When heroes lose themselves
The Deal at the Crossroads
Peter Parker woke up on a street corner with no name.
Not his name.
He had that—it came to him like a half-remembered song.
Peter.
Benjamin.
Parker.
The words sat in his mouth like borrowed clothes.
But the rest was gone.
He stood.
His body moved in ways bodies shouldn't.
He caught himself before falling, gripped a lamppost that bent slightly under his fingers.
The metal groaned.
He let go fast.
There was a cost.
There was always a cost.
The city around him was New York.
October.
A Tuesday, according to a newspaper someone had left on a bench.
He knew the streets in his bones even though he couldn't say why.
His feet knew where to go.
He made it to a small apartment in Forest Hills.
The keys were in his pocket.
Inside, the space was neat.
Almost empty.
One photograph on the nightstand—an older woman, gray-haired, smiling at someone out of frame.
Who was she?
His hands shook.
He put them in his pockets.
The suit was in the closet, folded behind winter coats he didn't remember owning.
Red and blue.
Spandex.
Webbing across the arms in a pattern that meant something.
Everything about it felt right.