#013

When I woke up, the old clock on the wall clicked over to 3:00 AM with a sharp, angry sound, like it was mad I was still alive.

I squinted at it, trying to shake the fog out of my head.

I got home around... what, 5 PM?

My parents still weren't home.

Or maybe they had come home, saw their son dead asleep on the couch, and decided ignoring it was the better option.

Whichever one it was, it wasn't exactly uplifting.

I groaned and sat up slowly, I still felt sore and stiff, like I just ran a marathon... but hey, at least I didn't feel like I was gonna die again anymore.

I sat there for a while, slumped into the couch, staring into the dark living room, trying to piece it all together.

Okay... Let's run through this.

I tried to stop the spider.

Failed.

Got bit too.

Collapsed.

And died.

Simple. Straightforward. Depressing.

But here's the thing—

Last time I died, I woke up back at the start of the day.

This time?

I just... rewound a few minutes.

What changed?

I scrubbed my hands down my face, trying to shake the leftover sand feeling out of my eyes.

Was it the truck?

The spider bite?

The place?

The time of day?

What the hell was the pattern here?

The only thing consistent was me dying.

Nothing made sense.

I needed more information.

More data.

Something.

But first...

I needed another water bottle, maybe a shower, and maybe—maybe—a proper long kiss with a pillow.

---

I dragged myself into the kitchen and collapsed onto a stool at the counter, a big cup of water in one hand and my phone in the other.

Peter had texted. A lot

> You made it home okay?

> Dude answer me.

> You're not dead, right?

> If you ARE dead, can I have my comics back?

> Bro seriously, say something.

> I'm gonna create a proton pack and hunt your ghost down. Answer!!!

I huffed a small laugh through my nose and sent him a single line of emojis:

House, thumbs up, zZz.

Almost immediately, the typing bubbles popped up.

How?! It's 3 am, dude.

The messages arrived like a Gatling gun .

> Oh, so you're alive. It was time you answered.

> The field trip at Oscorp was great, by the way. Shame you lost it.

> I mean, seriously, man? Oscorp! and you just check out like that? You could've toughen it up.

> Also, you owe me a drink for all the worrying I did.

I stared at the screen for a second, shaking my head as a tired smile tugged at the corner of my mouth.

The spider.

I need to know.

> Yo, back at the exhibition with Gwen when I dipped.

> Did something sting you? I saw something crawling on your neck.

Peter answered almost immediately.

> Huh? What are you talking about?

I sighed, thumbs working faster now.

> At Oscorp. Right before I bailed.

...should i tell him it was a spider? He might freak out.

> A wasp was on your neck.

> You didn't feel anything?

The typing dots popped up.

Stopped.

Popped up again.

Clearly, Peter was overthinking it.

> Ohhh.

> Yeah, now that you mention it I think something did bite me?

> Got a little sting on my neck.

> Thought it was just a mosquito or something.

I stared at the words, my stomach twisting into a tight knot.

It has started.

I thumbed out another message.

> You feeling okay though?

> Hungry?

There was a pause this time, like he was actually thinking about it.

> Yeah?

> Why, you gonna invite me to dinner or something?

> Sorry bro, you're not my type.

I huffed out a tired laugh, dragging a hand down my face.

> Really? Cuz' you seemed awfully worried.

> You want me so bad it's honestly sad.

I didn't have the energy—nor the desire—to explain that the "hunger" might actually be a side effect of getting superpowers. Especially not at 3 a.m.

Instead, I just texted back.

> Anyway You're fine. Probably.

> I'll talk to you tomorrow.

Peter replied with a laughing emoji and a flexing arm.

> Thanks, Doc.

I tossed the phone onto the counter with a soft thunk and drained the rest of my water.

Okay.

So Peter got bit.

And... nothing major. No collapsing. No passing out. No sudden parkour urges.

Just a little sting, and some mild hunger that could've just been him skipping lunch.

Maybe it's nothing.

Maybe it is something.

But it's not like the movies. No overnight six-pack. No sudden spider-sense tingling.

So… slow burn, maybe?

I rubbed my face and leaned back in the stool, eyes fixed on the ceiling like it had answers.

Today was supposed to be simple.

Get through the Oscorp trip. Keep a low profile.

And marvel at the birth of Spider-Man.

Instead?

I tried to stop the spider, failed, got bit, died for like the third time, came back again—but not as far back—I never got bitten, but Peter did and now he might be starting his own freakshow metamorphosis while I sit here playing detective with a plastic water cup and a cracked phone.

Fantastic...

So what changed?

Why just a few minutes this time, instead of a whole rewind?

Is it random? Is there a cooldown? Some invisible meter that's running dry?

Or does it work like a battery, and I'm burning it out with every reset?

All I know is, dying is the trigger.

Everything else?

Wild card.

---

You ever just lay in bed, eyes shut for a full hour, and still not sleeping?

It's not because I'm bursting with energy—far from it. I'm wrecked.

But my brain won't shut up. Won't flip the switch.

The smell—God.

The sheets, the pillow, the room—it all reeks.

Like stale sweat, dust, and old nightmares clinging to the walls.

Have I always lived like this?

How the hell did I not notice the stink before?

I roll over again. For the... Fifth time? Sixth?

Whatever.

Last time I died, I came back with fighting instinct. Reflexes. Muscle memory I never earned.

So what is it this time?

...Super smell?

I bury my face into the least olfatory offensive corner of the pillow and groan into it.

"Fuuuuuuuuck...."

---

This is such a dumbass idea.

I'm wearing a shirt as a blindfold, stumbling around my own house, trying to smell my way from room to room like some deranged bloodhound.

It's embarrassing. I'm glad no one's here to witness this—except maybe a ghost or two, silently judging.

But if I'm right… if I can train this…

Then maybe this isn't just some random curse that makes me suffer through every gross detail of my own body.

Maybe it's usable.

Maybe I can do something with it.

Might be a long shot. Hell, might be the length of a stadium.

But if super smell is on the menu, I'm not wasting it just sniffing out expired leftovers and teenage sweat.

---

It's not Daredevil echolocation—nowhere near that cool.

But I managed to get across the living room without breaking my nose on a wall... not too hard at least.

It's weird. Not quite seeing. More like… sensing the way smells drift through the air. Messy. Faint. Tangled together more often than not. But definitely there.

It's like watching fog move—if the fog was invisible and it stank.

And somehow, I can follow it.

I spent the rest of the night training it.

Well—playing with it. Same thing.

It's not fancy. Not even that useful. Yet.

But it's mine.

Knock-off Daredevil?

Yeah. I'll take that title with pride.

---

You know what sucks about having a heightened sense of smell?

Living in a city.

If it's not a car exhaust, it's dog shit on the sidewalk. Or someone who skipped deodorant and personal shame.

Anyway, I'm on the subway heading to Nelson & Murdock after searching for the office on google maps.

Still not sure what I'm gonna say.

'Hey Matt, I know you're Daredevil—help me or I spill it to everyone.'

Best case? He beats the hell out of me

Worst case? He sues me

At least I can try to fight back if he beats me.

Legally I'm fucked.

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Word count: 1.358