If you thought I owned Spider-Man, you have a good sense of humour. To state it more clearly : I don't own Spider-Man. Story's in Gwen's POV, by the way.

I walked along the pavement under the drizzling rain, the rim of the umbrella burning hot inside my palm. I held it tight; it was so windy that I thought anytime I could be blown away. I was weak, stumbling, often knocked aside by the rumble of busy pedestrians. Water leaked through the old umbrella and soaked my striped cardigan. I walked a couple of steps more and stumbled again, over a disowned bag that lay drenched and glistening in the middle of the path. I twisted my ankle, my arms flailed towards the sky and a mild squeak escaped my throat as I begun falling flat on the face to the muddy ground. But a strong arm held flew out of thin air and held me back.

The way the arm clutched my waist was much too familiar for me to be mistaken. I felt a swooping sensation inside my body. It put me back to my feet and awkwardly pulled away. Even before I turned I knew the person was standing a few steps behind, waiting for me to turn, to smile.

But alas, I had forgotten how to smile.

I hadn't spoken to him since two months. We barely looked at each other at school. We sat at two different corners. Yet I had to bump into no one but him in the busy, wide roads of the city. And yet he had to be the one to save me. He stared at me, a bit apologetic, a bit befuddled, with a blank, deer-gazing-at-the-headlights sort of look while I rendered him a sheepish glance, the umbrella resting upon my shoulders, fidgeted and rubbed my fingernails together.

"How are you?"

I didn't know whether it was a genuine question or a way to start another uncomfortable conversation, since he had his eyes fixed over the flashy board of the grocery shop beside. My heart sank to my stomach and a lump rose in my throat before I turned my back and trotted some yards ahead to take a cab home.

He followed my slow, heavy footsteps. The very realization of him stalking wrenched my heart and an inane surge of anger flustered me. First he didn't want to see me, and now he wouldn't let me go until I answered the bloody shallow question of his? How many ways did he want to churn to suck the life out of me?

"Gwen, wait -"

"What?" I barked, wheeling round, my eyes glaring and bloodshot. The rain went blistering into my neck.

For a while he abstained from whatever he was about to say, then continued in a low dark murmur, "I wanted to talk to you."

He wanted to talk to me. The words stabbed through my chest and rang in my head. Again and again. He wanted to talk to me. "So what?" I wanted to say, but different sounding words tumbled out of my mouth, "Okay, go on."

He looked around to check for anyone within earshot, and then brought his face near to my ear. "I've given up being Spider-Man," he said. With the warm breath that hit my ear, blood rushed to my head and made my temple pound like a funeral drum.

"Peter, why are you telling me this?"

I was not sure what I wanted to hear. Maybe, not being Spider-Man anymore would not make him break the promise he made. Not technically, at least. And we could still be together.

Peter gently nudged me aside towards the door of the grocery shop as people pushed past us and complained about holding up the whole way. I fixed my gaze at a puddle of water while few pedestrians threw me casual yet rude stares. It frightened me. I suddenly noticed how vulnerable I had become.

And the vulnerability came with a reason. Reason? Well, for starters, I felt devastated these days, as if I was standing at the end of the world. I had started to swear a lot. I had created my own dark world, when I would lock the door of my room, switch off the lights and delve into all those murky suicidal thoughts every day. My grades had declined and I could've never cared less to improve upon them. And it all began that day, that very day at the front porch of the church, when I waited in the rain, sobbing. When I watched my brothers and realized the onus had fallen upon me, the eldest. When my mother cried on my shoulders and I fought to hold back my own tears.

It all began that day, when I realized I must be as ruthless as the world had been to me.

"I…" he started off, not forgetting that affectionate touch on the cheek whenever my eyes welled up, but I being myself right then, flinched back. For a fraction of a second there was a horrified expression on his face, but then with a painful grimace he withdrew his hand, assuming it was entire his fault from the beginning.

He ushered me into the coffee shop beside the grocery so as to save us from the thunderous patter. Despite the revolt raging inside my head, I closed my dripping umbrella and followed him like that meek member of the herd trailing its leader. The interiors of the coffee parlour hit me with abrupt warmth, standing in stark contrast with the bleak, cold, demented weather outside that so resembled my life.

"Gwen," he tried to start again. His utterance of my name pulled a shiver down my spine. I thudded over the chair, a bit jittery and disturbed, in fact so disturbed that my wincing over on touching small, ordinary things like the menu-card caused a fair amount of gazing-back from the people, and a pang of concern spreading across his face.

Peter (his name sent down another chill) did not appear too healthy either. His eyes had sunken deep, his hair had grown nastily, and it looked as if he couldn't have cared less to shave, which gave him a grief-stricken, unkempt, scruffy appearance. He looked skinnier than usual, and he must've had been wearing this same jacket for weeks. He had cracked his voice for a reason I couldn't decipher. My eyes fell on his hastily-bandaged index finger, and I fought hard not to ask him how it came about. There were other, smaller details I could've found on him but I went on to stare at the glass table instead.

"I've given up being Spider-Man," he repeated.

He watched me intently waiting for a response, and when I stayed quiet, still digging my eyes into the glass table, he assumed I wanted him to come to the point.

"The city doesn't need me, and moreover I've been losing those powers," he rambled on his own, "but what I –"

"Peter, why're you telling me this?"

He paused, and maybe, pondered over my repetitive cold question. Then he answered, "It's just some people, some very dangerous people have got to know my identity. And so I want you to be careful."

And so he wanted to stay further away from me. And so he wanted that we act like strangers. And so he wanted to say that he still cared for me but it would be better if we only forget each other's faces for good. And so he wanted me to kill that raw bleeding part of my flesh that gave me one heck of pain but at the same time kept me breathing. I exhaled.

"Gwen, are you listening to me?"

"Have you ever, ever listened to me in return?"

"You know that's not what I mean – I just want you to be safe –"

"I'm fed up of all this!" I stood up without warning and banged my wrist over the table, now attracting a notorious amount of attention from the public, "I'm fucking fed up of all this, Peter! You don't know how this feels! You should know that I once used to love you, but right now, I – don't – fucking – want to see your face!"

I immediately regretted whatever I said, but there was no way I could've eaten my words. Peter lowered his head and not for once did he open his mouth to argue, listening with a sort of submission which I didn't think I deserved. I waited for a few seconds as the coffee parlour succumbed to silence and people shamelessly gaped at us; I waited for him to speak, to shout back at me, but he only made that effortlessly pained face he had so perfected at these days. As if he was saying, "If that makes you feel better, then go on."

"I'm leaving," I said, finally, and stormed off towards the glass door. I noticed the rain had become one-step fiercer, but right now I was too angry and embarrassed to retreat and retrieve my umbrella still hooked with the chair I sat on.

I was almost halfway through the door when I could hear his hurtling, stumbling footsteps after me and I only hastened mine. I pulled the overcoat tighter to myself as my fingers went numb with the wet cold. "Gwen, wait up!" he called after me a few good number of times, but I turned a deaf ear and ran onto the edge of the pavement to hail a cab.

A car came up from nowhere and halted right in front of me. "Where to, Miss?" the driver, who some why wore glasses and oxygen mask on his face, stooped out of the window, his lips curled into a strange-looking grin. Although I couldn't see through the tinted glass panes, I was certain there was somebody already seated at the back. I almost decided to refuse but then I knew each moment I waited was shortening the distance between Peter and me.

Before I could put my mind's conflict to rest, the back doors blasted open and two of the black-masked men rushed out from either side. I impulsively broke into a run but one of them grabbed me by waist and the other held back my wildly-flinging arms. My chin banged against the driver's seat as they seized my legs and thrust me further in like a sack.

"Peter!" I screamed and peeked through the back window pane, lifting my head a little before the other man's arm forced around my neck like a strangulating wire. In those few speedy minutes I saw people running about, shrieking and dialing the emergency number, and then I found Peter a long distance back, struggling to squeeze his way past the chaos, shouting out my name. But before he could draw anywhere near to the car, the world spun and my head was smacked against the right window. As blood rolled down from somewhere over my eyebrow, the car gave a growl, then a violent jerk and sped off straight down the roads, ramming into everything that came in its way.

The car accelerated and they raised the glass panes again. The man sitting opposite to me pulled up my legs and began fastening it with nylon ropes, and stuffed me further towards the other guy's torso. I went as hard as I could to rebel, and it only landed me with a slap across my face. The man behind me kept my hands together, his arm tightening around my neck like a steel rim, and while I wriggled and squirmed and screamed as loud as I could, all that came out were heavy choked gasps.

"Stay still or I'll run you through," threatened the man who had been tying up my legs, and pulled out a switchblade that made my insides churn uneasily. He exposed his yellow corroded teeth and a whiff of alcohol breath hit my face. He brandished the knife in front of my wide, terrified eyes and the two men broke into peals of laughter.

My throat dried up. I wondered why they had kidnapped me. Whether I was a random ordinary victim, or a special bate to lure somebody like – like Spider-Man. But Spider-Man didn't exist anymore, did he? What existed was Peter Parker, an unassuming high school nerd these men shouldn't have a business with.

But then I remembered Peter's words I had been listening so half-heartedly to. And how it made my temple throb in fear.

"Do not hurt the girl," commanded the driver as he reeled the steering wheel maniacally, speeding through the convoluted roads towards the part of the city I had never been before. "And let Snow White not know the way back to the castle."

Without warning, a handkerchief pressed over my nose. I struggled hard not to breathe, but soon my windpipe began to burn due to lack of oxygen. As soon as I sniffed in, something surged to my head and with one last flash of Peter's face it went heavier and heavier until everything blacked out.

Thump.

I sensed the side of my face smear with gravel and dirt as my half-conscious body was thrown out of the car to the ground. With my hands and legs tied up, I didn't dare open my eyes or render the gang of men circling around me a hint about how short-lived the effect of the drug was. From whatever I could see through the gaps, I found myself lying in a vacant, under-construction building.

The two men ripped off their black masks and gazed at me like greedy wild dogs. As much as I could figure out, there was nobody else other than the three that took me into the car, at least not at the very place. The third man stroked my hair. I struggled to stay motionless and not squirm.

"Lock the girl in the cupboard upstairs," he said. It was the voice of the man who drove the car. So far my presumptions were right.

"What if he doesn't show up?" asked one of the two men, while the other went ahead to hoist me up by the elbow. The driver's eyes flared abruptly at me as if he had caught me blinking. I held my breath and waited to see what he would do next, whether he would slap me awake or simply kill his bait, and when he didn't see me move again, he blamed his imagination and turned his back. My mind heaved a sigh of relief.

"He will come," the man said, and each of his words gushed unreasonable confidence.

Who was the man talking about? Was it Peter? It seemed the most likely answer, despite my mind's efforts to reject it. Peter was talking about them. These people were out for his blood. These people were dangerous.

Or maybe they weren't. Maybe they were street muggers trying to be convincing kidnappers. Maybe all they wanted was money. They might have even called up the ransom. And so the man was talking about – I had no idea. But I still hadn't got to the end of it. I still didn't know.

"Master, are you sure the boy is the one?" asked the more impulsive and dumber of the two men, the one that was playing with the knife in front of my eyes, with some sort of suppressed doubt. Midway through the question he realized he was being stupid and his voice reduced to mere mutter.

"I've seen the footage, you blithering clot," the man replied, slightly disgruntled, "I've seen him enter the radioactive room. I've seen the spiders rain over him. And I stole it, so that no one could kill him before I do. He's faking it, my boys, the whole 'hero has fallen' thing because he thinks it's time to keep his powers only to himself."

I didn't know why but I felt as if he added the last bit of information for me to hear. The other two men, seemingly his assistants, exchanged some confused glances, perhaps wondering why their master was repeating something they were so well-acquainted with.

The man's words were loud, clear and distinct. Now I was sure he knew I was awake and eavesdropping their discussion. I noticed he had removed his oxygen mask and sunglasses, and the suave corporate attire gave him a businessman-like appearance. Not only businessman-like, the attire gave him a familiar appearance.

I could slightly recall it. I had seen his picture in the newspaper a few days ago. Henry Roberts. I remembered the headline: Dodgy industrialist gone mad.

"But the girl –"

"The girl is gold. I've tracked him for the past three months. And I've seen everything. How Spider-Man swung to the OsCorp Tower to save his ladylove and conspired with the sadistic scientist Connors to kill that policeman Stacy. It was a conspiracy, a cold-blooded murder, and a vicious plan to make the people look up at the vigilante with rose-tinted glasses. And to knock off dead everyone who thinks otherwise," the man continued, "and while Connors rots in the prison, Spider-Man thinks he had gone well beyond his limits and plans to lay low."

The man lit a cigarette. The smoke burned through my nostrils but not as much as the blood boiling in my veins. I felt I was about to burst. What was the man trying to do? Was he egging me on to spring to my feet and retort back at him? Or did he want to see a brow twitch in rage and confirm I was wide awake?

"Funny how the policeman turned out to be the girl's father," he added, "Tragic, tragic."

I gritted my teeth, blood pounding to my head. My fists clenched impulsively. I gravely hoped nobody noticed. To my relief, the man was lost in his own deceptive thoughts, clicking his tongue with the roof of his mouth. "The city needs to get rid of vermin like that. But no, no one is ready to get their hands dirtied!" he raised his voice so suddenly that it almost made me jump, "Now, enough is enough. No more spandex-clad clowns to fool my people. No more destruction. No more science."

I kept my knees touching together and swayed like half-dead with my one elbow hoisted up, lest my legs force me to stand and I punch him on the face. The anger that flared through me was way too hard to control. But I thought I must wait. Once Spider-Man came by, it wouldn't be too hard to end it. A tuxedo-clad maniac with a deformed sense of self-righteousness and two of his armed musclemen couldn't be a big deal for him, could they?

And it hit me like a monstrous gust of wind again. Peter had lost his powers. There was no Spider-Man. Not anymore.

Meanwhile, the man clapped his hands together, "Now, now, fellas, lock the girl in the cupboard upstairs. He should know he has three hours in his hands. If he fails to arrive by then, we'll gut her like a fish and parcel her body to his bloody house. That'll teach him some time management."

hey guys, long time no see. I got to tell I've kinda forgotten my other story as i was busy saving my ass from a guy who thought of himself as some charming prince of mine and blabbed rubbish whenever he got a chance not to mention going bwahahaha over his own lame jokes.

And if my stories spoiled your mood, feel free to curse in the review box. I'm rhino-skinned, you see.