MCU: Spider-Man: Rise of Saint

Franklin stood in the doorway of Jerome's office. Gloria had left for work, giving him space to be alone with his thoughts. The room stayed exactly as Jerome had left it - papers still scattered across the desk, security badge by the computer, morning coffee cup still unwashed.

He stepped inside, running his fingers across Jerome's desk. A photo sat in the corner - Jerome and Franklin's dad as teenagers, both grinning at the camera. Next to it, a more recent picture of Franklin's parents, taken just months before the accident in 2009.

Franklin opened the top drawer. Jerome's watches lay in a worn wooden box. At the bottom of the box, wrapped in a handkerchief, Franklin found the pair of watches he remembered most.

The old Timex twins had simple steel cases and brown leather bands worn smooth from years of wear. Jerome only wore them on special occasions - Franklin's first basketball game, school ceremonies, family dinners.

Franklin picked up the watch, studying its mechanism. The back plate could be modified. The band attachments might work as anchor points.

His phone buzzed. A text from Keith: "You coming to chem? Thompson's doing that thing with the polymers."

Polymers. Franklin looked at the watch again.

In chemistry class, Franklin actually paid attention for once. Mr. Thompson explained how different chemical compounds created various types of polymers - some flexible, some rigid, some that could stretch and contract.

"The key is finding the right balance of properties," Mr. Thompson said, writing formulas on the board. "Too rigid and it breaks. Too flexible and it won't hold shape."

Franklin sketched in his notebook, but not the chemical equations everyone else copied. His pages filled with watch mechanisms, trigger designs, nozzle configurations.

After class, he stayed behind, pretending to clean up lab equipment while other students filed out.

"Need help with anything?" Mr. Thompson asked.

"Just curious about those polymers," Franklin said, keeping his voice casual. "The ones that can stretch - what makes them do that?"

Mr. Thompson lit up, always happy when students showed interest. He pulled out more reference books, explaining molecular structures and chemical properties.

Franklin took notes, this time about the actual chemistry. The bell rang for next period.

"Thanks," Franklin said, gathering his things. "Mind if I use the lab sometimes? For extra credit?"

"Of course. Always good to see students taking initiative."

That afternoon, Franklin sat at his desk surrounded by sketches. Jerome's watch lay disassembled, parts arranged carefully on a cloth.

The mechanism would need three main components - the shooter itself, the trigger, and something to hold the fluid. But first he needed the right formula.

Franklin spent his free period in the chemistry lab the next day. And the next. Mixing compounds, testing viscosity, recording results. Most attempts produced useless goop or dried too quickly.

At home, he worked on the watch. The back plate came off clean. The band attachments were strong enough to support extra weight. But making it all work together was harder than he'd thought.

His first prototype sprayed chemicals across his bedroom wall. The second jammed instantly. The third fell apart when he tried mounting it on his wrist.

Franklin kept the failed attempts in a box under his bed.

Every failed web shooter pushed Franklin to work harder. He stayed late in the chemistry lab, trying new formulas. Borrowed engineering books from the library. Studied spider silk properties online.

Nothing worked right. The chemicals weren't strong enough. The mechanisms kept breaking. But every time Franklin thought about giving up, he looked at the newspaper clippings. At Jerome's watch. And he went back to work.

A week passed. Franklin's bedroom became a workshop - tools scattered across his desk, chemical formulas taped to the walls, prototype parts everywhere.

"What's all this?" Gloria asked one night, looking in his room.

"School project," Franklin said quickly, covering his latest failed shooter with a textbook. "Engineering stuff."

"Reminds me of Jerome," Gloria said. "Always taking things apart, trying to fix them." She spotted Jerome's watch on the desk. "Haven't seen that in a while."

"Found it in his room. Thought maybe I could fix it up."

Gloria smiled sadly. "He'd like that. Just... be careful with it, okay?"

Franklin nodded, waiting until she left before getting back to work. The watch's second hand would make a perfect trigger. He just had to figure out how to make it fire the webbing - once he got the formula right.

For now, both problems seemed impossible to solve. But Franklin kept trying, driven by the memory of Jerome's last words about responsibility, and by the photo of his uncle on his desk that reminded him why he couldn't give up.

He had to make this work. Had to find a way. Because somewhere out there, the man who killed Jerome was still free.

And Franklin wasn't going to let him get away with it.

The next night, Franklin perched on a rooftop, his dark hoodie blending into the shadows. The city spread out below, a maze of streets and alleys where anything could happen.

A scream cut through the night. Franklin's head snapped toward the sound - two blocks away, an alley behind the convenience store.

He moved without thinking, jumping between buildings until he reached the source. Below, a guy in a leather jacket had cornered a woman against the wall, grabbing for her purse.

Franklin dropped from the roof, landing silently behind the mugger.

"Let her go."

The guy spun around, knife flashing in his hand. "Mind your business, kid."

Franklin grabbed the knife arm and twisted. The blade clattered to the ground. One push sent the mugger stumbling backward.

"Get out of here," Franklin told the woman. She ran, clutching her purse.

The mugger came at him swinging. Franklin ducked each punch easily - his reflexes made the guy look like he was moving in slow motion.

"Stay down," Franklin said after dropping him with a sweep of his leg. The mugger scrambled up and ran.

Three nights later, Franklin stopped a car theft. The next night, two guys trying to break into an electronics store. Each time, his powers made it almost too easy.

But jumping between buildings without any safety net was getting old. He needed those web shooters working.

In chemistry class, Franklin mixed another batch of polymer solution. This formula was different - thicker, more elastic. When he poured it into the test tube, it had the right consistency.

He waited until the other students left, then held up the tube. The liquid inside looked promising.

Franklin aimed at the far wall and squeezed the tube. A stream of webbing shot out, sticking perfectly to the concrete.

His heart raced. He walked to the wall, touching the strand with his finger. It was strong, flexible - exactly what he needed.

That night, Franklin worked on the watches. With the formula figured out, the mechanisms came together. Trigger from the second hand, pressure chamber from the case, release valve where the stem used to be.

He installed the web fluid cartridges, checking every connection. The twin shooters looked perfect on his wrists.

Franklin opened his window, looking at the ground three stories below. Just like the video he'd watched of the spider making its web - connect two points with a single strand.

He aimed his right wrist at the building across the street. Took a deep breath. Pressed the trigger.

Nothing happened.

Franklin adjusted the mechanism, tried again. This time, webbing shot out, sticking to the wall exactly where he aimed.

He tugged the strand - strong, like the test batch in the lab. This was it. This would work.

Franklin climbed onto the window ledge, his heart pounding. The street looked a lot further down from here.

He had to test them for real. Had to know if they'd hold.

"Please work," he whispered, and stepped off the ledge.

The fall lasted forever and no time at all. Franklin shot a web line upward, praying it would catch.

The line went tight. Franklin swung in a perfect arc, wind rushing past his face.

For one beautiful moment, he was flying.

Then he hit the wall.