As dusk settled over Queens, Joren opened his front door carrying a small supermarket bag.
He set it on the counter and began laying out ingredients for dinner.
Fresh tomatoes.
Dry pasta.
An onion.
A bottle of olive oil.
A simple combination — enough for one person.
The quiet ritual of cooking by hand was a form of meditation: a temporary refuge from the noise of the outside world.
His phone vibrated in his pocket.
Joren glanced at the screen.
Unknown number.
Hey, handsome. Free tonight? I know a great Italian place…
Or we could go to my place. I cook.
😉🐱
Unsigned.
But the playful provocation was unmistakable.
Felicia Hardy.
The Black Cat.
Yare yare.
Joren slid the phone back into his pocket without replying.
The more you respond to women like her — acceptance or rejection — the more interesting the interaction becomes to them.
The only effective strategy is absolute indifference.
He began slicing tomatoes, the blade tapping rhythmically against the cutting board.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
The sound interrupted his movements.
Joren paused.
Ripple perception spread outward like radar.
A familiar heartbeat.
Fast. Uneven.
Peter Parker.
He hesitated.
He could pretend he wasn't home. Let another source of trouble leave on its own.
But Peter's emotions — confusion, frustration… and a fragile thread of hope — carried clearly through the Ripple's sensory field.
After three seconds, Joren set the knife down, wiped his hands, and opened the door.
Peter stood outside in a wrinkled plaid shirt, uncertainty written across his face.
"Have you eaten?" Joren asked.
"Huh?"
Peter blinked, caught off guard.
"…No. I was just—"
"Come in."
Joren turned toward the kitchen.
Peter followed, closing the door carefully behind him.
"Sit."
Joren gestured to the table and returned to the counter.
He glanced at the ingredients, then retrieved two more tomatoes and a portion of ground meat from the refrigerator, dividing everything into two equal portions with quiet efficiency.
Peter sat stiffly, hands on his knees, like someone carrying too many thoughts to sort.
Water began to boil.
Joren added pasta and started preparing the sauce.
At school, he was distant — untouchable.
Now he wore an apron, calmly chopping onions.
The contrast felt unreal.
Oil warmed in the pan.
Onions hit the surface with a soft hiss.
"About last night…" Peter began.
"I don't want to talk about it," Joren said without turning.
The words died in Peter's throat.
He chose silence.
Ten minutes later, two plates of steaming pasta were set on the table.
Simple tomato meat sauce.
The aroma was rich and comforting.
"Thanks," Peter murmured.
They began eating.
The only sound was the soft clink of forks.
After several bites, Peter spoke again.
"Jojo… I feel weak."
Joren paused and looked up.
"Last night… Daredevil almost died. And I…"
His voice trembled.
"I couldn't do anything. My strength, my webs, my spider-sense… they all felt useless. Like toys."
"So?" Joren asked calmly.
"Daredevil said he'll train me once he recovers," Peter said, voice gaining urgency. "Real combat training. What do you think?"
"His fighting style emphasizes efficiency," Joren replied. "Environmental awareness. Exploiting structural weaknesses. Predictive countering."
Peter leaned forward.
"With your reflexes and strength, his techniques would significantly increase your combat effectiveness."
Peter's eyes brightened.
"But," Joren continued, "his methodology is built on extreme willpower and tolerance for pain."
Peter swallowed.
"In simple terms, are you prepared to be tortured?"
Peter froze.
"I can roughly predict his training methods," Joren continued. "He beats you. Explains what you did wrong. Repeats until you learn how not to be beaten."
A pause.
"It is effective."
Another pause.
"It is also cruel. He crawled out of hell. His methods come from hell."
Peter's hands tightened into fists.
"I can handle it," he said quietly. "I have to get stronger. I can't watch people get hurt because I wasn't enough."
Joren nodded.
Everyone walks their own path.
He had no right to interfere.
They continued eating.
Silence settled again.
Then Joren spoke, as if recalling something trivial.
"When did you start dating Gwen?"
Peter inhaled pasta.
"—COUGH!—"
He coughed violently, face turning crimson.
"No — no! We didn't — I mean —"
He waved his hands frantically.
Joren stared at him.
"I'm not blind."
Peter lowered his head, voice barely audible.
"…Last week."
"Does she know you're Spider-Man?"
Peter froze.
Panic flickered in his eyes.
"How did you—"
"Answer."
Peter stared at the table.
After several seconds, he nodded.
"She knows."
Joren set his fork down.
That meant:
another person aware.
another vulnerability.
another target.
"How?"
"I told her."
Peter's voice faltered.
"I got injured. She figured it out. She's… really smart."
"And you confirmed it."
"I felt she had the right to know."
He looked up, stubborn sincerity in his eyes.
"If we're going to be together… she deserves the truth."
Ah.
The logic of someone in love.
Naive. Sincere. Dangerous.
"Gwen Stacy," Joren said quietly, "ceased to be only your girlfriend the moment you told her."
He stood and began clearing plates.
"She became a label."
"A visible target."
"I'll protect her!" Peter insisted.
"How?" Joren asked.
"Will you stay beside her every second? You still attend school. You patrol. You sleep."
He rinsed the dishes under running water.
"Your enemies require only one moment."
"One kidnapping."
"One threat."
"That is sufficient to break you."
Peter's hands trembled.
Joren dried a plate and set it aside.
"Go home and think carefully, Peter."
"The identity of a hero is not an honor."
"It is a curse."
He turned off the faucet.
"What you must learn now is not how to love someone…"
He looked at Peter.
"…but how to ensure the person you love does not fall into hell because of you."
Silence filled the kitchen.
And for the first time that evening,
Peter understood
that strength alone would never be enough.