Chapter 4: Peter Parker (Part 2)

"Peter Parker..."

I repeated the name to myself.

I stared at the young man in front of me.

Short brown hair.

Well-defined facial features... but with a slightly boyish look.

He wasn’t particularly tall either, which made him look even younger.

"Um, do you know me?"

When he asked that, I froze for a moment.

Peter Parker is supposed to be just an ordinary civilian.

A stranger—someone with no family connection or personal link—knowing his name is definitely suspicious.

I hurried to come up with an excuse so I wouldn't seem strange.

"Oh, no. I was just surprised because you have the same name as someone I know."

"Someone you know?"

"Yeah."

A lie.

I don’t know anyone with that name.

He just shares the name with the protagonist of a comic I like.

"Ah, I’ve got to head to work, so I’ll be going now."

"...Okay. Sorry for calling you out."

"No, no, it’s totally fine!"

Smiling brightly, Peter waved and left the shop.

The shop owner looked at me with a smug grin.

What? Do I have something on my face?

…Yeah, I did.

I had cream on my face.

How embarrassing.

---

After eating, I wandered aimlessly around Queens.

Walking through unfamiliar streets is always fun.

It’s refreshing—makes me feel like I’ve stepped into another world… helps me forget that I’m supposed to be a villain.

At a small market, I picked up a magazine.

Paid a half-asleep Asian lady at the counter and walked out.

I sat on a park bench and opened the magazine.

On the cover was Black Widow—Natasha.

Even in this world, the Avengers exist and fight to protect not just the city, but the whole world.

Aliens, killer robots, all kinds of threats.

Black Widow is one of the Avengers—a female spy clad in black.

And she’s someone with a background similar to mine.

She was trained by the KGB’s “Red Room” under the “Black Widow Program” in the former Soviet Union—raised to be the ultimate spy.

I, on the other hand, was crafted into an agent by the British special forces program “Red Cap Program” under “Unseelie Court.”

But there’s one big difference between us.

She chose to break away and fight her organization on her own terms.

I, however, have no will of my own—I simply obey orders, kill people, and spread misery wherever I go.

Having superpowers doesn’t make someone a hero.

What makes someone a hero is a strong will and a heart that seeks justice.

Someone once said that.

…Seems like I won’t ever be a hero.

As I flipped through the magazine, two men passed in front of me.

One white, one Black—they were jogging.

…No, wait. They were moving too fast.

It looked more like a race than a jog.

Feeling irritated, I stood up from the bench and left.

I thought about tossing the magazine into a trash can but remembered the Spider-Man feature and decided to keep it.

---

Before I realized it, evening had come.

The sun outside the window was low, and the sky was turning red.

I stopped my hands, which had been cutting out the magazine’s special article.

The feature was titled: “Spider-Man: Case Files!”

This is a shabby apartment in Queens.

My temporary home.

After my previous base was blown up, I started making a new scrapbook, shaking with rage as I remembered the old one that had been reduced to ashes.

…It’s one of my few hobbies.

Living the life of a villain, you need hobbies to hold on to your humanity.

Sweets, scrapbooking, and reading, I guess.

I stopped what I was doing and focused on my stomach.

Grrr.

A cute little growl.

The unmistakable sign of hunger.

Hunger sense: activated…

Thinking dumb things like that, I grabbed my jacket again and reached for the doorknob.

…But ugh, if I start looking for a decent place to eat now, I might not make it before closing time.

As I thought that and opened the door—

"Oh."

A familiar face was about to enter the room next to mine.

"Peter?"

Yes—Peter Parker.

Spider-Man’s… Wait, what? I live next door to Spider-Man?

"Uh, you’re the one from the sandwich shop…"

That’s when I realized—I hadn’t told him my name.

I mean, Peter probably assumed we’d never meet again after that sandwich shop encounter, so he didn’t bother asking.

Taking a deep breath, I opened my mouth to speak.

"Michelle."

"Huh?"

"Michelle Jane. That’s my name."

My alias here in Queens.

"R-right. Can I call you Michelle?"

"Sure. However you like."

With that, I went from just a stranger he'd once seen to someone he now knows—our relationship just leveled up.

No, maybe… getting too close to Spider-Man isn’t such a good idea.

I mean, I am a villain, after all.

If I get too close, I might blow my cover.

But the fangirl in me is overflowing with the desire to know more about him.

It’s a shallow, reckless obsession. Totally lacking in caution.

Still, I make sure not to let any of that show on my face.

To make communication smoother, I wear a mask—a fake expression.

It’s something I learned during spy training in the organization.

They called it emotional manipulation and influence training—classic people-reading techniques.

Naturally, I scored top marks.

I’m perfect, after all.

“But still… I can’t believe we’re next-door neighbors.”

Peter tilted his head as he said that.

Our dearest next-door neighbor, huh?

“Heh.”

Crap. I made myself laugh just thinking about it.

“Uh, what’s so funny?”

Peter looked at me with his cheeks slightly flushed.

Don’t be embarrassed. I’m the one who’s really dying of embarrassment here.

“It’s nothing.”

“O-oh, okay…”

The conversation wasn’t connecting. This was so awkward.

What happened to all that people-reading training? Totally useless in practice!

“What about you, Peter? What’s with that?”

I pointed at the camera he was holding.

It looked pretty nice—not a digital one, but a serious, professional-looking camera.

“Oh, this? I do freelance photography as a side gig. I take shots of cityscapes and crime scenes. The newspaper buys them off me.”

“Really? Which paper?”

“The Daily Bugle.”

I nearly burst out laughing when I heard that.

Spider-Man selling his own photos to the Daily Bugle, the anti-Spidey tabloid run by none other than J. Jonah Jameson himself? Come on. How am I not supposed to laugh at that?

“So? Are you done with work for today?”

“Yeah, finished up. I was just thinking of grabbing dinner.”

When I heard that, I touched a finger to my chin and thought for a moment.

…I’m out for dinner too, after all.

But since I have zero familiarity with Queens, I’d probably waste a lot of time just looking for a place. Exploring thoroughly doesn’t seem likely.

In the end, I’d probably have to settle for the first place I find, even if it looks gross.

In that case…

“Peter.”

“Huh? What?”

“Would it be okay if I joined you for dinner?”

“Eh—”

“I just moved to Queens, so… I don’t really know the area yet.”

I looked up at him just a little when I asked.

He’s just a bit taller than me, that’s all.

…Okay, that was way too cutesy of me. I need to stop.

“Oh… yeah, of course! I was just heading to a Thai place, though…”

“That’s fine.”

Thai food… wait, what even is that?

I don’t really know much about it.

“It’s kind of spicy.”

“…That’s fine.”

…I’m not great with spicy food, to be honest.

But I want to get to know Peter.

And Spider-Man.

---

"Spicy."

I was chugging water down in a panic.

What I’d ordered was a papaya salad—som tam.

Yeah, papaya.

In my mind, papayas are ripe, sweet fruit.

But what actually came out was a green, unripe papaya.

Along with tomato, carrot, and peanuts.

And a ton of sliced chili peppers.

Not just "a little spicy."
So spicy my tongue went numb.

Peter, you liar.

"Are... are you okay?"

Still, Peter asking with concern like that—he’s a good guy.
Figures, he is a hero.

Even before I ordered, he tried to hint, “Maybe that’s not the best idea.”

In the end, I ignored him. So this is on me.

"I'm fine... I'm fine..."

I somehow forced myself to finish it and set my spoon on the plate.

...Next time I come here, I’m only ordering coconut-based desserts.

"So... um, Michelle, why did you move to Queens?"

Because my apartment in Hell's Kitchen got blown up... is definitely not something I can say out loud.

I’ll go with the fake backstory the organization set up for me.

"I’m transferring to a high school in Queens. I figured it'd be better to live closer."

Until the attacker from Hell’s Kitchen is identified, I’ve been ordered to lay low and blend in as a normal civilian.

The organization even gave me a fake ID, fake academic records, and faked the transfer process.

"Oh, I see. Which school, by the way?"

"Midtown High."

The school I’m transferring to is one of the bigger ones in Queens—Midtown High.

The organization’s idea is that it’s easier to disappear in a crowd.
If you want to hide a tree, put it in a forest. If you want to hide a person, put them among people. And if you want to hide a teenage girl, put her in a big school.

"...Huh?"

Peter looked surprised.

"Oh, I go to Midtown High too."

...Seriously?

So not only are we neighbors, we go to the same school?

"What a coincidence."

"I’m just as surprised. What year are you in?"

"I’m... sixteen, so I guess I’m a junior."

"I’m a junior too. Wow, small world."

Peter laughed and said, "Maybe we’ll end up in the same class."

No way, I thought. Midtown High is big—it has seven classes per grade.

There’s no way we’d be in the same one.

Coincidences don’t keep stacking up like this.
I laughed it off, trying not to overthink it.

---

"I'm Michelle Jane, and I’ll be in your class starting today. If she needs help with anything, make sure you all help her out."

"I’m Michelle. N-nice to meet you..."

Standing in front of the whiteboard, my hands were drenched in sweat, and I couldn't meet anyone’s eyes.

At the back of the classroom, in the far-right corner, Peter was smiling.

Coincidences are terrifying.
That’s what I thought.