Miles Morales: New Spider Chapter 8.

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There’s nothing more painful—and more hilarious—than watching Ganke try to dance. He takes it so seriously, raising his arms dramatically, then bringing them down like he's leading an invisible orchestra. He taps his feet to the beat—emphasis on "tries"—and then jumps, swaying his body from side to side. His arms flail in some strange spaghetti move, wobbling all over the place. He steps and slides, sweating heavily. It’s obvious he’s working hard, but he’s having the time of his life.

Ganke’s this chubby Korean kid who recently became my best friend. It’s like he’s the comic relief I never knew I needed. We hit it off last year after I complimented his sneakers—they were genuinely cool. He told me his dad’s a sneakerhead, obsessed with kicks, but Ganke’s true love is Lego. He said he loves how he can create anything he wants with it. Turns out, we don’t live far from each other, so one day he brought over his Lego set, and we started building. We’ve been tight ever since.

Now, I’m nine years old, and I think I’m hitting puberty. The mood swings and hormones are hitting hard, and my body’s changing fast. I mean, who hits puberty at nine? But this is the Marvel universe—anything's possible. It could be the chi I’m unknowingly tapping into, or maybe it’s just my body adapting to the torture that Dad and my dojo master have been putting me through since last year. I’m developing fast. I’m not tall yet, but I’m no longer midget-sized, just a few inches shorter than Holland’s Spider-Man in *Homecoming*.

The training never gets easier. The morning runs are the only consistent thing—everything else, from the weights to the fighting drills, just keeps getting more intense. Even at the dojo, I’m proud to say I’ve earned a blue belt and am on my way to blue and white. But the body conditioning is pure hell. Dad ensures it doesn’t stunt my growth, but by the end of each session, I’m left completely drained.

There were times I secretly cried. It was just so hard. Aching muscles, soreness, the constant urge to give up—I felt it all. But I kept pushing. I knew this would benefit my survival in this world. Hard work never betrays you. This world rewards persistence. The chi helps my body heal faster than normal, but it’s nothing extraordinary—I’m not mending broken bones in hours or anything. My body just recovers a bit quicker, which is a blessing considering the intense training.

If I remember correctly, Spider-Man never had combat training before he got his powers, but when he did, all his attributes were enhanced. Now, imagine a fit, physically excellent body being enhanced by a spider bite. That’s what I’m aiming for.

Speaking of intelligence, I took an IQ test recently. My score came out at 248. A genius, apparently. But in this world, that’s not even the ceiling. Peter Parker was probably smarter than me. I remember it took me longer to create web fluid than it did him. But why was he even in high school in the movies? With his intelligence, he should’ve been in college, making a name for himself.

Maybe he was looking for validation, friends even. He was kind of nerdy and lonely before he became Spider-Man, and that affected his confidence. Becoming Spider-Man helped with that, but Peter was naive. He did grow out of it, but it wasn’t an easy journey.

I applied for a scholarship to Brooklyn Visions Academy, and today’s the day I get the reply. The letter arrives in the afternoon. There’s a tension in the air as I hold it, looking at my parents’ anxious faces.

'I know I got in. I’m a genius, after all. Let’s mess with them a bit.'

I slowly tear open the envelope, dragging out the process. I stop halfway, glancing at them. Their eyes are practically pleading with me to hurry up. I hold back a laugh.

Finally, I pull out the letter and pretend to read it, letting my face fall into a fake look of disappointment. They’re already gearing up to comfort me, but I hand the letter to my dad with a dejected expression.

As he reads it, I see his face go from surprise to satisfaction, and finally to an amused, tired smile. I can’t hold it in anymore.

“Hahaha!” I burst out laughing.

“Miles, really?” Dad sighs, smiling despite himself.

My mom’s confused until Dad says, “He got in, Rio.” She looks at me with mock anger and lightly taps my head.

“You little devil,” she says, pulling me into a hug. “We’re proud of you, son.”

“You did great, little man,” Dad adds, pride evident in his voice.

“Yeah, I know you say it all the time. It’s not like they would’ve rejected me.”

I might sound a bit arrogant, but I’ve earned it. I’m not self-conceited though—that’s a line I’ll never cross.

“Alright, little genius, go get some ice cream. You’ve earned it.”

I decide to head over to Uncle Aaron’s place to share the good news and hang out for a bit. I grab a lemon-strawberry Popsicle on the way.

You’d think Uncle Aaron lives downtown somewhere, but nope. He lives in a large apartment complex called the Baruch Houses, right on the East River. It’s a clean place, way out of his pay grade—but I guess crime does pay well.

When I reach his apartment, I knock on the door. “Yo, Uncle Aaron, it’s Miles. Open up!”

The door swings open, and he greets me with a grin. “Little guy, come on in.”

“I’m not little anymore, Uncle.”

“Haha, you’re just taller. You still little—or did you get a girl?” he says with a smirk.

“No, I haven’t. Let it go,” I mutter, walking past him as he closes the door.

“Oh, you icy, huh? Haha, little guy, what’s up today?”

“I got in.”

“What? You got game? Since when?”

I give him a blank look. “What?”

“What?” he echoes.

“Why is it always girls with you? You know what, just forget it. I got accepted into BVA.”

“For real?! Baby Einstein!” He’s clearly surprised.

“Yeah.”

“Well, great job! You’re gonna make it big, little man. This calls for a celebration!” He’s genuinely happy, heading toward the kitchen.

I get comfy on the couch, my backpack beside me, and my Popsicle in hand. We’re watching *Drunken Master*—my favorite Kung Fu movie. Jackie Chan is a legend, period.

A few minutes into the movie, I feel something crawling on my hand. Normally, I’d brush it off, but this is Uncle Aaron’s place—and I’m Miles Morales. I’m not taking any chances. I glance down and see a large, black tarantula with vibrant markings on my hand.

For a moment, my mind goes blank.

My first instinct is to flick it off, but then it hits me—this is it. The moment. Excitement and anticipation flood through me. I shove the Popsicle into my mouth, grab a container from my backpack, and prepare to trap the spider. But just as I’m about to, the spider bites me.

The pain is immediate and intense. It’s like flaming needles stabbing into my hand, spreading slowly like an electric shock. I bite down hard on the Popsicle, the brain freeze momentarily overpowering the pain.

I can feel the fangs digging into my flesh as the venom spreads. It hurts so much—more than anything I’ve ever felt. But I know what this is. I push through the pain, ignoring the screaming instincts telling me to fling the spider away.

With all my willpower, I trap the spider in the container and stuff it back into my backpack. Everything around me starts to blur and distort, the pain overwhelming my senses.

And then, I pass out.