The spray can hisses against the brick wall, red paint bleeding into black as I work through the knot in my chest. Another swing, another save, another screw-up that’ll probably make tomorrow’s headlines. My hands shake slightly—not from the web-slinging, but from replaying that moment over and over. The moment I had everything in my grasp and just… let it slip through my fingers like smoke.
I pause, stepping back to study the half-finished mural, my reflection caught in a nearby puddle. Sometimes I wonder if Uncle Aaron was right about me—too soft, too hesitant when it counts. The city’s quiet tonight, giving me space to think, which might be the last thing I need right now.
My phone buzzes with another missed call from my dad, probably wanting to check in after seeing the news. How do I explain that Spider-Man isn’t supposed to fumble the bag this badly?