinterested, like this entire conversation is just a stop along the way, another annoying thing to tick off his to-do list.
“What it means,” he says evenly, “is continued investment with no guarantee of return. The board doesn’t see a viable application timeline, and frankly-”
“There is a timeline,” Connor insists, his voice rising now despite himself. But this is not just any project for him, he can’t just let a bunch of men in suits that have no idea what he’s doing decide to end this.
“You just don’t like it because it’s not immediate. This isn’t some consumer product, this is enhancement at a cellular level. This could eliminate physical vulnerability entirely. Disease, injury, people wouldn’t have to-”
He stops, his breath catching in his throat. His mind ends the thought for him anyway.
People wouldn’t have to lose everything.
Rowe watches him, his expression still awfully neutral.
“It’s not considered necessary.”
Connor lets out a short, disbelieving laugh. “Not necessary?”
“We’re reallocating resources to projects with clearer commercial potential.”
Connor stares at him. “So that’s it,” he says, quieter now as the realization starts to settle, even though part of him still refuses to acknowledge that this is actually happening. “You’re just... abandoning it.”
“We’re redirecting you,” Rowe corrects. “You’re a valuable asset, Dr. Grady. There are other departments that could use your expertise. More immediate applications. Safer ones.”
Connor doesn’t move. He knows what Rowe expects of him now - to show gratitude. To kiss his ass, like all the other people around here do, just to get another month of funding for their projects.
But he won’t give him the satisfaction.
Instead, his gaze drifts past him, to the serum still resting on the table, and the computer still extracting the newest data as if none of this is happening.
Years. He’s spent years of his life working on this. He put everything he had into this, because he believed in what he was doing. And now, just like that, they decide it’s not worth it anymore?
“You should take the rest of the day off,” Rowe adds, already stepping back toward the door. To him, the conversation is over. He’s said what he came here to say, and whatever happens next is completely unrelated to him.
“Get some air. You’ve been pushing yourself too hard.”
Connor doesn’t respond.
“Go home,” Rowe adds, almost gently now. “Enjoy the afternoon.”
When he leaves, the door falls shut with a soft thud, and the silence returns. Only that it feels different now, almost like it’s mocking him.
Connor stands very still for a long moment, staring at nothing.
Then, slowly, he turns back to the counter, where his eyes settle on the syringe, and the faint shimmer beneath the glass.
Not necessary.
His jaw tightens.
He always knew that they don’t understand what he’s doing, so he really shouldn’t be surprised by their decision.
He reaches for the serum, his hands trembling slightly from the effort of keeping his anger in check.
If they won’t see it...
He lifts the syringe, bringing it closer to his face. He turns it slightly, the light from above refracting along its surface like something fractured, something waiting to break.
...he’ll make them.
New York, Queens
When Will wakes up, it doesn’t happen all at once. He comes back to himself in parts, and a few seconds pass in which nothing makes sense to him. He catches just a blur of ceiling, and some light leaking in through the half-closed blinds. The dull weight of sleep is still clinging to him so tightly, he almost closes his eyes again to go fall back into it fully.
But then it hits him like a bucket of ice water.
He jerks upright, and immediately regrets it.
A sharp pain shoots through his back, like something in there slipped out, and then back into position again.
“Shit.” The word comes out hoarse, barely more than a breath as he freezes, hunched forward, waiting for it to settle.
It doesn’t, at least not completely.
Will squeezes his eyes shut, dragging a hand down his face, still trying to catch up with the fact that he’s actually awake now.
When he lets his hand fall down, the clock on the nightstand comes into focus, and the second he reads the time, his stomach drops.
9:17.
“No, no, no,” he mutters to himself, as he scrambles out of bed, his feet tangling in the sheets for a second before he manages to pull free.
The floor is cold under his bare feet, grounding in the worst way.
He can’t be late. Not today.
He straightens too fast once more, and the pain shoots through his spine again, even stronger this time. He winces, and forces himself to pause for just a second, one hand braced against the stone wall as he stretches carefully, trying to work the stiffness out of his back.
It feels like he slept on concrete. Or got hit by something.
Which, quite frankly, he kind of did.
Will takes a deep breath, rolling his shoulders once again before pushing himself upright.
“Okay,” he says, louder now, his voice still thick with sleep. “Okay, just... move.”
He needs this job. He needs the money.
After he lost that pizza delivery job, after being too late to his shifts one too many times, and apologies didn’t fix anything anymore, his safety net was gone. With rent always lurking just around the corner, he can’t really afford to be out of a job.
So yeah. He really can’t be late.
Will stumbles toward the corner of the room that’s supposed to function as a closet, with a clothing rack and a few makeshift shelves.
But the truth is: the whole room is a mess. It’s not just a little untidy, it’s a full on disaster. Clothes are draped over every surface, or scattered on the floor. Some of them are simply crumpled, others are covered in ink and graphite, and everywhere in between there’s empty takeout containers with their lids half-open.
Will stops for half a second, just looking at all of it.
He hates it like this. Usually, he keeps things in order. Not perfect, not spotless, but in a way that makes this small space actually habitable.
But the last few days have been... a lot, to put it nicely.
There hasn’t been time for laundry, or cleaning. Or anything that resembles a normal routine. He can’t actually remember the last time he sat down and ate something that didn’t come out of a plastic container, cold or reheated or both.
His stomach twists at the thought, like it’s only just catching up. But he’s fully aware that he doesn’t have any time left to eat something before he leaves.
“Great,” he mutters, dragging a shirt out from a pile and holding it up. It’s wrinkled. Of course it is. He sniffs it quickly, makes a face, then shrugs. “Good enough.”
He doesn’t have time to be picky.
When he pulls it on, the motion sends another dull ache through his shoulders, but he ignores it this time, pushing through as he digs for something resembling clean jeans.
His movements are quick, a little uncoordinated, still stuck halfway between sleep and urgency.
He glances back at the clock.
9:21.
“Okay, yeah, no. I’m definitely going to be late,” he breathes, running a hand through his hair frantically.
But he keeps moving anyway, because there’s no way he’s going to let this chance slip by.
By the time he manages to look at least somewhat like a functioning human being, he doesn’t bother checking the clock again. It won’t help him now anyway.
He yanks the door open to step outside, and immediately trips as his foot catches on another pair of jeans. He stumbles forward with a startled noise, barely catching himself on the doorframe as he basically falls into the living area of the apartment.
“Oh shit!”
“Wow,” Dustin says, and when Will looks up, he finds him sitting at the kitchen counter, a bowl of cereal in front of him, and a spoon halfway to his mouth. He watches Will like this is the most entertaining thing he’s seen all morning.
“Did you sleep well, princess?”
Will glares at him, already moving again now that he’s found his footing again. He steps over more clutter as he starts scanning the room.
“Why didn’t you wake me up?” he snaps at Dustin, even though he’s aware that Dustin isn’t responsible for his sleep schedule. “I told you I had-”
He cuts himself off, dropping to his knees next to the couch and shoving aside a stack of papers, a hoodie, and something that might be a slightly damp towel.
Dustin frowns, but after a few seconds something seems to click into place. He seems to understand why Will’s in such a rush.
“Oh, wait. Your job interview. That’s today, isn’t it?”
Will lets out a short, disbelieving breath, still digging through the mess.
“Good job, Sherlock,” he shoots back. “Now can you please help me find my backpack? All my sketches are in there.”
But Dustin doesn’t move. When Will glances over his shoulder, he catches him just in time to see how he’s taking another slow bite of his cereal, like he has all the time in the world.
Will stares at him. “Seriously?”
“What time did you even get home last night?” Dustin asks instead, completely ignoring him and the fact that he clearly doesn’t have time for smalltalk right now. “I didn’t hear you.”
Will groans under his breath, pushing himself back to his feet and moving toward the kitchen, scanning every surface, and even all of the cupboards, even though he wouldn’t know how his backpack could’ve ended up in one of those in the first place.
The rest of their shared apartment is in just as bad a state as his room, even worse, maybe. Cups, papers, clothes, and random equipment Dustin’s probably not supposed to bring home from the lab are scattered everywhere.
“I don’t know,” Will says, distracted, already pulling open another cabinet. “Late. Around four, I guess.”
Dustin raises his eyebrows. “Four?”
Will shuts the cabinet a little harder than necessary. “Yeah.”
There’s a brief pause before Dustin speaks again.
“Did you beat someone’s ass again?” He asks, almost casually and it makes Will stop in his tracks, and turn back toward him.
“Shut up,” he says flatly. “And help me look.”
Dustin snorts but finally sets his spoon down, sliding off the stool. “Okay, okay, relax. You’re gonna make it.”
“I’m not gonna make it if I don’t have my portfolio,” Will shoots back, already moving again, checking by the door now, behind it, under the small coffee table that definitely hasn’t been cleared in days.
“I know I had it when I came in.”
He stops, taking another thorough glance around the apartment, trying to replay his steps when he got home from class yesterday.
Door. Keys. Bag.
“Think,” he mutters to himself, more frantic now. “Come on.”
Dustin watches him for a second, then gestures toward the couch. “Did you check under there? You kinda just... collapsed on there when you got home yesterday after class.”
Will is already moving before he finishes the sentence, once again dropping to the floor and shoving a hand underneath the couch.
His fingers find dust at first, then something sticky, but he tries to pretend it’s just spilled soda or something, and then... fabric.
“Oh my god.” Will grabs it and yanks it out, relief flooding through him so fast it almost makes him dizzy. “Okay. Okay, I got it.”
The backpack looks a little worse for wear, one strap twisted, the stitches already coming loose in some spots, but it’s intact enough.
He clutches it like it might disappear again.
“See?” Dustin says, picking his spoon back up like his job here is done. “Crisis averted.”
Will shoots him a look, already slinging the bag over his shoulder. “You’re unbelievable.”
“Yet here I am,” Dustin replies cheerfully.
He decides to ignore him for now - he really doesn’t have time for this. He drops onto the small mat by the entrance, fumbling with his sneakers, almost tying the laces wrong in the rush.
“Hey,” Dustin calls, once Will straightened himself, his hand already resting on the door handle.
Dustin is back to eating again, a grin tugging at his lips.
“You know,” he says between bites, “you could just swing over there.”
“What?”
“The Daily Bugle building,” Dustin clarifies, gesturing into the air with his spoon. “You’d beat the subway. Easily.”
Will rolls his eyes immediately once he understands what Dustin is suggesting.
“I’m not doing that.”
“Why not?” Dustin shrugs. “It’s much more efficient.”
“Because,” Will starts, grabbing his jacket from the hook next to the door, “I’m going to this job interview like a normal person would.”
Dustin watches him for a second, then leans back slightly, completely unfazed.
“Yeah,” he calls after him casually, “except you’re not a normal person.”
Will pulls the door open.
“You’re Spider-Man.”
He doesn’t turn around again, but finally steps out into the hallway.
“Shut up,” he replies under his breath, more automatic than annoyed.
The door swings shut behind him, and a second later, the sound of his footsteps echoes as he hurries down the stairs, fast, and trying to focus on the interview.
There’s no time for him to be anything but human right now.
New York, The Daily Bugle Tower
Mike pushes through the glass doors of The Daily Bugle with a coffee in hand and just enough momentum to look like he actually belongs there. Or at least look like he’s not entirely out of place.
The lobby is already busy, there’s phones ringing, people moving around, and their voices overlapping in the familiar, chaotic hum that he’s grown accustomed to over the past weeks.
It should feel overwhelming, but for Mike it doesn’t. It’s exactly where he wants to be.
“Morning, Mike,” the receptionist calls as he passes the front desk.
“Morning,” he shoots back easily, lifting his coffee slightly in greeting without breaking stride.
He doesn’t slow down as he heads toward the bullpen, weaving through desks and half-finished conversations like he’s done it a hundred times.
But there’s still a part of him that hasn’t fully caught up yet with the fact that this is now his life, that he got the job. He’s been dreaming about this for years, and now it has finally come true.
He steps into the small office he shares with two other interns, nudging the door open with his shoulder. It’s cramped, the desks cluttered, and definitely nothing he’d consider impressive, but it’s his. At least in a way.
When he’s at his desk, he drops his bag on the floor, and sets the cup of coffee down carefully beside a stack of papers that definitely wasn’t there yesterday when he left.
But instead of losing his mind about it just yet, he flops down onto the chair that’s creaking faintly under his weight.
For a moment, he just takes it all in. The desk - his desk. The noise outside carrying in through the open door. The smell of ink mixing with stale coffee from the small breakroom just down the hall.
The Daily Bugle. One of the biggest newspapers in New York.
And he works here. Okay, technically he’s just an intern, but that’s something he can easily ignore.
Mike smiles to himself, as he moves his chair closer to the desk, and his dad’s voice echoes in the back of his mind, uninvited and annoyingly clear:
You’re not going to get anywhere with that.
Mike almost rolls his eyes, just like he did when he told him that back home. He hadn’t been surprised to find out that his father wasn’t very supportive of his dreams to become a writer.
But now that he got this job, he can’t wait to prove him wrong. The next time he goes back home to visit them, he’s going to shoot him a smug smile and tell him that he’s been utterly wrong.
He got somewhere with it, and he’s not going to stop here. It’s only the beginning.
He’s already on good terms with Jameson, his boss. He knows that these kinds of things matter in a business like this. It’s all about knowing people, about networking. To make sure that people notice you, and over time, opportunities open up fast if you know how to take them.
And Mike does.
He lets himself sink into his chair, pulling the stack of papers toward him, finally focusing on what’s actually waiting.
There’s more than he expected. It’s good he doesn’t have any classes today, because this is going to take him a while.
He flips through notes, printouts, and a couple of marked-up drafts with aggressive red pen slashes cutting through entire paragraphs.
Before diving in, he reaches for his glasses where they’re hooked into the collar of his shirt and slides them on, pushing them up the bridge of his nose until everything snaps into sharper focus.
He doesn’t even get to work for an hour, when a call comes in. His coffee is halfway gone, and his hand is already smudged with ink from his pen.
The second the phone touches his ear, a voice bellows from the other line.
“Conference room. Now.”
There’s no explanation, just Jameson.
Mike exchanges a quick look with the others, who most likely heard the order too. They all know better than to leave him waiting, and so they immediately push their chairs back and stand up.
They grab their notebooks, and leave the office, walking quickly toward the conference room at the other end of the hall.
The room fills fast, and the second the door shuts, the conversations cut off entirely.
At the front of the room, J. Jonah Jameson is already there, pacing from one side to the other.
“Alright,” he barks, clapping his hands once like he’s trying to wake the entire room up. “What have we got?”
No one answers immediately, instead everyone seems to look busy by either flipping through their notebooks or staring holes into the air.
Until Jameson points at one of the editors. “You - give me something.”
The guy clears his throat, seemingly startled by being the one to be called out.
“We could expand the comic section,” he offers. “There’s been good engagement, if we...”
“We’re already doing that,” Jameson cuts in, waving him off. “It’s in motion. We have someone coming in for an interview today.”
And with that, Jameson is already moving again, looking for something else.
“Come on,” he presses. “I don’t want safe. I want something people actually care about. Something that sells.”
He pauses for a second, and when he turns back toward the table, there’s a smirk creeping onto his lips.
“What about Spider-Man?”
The entire room stills for a second while Mike straightens almost automatically, his attention snapping into focus.
Jameson starts walking again, nodding to himself which means he’s already set his mind on it.
“Yeah,” he says, warming to the idea. “Spider-Man. The last piece did numbers. People are still talking about him, he’s still the center of attention.”
Mike glances around, and isn’t surprised to see that no one looks too excited by the suggestion. They all know where this is going, and no one seems to be eager to jump in on it.
“We could run another feature,” someone offers carefully after a few moments of silence. “We could do a public interest angle maybe. There’s many eyewitness accounts-”
“Eyewitness accounts?” Jameson scoffs, interrupting him. “You mean more people gushing about how the friendly neighborhood menace saved their cat?”
A couple of people shift uncomfortably, and Mike’s grip tightens almost automatically around the pen in his hand.
Jameson stops pacing once more, planting his hands on the table as he leans forward.
“I want the truth,” he says, voice sharp. “I want to know who this guy is, what he’s doing swinging around my city, and why everyone’s so eager to pretend it’s a good thing.”
Mike tries his best to keep his face neutral, even though part of him still doesn’t fully understand why Jameson acts like this whenever the topic of Spider-Man comes up.
Because the thing is, for reasons unknown to him, Jameson hates Spider-Man. It’s not just mild dislike, or the lack of interest in a public figure, no, he loathes him. And he doesn’t even try to hide it.
“He’s reckless,” Jameson continues, jabbing a finger against the table for emphasis. “Unaccountable. One wrong move and people get hurt. And what, we’re just supposed to clap for him?”
No one answers to that, because it’s obvious no one actually agrees with him. Mike doesn’t either, but he knows better than to disagree with his boss on something he’s so passionate about.
Jameson straightens again, scanning the room, his eyes locking onto each of them.
“So. I want a new piece. Bigger. Sharper. I want angles, I want questions, I want something that actually challenges this whole Spider-Man narrative.”
No one volunteers, or even pretends to. For a moment, the silence stretches too long, crumbling under the weight of Jameson’s expectations. His eyes start moving again, searching, until they eventually land on Mike.
This time they don’t move away.
Mike straightens instinctively. For a split second, he considers looking away, but he knows that would only make it worse. So he holds the gaze with all the confidence he can muster, trying not shrink under Jameson’s piercing stare.
Jameson narrows his eyes slightly. “Wheeler.”
Mike swallows, forcing his own voice steady when he answers, “Yeah?”
“You’re on it.”
The way he says it doesn’t leave much room to argue.
Mike blinks once. “On Spider-Man?”
Jameson gestures impatiently. “Two pages. I want something big. Not fluff. Not praise.” He leans forward slightly. “Dig. I want you to find where he’s hiding the bodies. Make people afraid of him.“
Mike hesitates, and then the following words slip out before he can stop himself.
“Okay, but what if there’s actually nothing...”
Jameson’s look cuts him off instantly, and Mike zips his mouth shut. Instead, he nods quickly.
“Yeah. Right. I’ll get on it.”
“Good,” Jameson snaps, ready to move on, but then his gaze lands on him one more time, as if he wasn’t quite done with him after all. “And Wheeler?”
Mike straightens again. “Yes?”
“I want it punchy. I want people reading this and thinking. I want them asking questions. I want them worried.”
Mike doesn’t say anything.
“I don’t care how many times this guy pulls someone out of a burning building,” Jameson continues, voice rising again. “He’s a liability. A threat to this city, and if people don’t start seeing that soon, he’s going to become a threat to the entire world.”
Mike nods again, slower this time. “Got it.”
Jameson studies him for a second longer, like he’s making sure it actually sank in.
Then he straightens. “Good. Then don’t waste my time.”
And just like that, he’s done. He leaves the room without another word.
The tension in the air breaks not all at once, but bit by bit. The first person moves slightly, then another dares to push back their chair. Eventually, all of them leave the conference room.
Only Mike stays where he is for another second.
Two pages.
I want it punchy.
Make people afraid of him.
He looks down at his notes, then back up again, his jaw tightening slightly.
This is not the story he wants to tell, but it’s the one he’s been given. And for him, this isn’t just another assignment, but a chance to prove something.
A two-page feature, front and center, on something as big as Spider-Man? That’s not regular intern work, but the kind of story people will notice. It will get his name remembered in the right rooms. If he does this right, then this stops being temporary. It will be the proof he needs to let everyone know that he belongs here.
Once he’s back at his desk, Mike doesn’t waste time. He drops back into his chair, and pushes aside all the other things he should be working on. He boots up the computer, the screen coming to life with the familiar whir and flicker.
It takes forever to load, and Mike has never been a man of patience.
“Come on,” he mutters under his breath, tapping his fingers impatiently against the desk.
When he finally opens the browser, he types quickly, muscle memory taking over, navigating through bookmarks and half-remembered links until the first set of results pops up.
In the past days quite a few new articles have come in, more than he expected.
His eyes scan over headlines, some from smaller outlets, some from competitors, but they’re all circling the same thing:
Spider-Man sightings. Another rescue. Conflicting reports. Speculation.
Mike leans forward.
Usually, he checks these regularly. It’s become almost a habit at this point. But he didn’t really get to it in a few days now, because between deadlines at work, classes and trying to maintain a normal social life, time got away from him.
He clicks into one article, then another, and just like that, he’s hooked again.
There’s always been something about Spider-Man that has drawn Mike to him in a way he couldn’t really explain if he had to. He just knows that his mind has been circling around that person ever since the first time he showed up about a year ago.
And to him, the narrative Jameson keeps pushing doesn’t make sense at all. This guy, whoever he is, keeps showing up, over and over again, putting himself in danger for people he doesn’t even know.
How could that person possibly be a threat to anyone?
But then he stops himself, and tries to focus back on what should matter right now: work.
He switches tabs, and pulls up a site he knows by heart at this point. It’s a fan site, dedicated to defending Spider-Man.
Every headline leans the same way: hero, protector, misunderstood. Whoever runs it doesn’t even try to hide the bias.
Mike used to think the guy was a little unhinged. Part of him still kind of does.
But he comes back every single time anyway. Because Mike can see that buried under his unwavering enthusiasm, there’s real effort. It’s the kind of obsessive attention to detail Mike can’t help but respect.
And if he’s being totally honest, he gets it in a way. He understands the fascination about Spider-Man, and if he could choose to write an article, it would be much more like the ones on this site.
He scrolls through the latest posts, skimming them quickly for anything that stands out. Breakdowns of sightings. Timelines. Half-formed theories about movement patterns across the city. A new post speculating, once again, about Spider-Man’s identity.
Mike snorts quietly. Some of these guesses are wild.
Celebrities. Athletes. A firefighter from Queens. The most recent post even tries to argue he’s multiple people working together.
“Okay,” Mike mutters, shaking his head. “That one’s a stretch.”
He doesn’t click away, because even if the conclusions miss, the groundwork is there.
And right now, he needs anything if he wants to be able to give Jameson something.
His eyes move to the bottom of the page, scanning quickly until he finds what he’s looking for: contact information.
There’s a name and a phone number. Mike hesitates for half a second, then he grabs a pen and writes it down in the margin of his notes. He’ll call him later, it can’t hurt after all.
After about an hour, the words on Mike’s screen start to blur together.
He leans back in his chair, dragging a hand over his face, eyes stinging slightly from staring too long at the monitor. The cursor blinks at him, impatient. Almost like it’s expecting something better, reminding him of how little he’s got by now.
He pushes himself up, grabbing his empty coffee cup. That’s the problem, obviously. He needs more caffeine.
When he steps out into the quiet hallway, he’s still mentally restructuring his article, trying to fit what Jameson wants versus what people might actually read.
Then his gaze catches on something, or rather someone. There’s a guy sitting on one of the plastic chairs across from the reception desk.
Mike feels his own steps slowing, without him fully deciding to.
The guy sits there, hunched forward a bit, his elbows resting on his knees, clutching a worn-looking backpack like it might disappear if he lets go. His shoulders are drawn in like he’s trying to make himself smaller.
He looks nervous.
Mike’s eyes linger a second longer than necessary, and then his brain finally catches up.
Right. The interview. Jameson mentioned someone coming in for the comic section, and this has to be him.
Mike tilts his head just a fraction, studying him from afar. The guy is completely oblivious to Mike’s presence, and the longer Mike looks at him, he feels more certain that he looks a little out of place, like he wandered into the wrong building by accident.
Not in a bad way. Just... noticeable.
There’s something about him Mike can’t immediately place, something that makes his gaze linger a second too long before he catches himself.
“Okay,” he mutters under his breath, forcing his thoughts back to the things that should matter right now.
He looks away quickly, and continues down the hallway like nothing happened.
It’s none of his business anyway. He’s just some guy here for an interview.
Once he’s back at his desk with a fresh coffee, he tries to slip back into where he left off, but as he stares at the words he’s scribbled down so far, none of it really lines up.
It shouldn’t be this hard. He should just ignore his own opinions and write what Jameson expects of him. And yet his hand won’t move.
After another few minutes of not doing anything but staring at the pages, a thought forms in his head, and once it’s there, Mike can’t seem to shake it off so easily.
What if he doesn’t write that story?
Jameson wants something big, that much is clear. He wants something that makes people pay attention, but maybe he’s looking in the wrong place.
Mike straightens in his chair, his eyes narrowing just a fraction as his mind starts moving faster now, picking up pace, the thoughts stacking onto each other.
Two pages won’t change anything about how people see Spider-Man. But the truth might.
His gaze drifts back to the screen, to the website of that guy who seems to have a whole lot of insider info about Spider-Man.
He’s been fantasizing about that person quietly to himself for so long. Because somewhere under that mask, there’s a face.
A real one.
And if he can figure out who it is, maybe Jameson will be so thrilled that he’ll drop the whole ‘Spider-Man is a villain’ approach.
He won’t have to tear Spider-Man down. He just needs to find him.