Capítulo 7: 7. Diverging Paths.
Part 1 - Gwen's Point of View
It was late as I left band practice, the evening sky fading into a deep, inky black, pinpricked with stars that gleamed through the city lights. We'd been practicing for hours, and my fingertips were sore, my voice scratchy. But none of that mattered. Ever since the spider bite, I felt invincible. Strong. Fast. Confident.
The Merry Jane's, that's what we called our band. We'd come together with an energy that felt almost electric, like we were meant to create music and tear up the school stage. I had never felt so alive, so ready to take on anything. Even my grades were strong, a clear A, and my dad had been…well, he'd been proud. Since my mom left, he and I had been on shaky ground, but now things were looking up. It felt like everything in my life was starting to come together.
Well, almost everything.
There was still Peter. The thought of him made me slow my steps, my mind circling back to the guilt I'd been trying to push down for weeks. Flash had been harassing him for months, and I'd finally stepped in to help. But instead of fixing things, it had somehow made them worse. People whispered about him behind his back now. No one bullied him openly anymore, but the gossip stung in a different way. And Peter…he'd grown distant, colder. He never talked to anyone unless he absolutely had to.
I'd tried to talk to him a few times, but every time, he'd shrugged me off, the same way I used to brush him off. It felt…awful. Like a mirror reflecting back everything I'd done wrong. He was still doing well in school, still tied with me for top of the class, but something had changed in him. The spark he used to have, that childlike imagination, seemed to have twisted into something darker, something that kept him at arm's length from everyone around him.
I thought back to when we were kids. We'd been close, practically inseparable back then. I remembered him as a bright, curious kid who always had a smile for everyone, who saw wonder in the world even when things got tough. And then…everything had changed. The accident, his parents…after they died, he became different. That spark turned inward, becoming more intense, more isolated. He retreated into his own world, lost in his books and fantasies, and trouble always seemed to find him.
I shook my head, trying to shake off the memories as I walked down the street. I had to focus on the good things — the band, my dad, school. Everything was fine.
But just as I was about to turn the corner, a strange feeling washed over me. My senses tingled, and I froze, my gaze drifting to an alleyway across the street. Something was…wrong. It was like an instinct, a sense I couldn't fully understand, but I knew someone was in danger.
I stepped closer, squinting as I made out a figure lying on the ground, barely visible under the dim streetlight. An old man, bleeding from a gash on his face, and above him, a thug clutching a knife, his face hidden under a hoodie.
My first instinct was to call 911, to run for help. But I knew that by the time anyone got here, it might be too late. The old man was barely conscious, and the thug didn't look like he was in the mood to show mercy.
My heart pounded as I took a deep breath, the confidence from earlier returning in a wave. I could do this. I had powers now, abilities that let me move faster, hit harder. I couldn't just stand by and let this happen.
Before I could second-guess myself, I stepped forward, my voice steady and firm. "Hey! Leave him alone."
The thug looked up, surprise flashing across his face before it twisted into a sneer. "Oh, yeah? And what are you gonna do about it, little girl?"
I felt a surge of energy, my muscles tensing as I met his gaze. "I'm gonna make you regret even thinking about hurting him."
He lunged toward me, the knife glinting in the dim light. But to my surprise, my reflexes kicked in faster than I could even process. I sidestepped his attack, grabbing his wrist and twisting it sharply, sending the knife clattering to the ground. He yelped in pain, his eyes wide with shock as I forced his arm behind his back, locking him in a wrist hold.
"Let me go!" he snarled, struggling against my grip, but I tightened my hold, keeping him in place. I kicked the back of his knee, forcing him to kneel.
"You're gonna leave him alone," I said, my voice low and firm. "And if I see you around here again, you'll be dealing with a lot more than a bruised wrist."
"Fine, fine!" he stammered, his tone desperate. "Just let me go!"
I released him, shoving him away, and he stumbled back, rubbing his wrist with a glare before bolting down the alley. I watched him go, my heart racing, adrenaline still pumping through me as I turned back to the old man.
"Are you okay?" I asked, crouching beside him.
He looked up at me, his eyes bleary, but he managed a weak nod. "Thank you…thank you, miss."
I nodded, helping him sit up, relieved to see that his injuries weren't as bad as I'd feared. "Take it easy. I'll call for some help."
As I pulled out my phone to dial 911, I felt a strange sense of satisfaction. I'd done it — I'd used my new powers to help someone, to make a difference. And for the first time in a long time, I felt like I was doing something that mattered. But even as I dialed the number, the thought of Peter lingered in the back of my mind, a reminder of the friend I'd left behind.
---
Part 2 - Peter's Point of View
Dinner at the Brant household had never been particularly enjoyable, but tonight, it felt like a minefield. Elenore's husband, Nigel, was seated at the head of the table, his eyes narrowing as he scrutinized every little thing I did. Since he'd been put on leave from his job after that incident with the fabricated story, he'd been home all the time, watching me like a hawk, as if I were some kind of intruder in his precious household.
"You're slouching, Peter," he said sharply, not even looking up from his plate. "Sit up straight. It's the least you can do at the dinner table."
I clenched my jaw, forcing myself to straighten, even as I felt his gaze pierce through me. Nigel had always made it clear that I didn'tbeling here, that I was nothing more than a burden Elenore had taken in out of some misguided sense of pity. It was probably the reason that Bennett and Betty treated me the way they did.
Elenore, seated across from me, shot Nigel a disapproving look, but she didn't say anything. She never did. I could see the sadness in her eyes, a kind of helpless resignation, and for a brief moment, I felt a pang of guilt. She'd been kind to me, in her own way, even if her husband and kids seemed to view me as little more than a nuisance.
Nigel cleared his throat, setting down his fork as he looked at me. "Peter, don't you think it's time you started pulling your weight around here?"
I stiffened, glancing up at him. "I'm doing my best in school. I'm working hard to get a scholarship so I can—"
"That's not enough," he interrupted, his tone dismissive. "Studying isn't work. You're sixteen, for God's sake. You should be getting a part-time job, contributing to this household. It's the least you can do."
I clenched my fists under the table, forcing myself to stay calm. "I was planning on applying for a tutoring position at school. I figured it would look good on my college applications."
Nigel scoffed, clearly unimpressed. "A tutor? And what good does that do for us? You're already a burden. A real job would help you understand the value of what you're being given here."
I could feel the heat rising in my cheeks, the anger simmering beneath the surface. I was trying. I was doing everything I could to make something of myself, to earn my own way. But it was never enough for him. Nothing I did would ever be enough.
"Maybe you're right," I muttered, pushing my plate away as I stood up. "Maybe I do need to understand my place here."
Elenore looked up, a flicker of hurt in her eyes, but I couldn't bring myself to care. I didn't want her pity. I didn't want anyone's pity.
"Thank you for dinner," I said quietly, turning to leave the table without waiting for a response.
---
Later that night, I sat at my desk, my hands resting on the book — or as I'd come to call it, the Tome. The gauntlet pulsed faintly against my hand, a constant reminder of the pact I'd made, the power now bound to me. Over the past few weeks, I'd started deciphering more of its pages, translating fragments of Latin, Greek, and other ancient languages.
Tonight, I'd stumbled upon something intriguing: a curved dagger, the Sanguineista. The Tome described it as a weapon that was paired with the gauntlet, a blade that could drain the blood of its victims and store it. The details were sparse, but it hinted that the dagger would allow me to gather energy in a way that didn't require the gauntlet to feed off my own strength. The more I read, the more I realized this blade was a tool for survival, a means to fuel the power inside me without it consuming me completely.
My hands trembled slightly as I read over the ritual. The dagger required a full moon to be created, which meant I had only a few days to gather everything I'd need. The list was simple but…unsettling.
I read over the ritual again, my eyes lingering on the list of ingredients needed to create the Sanguineista. The gauntlet pulsed faintly, a reminder of the power it offered and the cost it demanded. But the ingredients were darker than I had expected.
A live raven — a creature known for its connection to death and omens — was to be sacrificed as part of the ritual. And then, the final requirement: blood. But not just any blood; it had to be the blood of a living enemy. I swallowed, the weight of that demand pressing down on me. This wasn't just an experiment or an academic pursuit. This ritual had its roots in something darker, something that required a piece of myself — and a piece of someone else.
The implications twisted in my gut, but the thrill of wielding the dagger overpowered the fear. I needed this weapon if I was going to survive, if I was going to fuel the gauntlet without losing myself. And if this was the price…it was one I was willing to pay.
I closed the Tome, my thoughts swirling as I looked out at the nearly full moon. Three days. Three days to find the raven and to secure the blood of someone who stood in my way. I didn't know what lay ahead or the choices I'd have to make, but one thing was clear: I was prepared to do whatever it took.
As I set the Tome aside, I felt the pulse of anticipation grow stronger. This was no longer just a means of survival; it was a declaration. A path that I would walk alone, regardless of the cost. Peter Parker was no longer the kid everyone ignored. I would make my mark, and no one — not Flash, not Nigel, not even fate itself — would stand in my way.
Status de energia semanal
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