I'm really struggling right now. As a college student, things have gotten tough—especially with upcoming exams and daily expenses. If you're able to help in any way, even with a small amount, I'd be incredibly grateful.
Landbank Account: 1746 3587 72(Any amount truly helps.)
Thank you so much for reading and for your support. Sharing this also means a lot. I'll keep writing my best for you all. 🙏
...
Drake American, a 17-year-old African-American teen, walked the cracked streets of New York—his world grayed by violence and silence. A member of the local gang, The Brotherhood, he wasn't like the others. He fought, yes—but with a heart that still held on to loyalty, to family, and to her… the only girl who made the chaos seem quiet.
As he passed a corner near 45th, he saw Jake, one of his closest brothers, stumble into the alley—blood staining his shirt.
"Jake!" Drake rushed forward.
"Yo, what happened to you, man?"
Jake gritted his teeth, breathing hard.
"Run, bro. It's the Viper Group. They coming—they huntin' everyone tonight."
Drake didn't flinch. He pulled Jake's arm over his shoulder, steadying him.
"Nah. We gettin' outta here together."
But then he saw them.
Black coats. Green-tinted visors. The unmistakable insignia of the Viper Group, a ruthless thugs or gangster.
Drake's heart pounded. He let go of Jake gently.
"You gotta run, Jake. I'll hold 'em off."
"You crazy?! You gon' die!" Jake shouted, fear in his eyes.
"I don't care. You my brother. Now go!"
Jake's footsteps pounded down the alley, fading fast. Drake stood alone now, the concrete beneath him cracked and stained from years of blood and storm. The air felt thicker. A humid silence loomed.
Across the street, six figures approached.
Black trench coats. Visors under the broken streetlights. Each one held a shock baton or pistol, symbols of the Viper Group, merciless thugs.
(Six of them. Just me. I'm dead, huh?)
Drake's knuckles tightened. His breath steamed in the cold night.
(Nah. Not yet.)
One of them stepped forward. "Drake American," the leader growled through his voice modulator. "Affiliation: Brotherhood. Status: Eliminate."
"You talk like a damn robot," Drake muttered, raising his fists. "Come try me, then."
They didn't hesitate.
Two Vipers surged forward. The first swung his baton, Drake ducked and drove his elbow into the man's ribs, hearing the crunch of armor. The second lunged; Drake pivoted and slammed his foot into the side of his knee, twisting it unnaturally. The man screamed.
(Fast… but not trained. Just thugs in tech.)
Drake grabbed the first Viper's baton mid-swing and wrenched it free, jamming the end into his gut. Electricity burst out with a crackle. The Viper dropped, twitching.
Four left.
One of them aimed a pistol. Drake dived behind a garbage bin just as the bullet pinged off the metal. He grunted scraped his knee but gritted his teeth.
"Come on! I ain't scared of y'all!"
A second Viper lobbed a flash grenade.
(Shit—!)
BANG!
White light erupted. Drake's vision flared, ears ringing, but instinct moved him. He tackled the closest attacker blindly, slamming him into a wall. He felt punches rain down—his side, his jaw—but he held on, wrapped an arm around the guy's neck, and choked him out till he went limp.
(Two left. No... three. Shit. I can't see.)
His vision swam, but shapes returned.
Someone kicked him in the ribs, he hit the ground hard. Coughing. Gasping. He rolled just in time as a baton slammed down where his head had been.
Another Viper raised a taser rifle.
(Move, Drake!)
He rolled again, grabbing a loose brick, and hurled it. It hit the Viper in the visor cracked it. The shot missed, fizzing into the trash bin.
"This one's strong," one muttered.
"Doesn't matter," said the leader. "End him."
They advanced.
Blood ran down Drake's cheek. His breathing was shallow now. Limbs aching. Fingers trembling. He knew he was losing.
But he grinned.
"I said I don't care if I die."
"'As long as I fucked you up!!"
The lead Viper raised his gun.
(Guess this is it.)
Drake closed his eyes, exhaling.
Then—
BOOM!
A flash of violet light tore through the alley.
Everything froze. Time cracked.
The world twisted.
Drake's knees buckled he fell but the ground wasn't there. The alley vanished. So did the pain.
(…What the hell? Am I… dying?)
No. It didn't feel like death.
It felt like falling through a dream.
A vortex of web-like threads spiraled around him. Each thread a glowing strand. Different cities. Different faces. Spider-Men. Women. Worlds. Multiverses. Some full of light, others drenched in ruin.
And then—
—a face appeared.
Drake's knees buckled—he fell.
But the ground wasn't there.
The alley vanished. So did the pain. The blood. The Viper Group. Everything.
( …What the hell? Am I… dying? )
No. It didn't feel like death.
It felt like falling through a dream.
A vortex of web-like threads spiraled endlessly around him, glowing strands stretching across existence. Each strand shimmered with stories, cities, faces, choices. Some bright. Some twisted. Some completely destroyed.
He spun through them all.
He saw Spider-Men and Spider-Women, leaping, falling, rising again. One had arms made of energy. One wore a trench coat. Another bled from the mask, holding a shattered photo. They all burned with purpose.
Then—
A face emerged.
A man.
Older than him. 23, maybe. White skin. Black, unkempt hair.
Eyes, open but lifeless.
Peter Parker.
From Earth-42.
But something was wrong.
This Peter wasn't a hero.
He was broken. Shattered in spirit, even in death. His uniform was tattered military gear—not a Spider-Man suit. There was no mask. No web-shooters. No sign of hope.
And yet…
His soul had just left.
And another one—was arriving.
Drake's.
( Wait. No. What is this?! )
He screamed as the glowing strands wrapped around him like silk, dragging his very essence forward.
"Save this world…" a distant voice whispered, like wind in a dying world.
But Drake didn't stop.
(What the fuck)
And then—
THUMP.
His back slammed into something solid.
A rooftop.
His lungs screamed. His chest heaved. Cold air bit into his throat like fire.
"What… the hell…" he muttered, pushing himself upright.
The world around him was wrong.
The skyline was grim and cracked. Buildings once proud now leaned with age and war. Below, streets were empty, lifeless. Sirens wailed like ghosts in the wind. Giant digital billboards flickered with static before a familiar face emerged:
Miles Morales.
But not the one from Drake's world.
This one wore the Prowler mask.
A tyrant's symbol.
He loomed above the people, speaking words they couldn't hear—but feared. His mask pulsed with intimidation. His fists glowed with violet energy.
Drake blinked.
He looked at his hands.
The skin was pale. The fingers were thinner. Nails bitten down. A faint scar ran down his forearm.
He stumbled toward a rooftop vent with a mirrored surface.
And what he saw wasn't his reflection.
It was Peter Parker's face.
Faint bruises. Tired eyes. Ragged breath.
"…What the f—?" he breathed.
"Where the fuck am I?"
Suddenly—
A rush of memories crashed into his mind like a tidal wave.
Burning streets. Gunfire. A spider that never bit him.
Uncle Ben—shot in a riot.
A young Peter screaming, helpless.
A world falling apart.
No Spider-Man ever rose here.
No web-slinger.
Just war. Chaos. The Sinister Six took over. The people obeyed or died.
Peter, desperate to matter, joined a rebel militia. He fought in shadows.
And one day—he didn't come back.
His soul faded.
And now, Drake's had taken his place.
"This Peter Parker…" Drake whispered, eyes wide.
"This universe... this is the same Earth-42 that Miles went to in the Spider-Verse…"
He looked up again at the billboard. At that version of Miles. Not the kid who made jokes, who wore Jordans and sprayed graffiti.
No.
This one was a kingpin.
A tyrant hiding behind the mask of a hero.
(And there's no Spider-Man here. No one left to fight.)
Drake clenched his fists.
The wind whipped across the rooftop. Distant thunder rolled through the smoggy sky. He stared down at the broken city below—his new city—his new fate.
(No one… except me.)
Then—
A voice. Cold and whispering, like it came from the space between dimensions.
"I give you a gift."
Drake's head snapped around.
"Who said that?" he barked, suddenly on edge.
There was no one. Just shadows. Rooftop vents. A broken satellite dish rattling in the wind.
And then—
A spider appeared.
It crawled out from beneath a rusted panel. Not just any spider.
It shimmered faintly blue and red streaks across its body. Its eight legs moved like clockwork. Something about it felt unnatural. Like it didn't belong in this reality.
Drake squinted. "The hell is that…?"
The spider lunged.
"FUCK!!" he screamed as it bit the soft flesh between his thumb and forefinger.
He stumbled back, slapping his hand. The spider vanished—disintegrated into a faint wisp of light.
"Did that spider just bite me?! What the hell—"
Suddenly—
Pain.
His veins lit up, like fire raced through his bloodstream.
His legs wobbled. His breath caught in his throat.
The world tilted.
"Fuck—I'm dizzy…"
He dropped to one knee, panting.
Colors blurred. The city swirled. His ears rang like sirens inside his skull.
Then—
Flashes.
Peter's memories.
A house. A small, cramped kitchen. The smell of burnt toast. A photo of Uncle Ben. A creaky stairway. The sound of Aunt May's voice. A bedroom with scratched-up walls and posters of science fiction films.
It was all rushing in, like a flood bursting through a dam.
(I… I remember this place.)
(Peter's house. Yeah. I—I should go there. I need to lie down. I need—)
He forced himself up, gripping the edge of the vent.
His legs trembled. His skin burned.
But he was still standing.
Changed.
Something had awakened in his blood.
And it had only just begun.
….
As Drake stumbled off the rooftop and down the emergency ladder, his body weak, knees aching with every step.
His vision still pulsed at the edges, like light was dancing beneath his skin.
(Peter's house… Peter's house… It's just around the corner from the old pawn shop. Yeah… I remember now.)
The streets were quiet.
Not peaceful—empty.
Boarded windows. Burned-out cars. Cameras on poles watching every step. Purple drones buzzed in the sky like mechanical hornets. The mark of the Prowler was everywhere.
Drake tugged the hoodie over his head.
He passed two Viper enforcers. They didn't even glance his way.
(Right. To them, I am Peter Parker. Just another face. Another broken civilian.)
He kept his head down until he reached the door.
It was an old brick townhouse. Third one on the block. Faded blue paint around the frame. One cracked step near the porch.
Just like in Peter's memories.
He paused at the front door. His hand hovered over it.
(This ain't my place… But I gotta act like it is.)
He exhaled and knocked.
The door creaked open after a moment.
And there she was.
Aunt May.
Mid-40s. Short brown hair streaked with silver. Lines under her eyes—deep, tired, the kind drawn by too many nights spent hoping someone would come home alive.
She wore a faded sweater, her sleeves rolled up. Her eyes went wide as she saw him.
"Peter…?" she whispered.
Drake froze.
Her voice cracked like the world had stopped for her too.
(Shit… this woman—she really missed him.)
He swallowed.
"Yeah… It's me, Aunt May."
She stepped forward slowly, like she couldn't believe it was real. Her hand rose to touch his face.
"I… I thought you were—after the last battle… they said…"
Drake grabbed her hand gently. His chest hurt. Not from the bite. From something heavier.
"I'm here now," he said softly.
She hugged him.
And for a moment, he just stood there, letting her warmth soak into him.
Letting the weight of her love crush his ribs.
She pulled away slightly. Her eyes searched his face.
"You look tired. You need food. And rest. Come in, baby."
Drake stepped inside.
The house was small, but clean. Faint scent of tea. The same photographs Peter had in his memories. A picture of Peter and Uncle Ben. Another of May when she was younger.
(Damn… this really was his home. And now it's mine?)
He sat on the old couch, blinking back the spinning in his head.
May brought him a blanket and a glass of water.
"I don't know what you've been through… but I'm just glad you're safe."
Drake looked at her, guilt tugging at his chest.
(I ain't your real Peter… but I promise—I'm gonna make this place better. For you. For him.)
He nodded.
"Thanks, May. I'll be okay."
She smiled sadly.
"You always say that."
To be continue