You’re not hurt, which is a miracle considering you just took a multiverse express lane through a portal that definitely wasn’t OSHA-approved. Your only way home? The fancy wrist-thingy Miguel gave you? It’s currently blinking the electronic equivalent of “lol, try again later.” It’s not broken-broken, but it’s taking a sick day. A long one.

You sit up. Across the street, gleaming like a billionaire’s ego, is Stark Tower. But… it’s different. The logo’s wrong. The whole vibe is off. This isn’t your New York. This is someone else’s Tuesday.

The sun is starting to dip, painting the sky in colors I’d call ‘apricot dream’ but are probably just pollution. You’ve been swinging around for hours, a tourist in your own life. Everything’s familiar but wrong, like a photocopy of a photocopy.

And then you see him. On a rooftop a few blocks over, backlit by the dying sun, in a red and blue onesie that’s seen better days. He’s just… standing there. Staring right at you. Peter Parker. But not your Peter Parker. A confused, probably-slightly-hungry-looking Peter Parker who just saw another spider-person and is having the metaphysical equivalent of a blue screen of death.