Marvel: My Sign-in System

In the spacious SHIELD training room, Peter stood, now clean-shaven but still hesitant without his Spider-Man suit. Dressed in a simple gray checkered jacket with a stand-up collar and black sweatpants, he tried using his abilities—shooting webs, clinging to surfaces, his spider-sense—but each attempt failed, his powers seemingly vanished.

As he sparred with a highly skilled agent, Peter struggled. Without his spider-sense, he was unable to anticipate the agent's attacks, and he looked like a helpless novice in combat. His instincts were dulled, and the physical abilities he had once relied on—his superhuman strength, coordination, agility, speed, and reflexes—were all noticeably weakened.

Outside the training room, Fury and Hill watched through the glass.

"It's strange," Hill remarked. "According to his blood tests and physicals, his baseline strength should be off the charts. Why is he so weak?"

Fury's single eye narrowed thoughtfully. "The moment he started doubting himself, his confidence and belief wavered. He's not the Spider-Man he used to be."

Fury continued, "Mind, spirit, and body are connected. When someone's mental strength is strong, it can unlock extraordinary physical potential. But when self-doubt and denial creep in, it's like a car with a rusty engine—slow and unable to start. That's exactly what's happening to Peter Parker. His self-doubt is stopping him from fully accessing his abilities."

Hill nodded thoughtfully. Fury added, "Even though his body is still strong, he needs a jumpstart."

"How?" Hill asked.

Fury turned to her, a cold smile forming. "It's your turn, Ms. Mary. I think you'll enjoy this."

The door to the training room opened, and Typhoid Mary entered, dressed in a gray tank top and tight jeans, her face hardened with a murderous intent. She looked directly at Peter, who turned to meet her gaze, confusion and wariness in his eyes.

Mary's lips curled into a smirk. "Hey, did you miss me?"

A tavern in Texas, built in the retro style of the American West from the 1990s, stood alone, surrounded by desert, with only a distant road winding past it. At night, it was the sole bright spot in the area. Around the tavern, motorcycles, muscle cars, and big rigs were parked, adding to the gritty atmosphere. Inside, patrons sported gold chains, black jackets, tattoos, tank tops, and cowboy hats, embodying a rough-and-tumble crowd. The sounds of classic '90s music filled the air.

The tavern was alive with eclectic energy—Eastern Europeans playing accordions, Black patrons beating tambourines in rhythm, while white men and Black women shared drinks and flirted. Prostitutes boldly approached single, drunken men, offering their services, and groups of workers in jeans sat around the bar with cheap whiskey, discussing politics, democracy, and a famously beautiful woman nearby.

In this cramped, smoky room, music, alcohol, cheers, shouting, exaggerated laughter, and foul-mouthed curses blended with the clinking of glasses. Everything seemed in chaotic harmony until a roaring engine broke through the noise outside, and a young man walked in.

He was strikingly handsome and looked out of place, wearing a red jacket with white trim, jeans, and white sneakers. As he moved through the crowd, a prostitute blew him a kiss, to which he nodded with a gentle smile before heading to the bar.

The bartender, an old man in a cowboy hat, eyed the newcomer with casual indifference, as if he figured the young man was just passing through. He picked a bottle from the shelf, poured a glass, and placed it in front of him.

"Nice car out there, kid. Hope you brought a gun, or it might not stay yours for long," the old man remarked.

The young man took the glass, giving a faint smirk before taking a sip. "You could hear it too, huh?"

The bartender raised an eyebrow. "Believe me, my hearing's the best in here. I've seen guys down that much whiskey without flinching."

"Maybe I'm just pretending not to care," the young man replied, shrugging.

The bartender snorted. "Usually, folks who say that have something to back it up. But a word of advice—get out of here before eleven. This place turns into hell on earth."

"Wow, that sounds exciting. I'm looking forward to the show," the young man replied, unfazed. As if remembering something, he added, "By the way, could I get another glass? This stuff's great."

The bartender glanced at him, noting the still half-full glass in his hand, and raised an eyebrow. "So, you got a girl with you or something?"

"Don't tell me she went to the bathroom. I hate when people do their business too close to the pub. It's a pain to clean up," the bartender grumbled with a smirk.

The young man smiled, letting the joke pass. Seeing this, the old bartender chuckled and offered a fist bump, which the young man returned. Then, grabbing another large glass, the bartender poured another drink and set it down on the bar.

"These two are on the house, Mike," the bartender said.

"It's Leon."

"Then Leon, if your car needs gas, just a heads-up—it isn't cheap around here."

"Seems like your place is a bit of everything," Leon remarked.

"Of course! I sell it all here," Old Mike replied proudly. "This place is right between two city roads on a long stretch of highway. With no gas stations nearby, I figured a tavern would be perfect. It's a spot for travelers, tourists, and truck drivers alike to rest up—and it brings in a good income. Plus, I've made plenty of friends along the way."

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