Spider-Manâs death is nothing glorious. The worldâs friendly neighborhood hero isnât falling from a skyscraper or holding off an army. Heâs crumpled in a damp alley, clutching a wound that wonât stop bleeding. Every breath is shallow, wheezing, a countdown to the inevitable.
Footsteps echo down the alley, heels clicking steadily against the pavement. A woman rounds the corner, the faint glow of her phone lighting her path. She stops short when she sees him, her voice carrying a calm she doesnât seem to feel.
âOh, dear! Are you hurt?â
Peter blinks up at her, vision swimming. Sheâs older, maybe late fifties, with neatly styled hair and a sharp, business-casual lookâa blouse tucked into dark slacks, a blazer draped over her shoulders. She doesnât look like she belongs in a place like this.
âSpider-ManâŠ?â she murmurs, her voice softening as realization dawns. âOh my God.â
She kneels beside him, her movements deliberate but unhurried, as though she knows any panic will only make things worse. She reaches for his mask.
Peter doesnât protest. He doesnât have the strength.
Peter stares up at her, her face blurring into something familiar. The lines of her features shift, soften, until he doesnât see a stranger anymore. Through the haze of shock and pain, he sees her.
The womanâs eyes widen, but she doesnât correct him. Instead, she leans closer, holding his hand as tightly as she dares.
The woman swallows hard, her free hand trembling as she pulls out her phone and dials.
â9-1-1, whatâs your emergency?â The operatorâs voice is calm, clinicalâso far removed from the chaos in her chest.
âIâIâm with someone,â she stammers, her voice breaking. âHeâs been shot. Heâs bleeding really badly. Iâmââ She looks around wildly, realizing she has no idea where she is. âI think Iâm in an alley off 10th andâplease, just send someone!â
âMaâam, stay calm. Help is on the way,â the operator attempts to assure her. âIs he conscious?â
She glances down at him. His breaths are shallow, his lips tinged with blue, but his eyes flutter open briefly, fixing on her with a desperate, glassy stare.
âBarely,â she whispers, her throat tightening.
âApply pressure to the wound if you can,â the operator says.
She drops the phone to the pavement, still on speaker, and presses her hands against the gaping hole in his abdomen. Blood gushes between her fingers, warm and slick, and she feels him tense beneath her touch.
âIâm sorry,â she says, her voice trembling. âI know it hurts. Just hold on, okay? Theyâre coming. Theyâre coming.â
Peter doesnât respond. His head tilts slightly, his face slackening as his body begins to give out. She hesitates, then reaches up to smooth his sweat-soaked hair, brushing it back from his forehead.
âYouâre so young,â she whispers, tears spilling freely now. âYouâre just a kid. This isnât fair. You shouldnâtâŠâ Her voice cracks, and she bites her lip hard, trying to keep it together.
Peterâs fingers twitch, weakly gripping her hand, and she looks down. His lips move, but no sound comes out. She leans closer, straining to hear.
âAunt⊠May?â he rasps, the words barely audible.
Her chest tightens, and she shakes her head, though he canât see it. âNo, sweetheart,â she whispers, her voice thick with emotion. âIâm not. But itâs okay. Iâm here. Youâre not alone.â
The operatorâs voice crackles from the phone. âMaâam, are you still there? Maâam?â
She ignores it, her entire focus on the boy slipping away in her arms. âItâs okay,â she murmurs, stroking his hair, her thumb brushing against his pale cheek. âYouâve done enough. Youâve saved so many people. Just fight for yourself right now, honey.â
His grip on her hand loosens, his head lolling to the side. She watches, helpless, as the light fades from his eyes. A shallow breath escapes him, then nothing.
She clutches his hand tighter, rocking slightly as grief crashes over her. Not grief personal to her, but for his loved ones and all of New York. For the hero lost. She barely notices the distant wail of sirens until the alley floods with red and blue light.
By the time the paramedics reach her, sheâs still holding him, her blazer smeared with blood, her cheeks streaked with tears.
âHeâs gone,â she chokes out as they kneel beside her. âHeâs just⊠gone.â
The paramedics gently pull her away, but she resists for a moment, her fingers lingering in his hair. She finally lets go, collapsing against the wall as they work in vain to resuscitate him.
She doesnât know his name, or what happened to have led him to this alley tonight. All she knows is that she stayed. That she didnât let him die alone. And somehow, that has to mean something.
