Spider-Man’s death is nothing glorious. The world’s friendly neighborhood hero isn’t falling from a skyscraper or holding off an army. He’s crumpled in a damp alley, clutching a wound that won’t 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 doesn’t seem to feel.
“Oh, dear! Are you hurt?”
Peter blinks up at her, vision swimming. She’s older, maybe late fifties, with neatly styled hair and a sharp, business-casual look—a blouse tucked into dark slacks, a blazer draped over her shoulders. She doesn’t look like she belongs in a place like this.
“Spider-Man…?” she murmurs, her voice softening as realization dawns. “Oh my God.”
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 doesn’t protest. He doesn’t have the strength.
Peter stares up at her, her face blurring into something familiar. The lines of her features shift, soften, until he doesn’t see a stranger anymore. Through the haze of shock and pain, he sees her.
The woman’s eyes widen, but she doesn’t 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.
“9-1-1, what’s your emergency?” The operator’s voice is calm, clinical—so far removed from the chaos in her chest.
“I—I’m with someone,” she stammers, her voice breaking. “He’s been shot. He’s bleeding really badly. I’m—” She looks around wildly, realizing she has no idea where she is. “I think I’m in an alley off 10th and—please, just send someone!”
“Ma’am, stay calm. Help is on the way,” the operator attempts to assure her. “Is he conscious?”
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.
“Barely,” she whispers, her throat tightening.
“Apply pressure to the wound if you can,” 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.
“I’m sorry,” she says, her voice trembling. “I know it hurts. Just hold on, okay? They’re coming. They’re coming.”
Peter doesn’t 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.
“You’re so young,” she whispers, tears spilling freely now. “You’re just a kid. This isn’t fair. You shouldn’t…” Her voice cracks, and she bites her lip hard, trying to keep it together.
Peter’s fingers twitch, weakly gripping her hand, and she looks down. His lips move, but no sound comes out. She leans closer, straining to hear.
“Aunt… May?” he rasps, the words barely audible.
Her chest tightens, and she shakes her head, though he can’t see it. “No, sweetheart,” she whispers, her voice thick with emotion. “I’m not. But it’s okay. I’m here. You’re not alone.”
The operator’s voice crackles from the phone. “Ma’am, are you still there? Ma’am?”
She ignores it, her entire focus on the boy slipping away in her arms. “It’s okay,” she murmurs, stroking his hair, her thumb brushing against his pale cheek. “You’ve done enough. You’ve saved so many people. Just fight for yourself right now, honey.”
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, she’s still holding him, her blazer smeared with blood, her cheeks streaked with tears.
“He’s gone,” she chokes out as they kneel beside her. “He’s just… gone.”
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 doesn’t know his name, or what happened to have led him to this alley tonight. All she knows is that she stayed. That she didn’t let him die alone. And somehow, that has to mean something.
