Midtown High School felt different.
Students clustered in tight groups throughout the hallways. Voices were hushed, conversations urgent. Unease lingered in the air like static before a storm.
The topic was the same everywhere.
Hell's Kitchen.
"Did you hear? There was a terrorist attack last night!"
"My uncle's NYPD. He said it looked like a war zone. People dead everywhere… and these ninja guys — bullets didn't stop them."
"The news said a gang conflict triggered gas explosions, but my cousin lives nearby. He swears he saw golden light. Like the sun."
"The sun? Your cousin watches too much anime."
Whispers. Speculation. Fear dressed as gossip.
All of it filtered out of Joren's awareness.
He walked through the hallway without expression, heading for his locker.
"Jojo!"
Peter Parker hurried up beside him.
His face was pale. Dark circles hung beneath his eyes. His shirt looked like he'd thrown it on without looking — he clearly hadn't slept.
"Last night… you…"
Peter leaned closer, lowering his voice.
"In that theater… are you okay?"
His eyes held confusion, relief, fear — and something like awe.
"That monster… Kingpin… that organization… and then Iron Man…"
He stopped. There were too many questions and none that made sense out loud.
What was that thing?
Was it destroyed?
How do you even fight something like that?
Joren looked at him.
"Does it matter, Peter?"
"…Just be yourself."
He turned and opened his locker.
Peter's mouth opened slightly… then closed.
He understood.
He was Spider-Man.
He had his battles.
Joren had his.
They were friends — but some lines didn't need crossing.
And some burdens weren't meant to be shared.
A pleasant, teasing voice drifted over.
"Well, if it isn't our 'adorable' Joestar."
Joren paused.
Trouble had arrived.
Felicia leaned casually against the locker beside his.
Her posture looked effortless, but half the hallway had already noticed her.
Her long white hair shimmered like moonlight. Tight jeans traced perfect lines. A simple white T-shirt looked like designer fashion on her.
Her emerald eyes gleamed — curious, playful, dangerous.
"What's wrong? Didn't sleep well?"
She lifted a finger, glossy black nail polish catching the light, reaching toward the brim of his hat.
"Those dark circles are practically falling off your face. What happened — save the world?"
Her tone was teasing.
Her eyes were not.
Peter's palms began to sweat.
This transfer student had an unsettling level of interest in Joren.
Joren shoved his bag into the locker and slammed it shut.
He turned to leave without looking at her.
"Hey, don't be like that."
Felicia moved — fast, graceful — blocking his path.
She crossed her arms and leaned forward slightly.
Her perfume mixed with something warmer, younger.
"I'm just curious," she murmured, lowering her voice so only they could hear.
"With all that noise in Hell's Kitchen last night… someone who likes 'quiet' wouldn't have missed it, right?"
Joren looked at her.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
Felicia's smile widened.
She touched her lips thoughtfully.
"That's funny. I was in the area."
Her green eyes sparkled with dangerous excitement.
"I saw some… interesting fireworks."
She leaned closer.
"Golden fireworks."
The bell rang.
A release from pressure.
Joren left first.
He declined Peter's invitation to grab pizza and "compare homework answers," and walked alone through Queens.
Sycamore trees cast soft shadows.
Fresh-cut grass scented the air.
Normal life.
Peaceful.
He wanted this.
Instead, trouble gathered like sharks scenting blood.
The Hand.
Kingpin.
S.H.I.E.L.D.
Iron Man.
And now a curious little cat burglar.
He almost missed the days when his greatest enemy was calculus.
At least equations didn't wait outside his house.
He reached his street.
He stopped.
Across the road sat a black Dodge Challenger.
Two occupants.
They had been there since morning.
Their breathing was slow and controlled.
Heart rates steady.
Professional.
Their gaze followed him through tinted glass.
S.H.I.E.L.D.
Nick Fury wasn't finished.
Joren lifted his hand and nudged his hat brim upward.
He didn't hide his awareness.
He simply stared back.
"…Unbelievable."
Even his front door wasn't clean anymore.
As the silent standoff continued, his phone vibrated.
Unknown number. Encrypted routing.
Joren answered.
"…Hello."
A voice answered — smooth, confident, amused.
"Hey, cool kid. Relax. Those guys aren't mine."
Tony Stark.
"Seriously, Fury's taste is so… tactical. If I were staking out a genius-level anomaly, I'd at least use an Aston Martin. Presentation matters."
Joren said nothing.
Tony didn't seem to need a reply.
"So here's the deal," Stark continued. "How about you come by Stark Industries? My coffee is light-years better than whatever powdered chemical weapon those guys drink."
A pause.
"And I've got a few toys in my lab that might be more interesting than calculus."
Another beat.
"…Unless you actually like calculus. In which case we may need a psychological evaluation."
The Challenger's occupants continued watching.
The street remained quiet.
And trouble, as always, waited for his next step.