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Sirens. That's all he heard. They were faint. The scene in front of him made him want to scream. His aunt stood before him, a bullet clean through her skull. The killer was dead, thanks to the fire. The one the killer had started.

Slowly he realized what was happening around him. The fire. He was going to burn alive if he didn't get out. He grabbed his aunt and swung out of the building and carefully laid her on the ground. She looked peaceful...

He started to cry but soon knew he would have to leave. He was still in the Spider-Man suit. So he left, to the alley with his stuff. It was all still intact.

His movements were almost robot-like, his body on autopilot. His last living relative was dead. It was all his fault. He should have been there. She would still be alive. She would be laughing and attempting to cook dinner, setting the fire alarm off every second while he would cry with laughter.

But now he would cry with grief.

He slowly walked back to the scene, now just a regular NewYorker in the crowd. He pushed past people and made his was to where he has laid his aunt down.

He found her.

And he collapsed onto his knees.

Someone was screaming.

He didn't know who until his throat turned raw.

His body shook with sobs.

He knew where it would go from here. He would be placed in an orphanage, and he would be stuck there for three years. Who would want to adopt a fifteen year old? Anyone who was sane enough wouldn't.

He wouldn't be able to be Spider-Man for three years.

Three years.

Three years.

What was he going to do?

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