Spider-Man: Brand New Day (2026) – Tom Holland
The city had finally forgotten Peter Parker.
That was the price of a brand new day.
New York still remembered Spider-Man—the red-and-blue blur swinging between skyscrapers, stopping crimes, cracking jokes. But Peter Parker? He was just another face in the crowd now. No family. No friends who knew the truth. No one waiting for him to come home.
That was how it was supposed to be.
Peter stood on the edge of a building in Queens as the sun rose, mask off, wind cutting against his face. For the first time in a long while, the city was quiet. No multiversal visitors. No gods. No world-ending threats.
Just him.
Then his spider-sense screamed.
The sky didn’t tear open with thunder or light. It rippled—like glass bending under pressure. A thin, jagged crack appeared between two buildings, glowing with unstable energy. Cars below slowed to a crawl as people stared, phones raised, panic spreading in waves.
“Okay,” Peter muttered, pulling his mask on. “That’s new. And not in a good way.”
He fired a webline and swung straight toward the anomaly. The air around the rift felt wrong—heavy, distorted, as if gravity itself couldn’t agree on which direction it wanted to pull. Inside the crack, Peter caught glimpses of other skies, other cities, other Spider-Men.
Multiverse.
His stomach dropped.
Before he could act, the rift widened.
A blast of energy surged outward, shattering windows and throwing Peter backward through the air. He barely managed to web onto a water tower, his hands shaking.
“This isn’t like last time,” he said under his breath. “This is… worse.”
The comm in his mask crackled to life.
“Spider-Man, do you read me?” a voice said—older, calmer, carrying the weight of experience.
Peter froze.
“Doctor Strange?”
“Not exactly,” the voice replied. “Let’s just say I’ve dealt with broken realities longer than you’ve been alive.”
A portal snapped open nearby, and Stephen Strange stepped through—cloak fluttering wildly, eyes locked on the rift.
“We don’t have much time,” Strange said. “Close the rifts, or the multiverse collapses.”
Peter stared. “Rifts. Plural?”
As if on cue, more cracks appeared across the skyline—over Harlem, Midtown, the river. Reality itself was tearing apart, thread by thread.
“The fabric of reality is destabilizing,” Strange continued. “And this is no ordinary fracture. Someone—or something—is pulling the strings.”
Before Peter could respond, a harsh laugh echoed from within the largest rift.
“You don’t know what you’re dealing with, kid.”
A figure stepped through—armored, scarred, eyes burning with confidence. Wilson Fisk. But not his Fisk. This one wore tech woven with multiversal energy, his presence distorting the air around him.
“The multiverse,” Fisk said, spreading his arms, “is ours now.”
Behind him, shadows moved—variants of familiar enemies, twisted versions of allies. A coordinated force.
Peter clenched his fists.
“Yeah,” he said, forcing the fear down. “I’ve heard that speech before.”
Strange raised his hands, magic flaring. “I can hold the rift—but you’ll need to give us a clear shot. It’s up to you, Spider-Man.”
Peter looked at the city below. At the people who didn’t know him. At a world that had erased Peter Parker but still needed Spider-Man.
“Guess the universe doesn’t care about fresh starts,” he said.
He leapt forward, web-shooters firing, heart pounding.
Whatever was coming next—whatever this new enemy wanted—
He wouldn’t face it alone.
Not this time.
The city fractured faster than Peter could swing.
Rifts bloomed across New York like open wounds—above bridges, inside subway tunnels, between office towers. Through them came echoes of other realities: alien skylines, ruined cities, worlds where Spider-Man never existed—or died too soon.
Doctor Strange struggled to stabilize the largest tear, magic blazing from his hands as the Cloak of Levitation whipped violently behind him.
“I can hold this one,” Strange shouted over the distortion. “But not forever!”
Peter didn’t hesitate. He dove straight into the chaos.
Out of a rift near Times Square came a blur of red and black—Miles Morales, landing in a crouch beside him. Another portal snapped open, revealing Spider-Woman (Jessica Drew), followed by an older, battle-worn Peter Parker whose eyes carried the weight of years.
“Looks like the club’s back in session,” Miles said, forcing a grin.
Peter felt a strange mix of relief and pain. Familiar faces who didn’t really know him—not this him.
Before he could speak, the ground trembled. Fisk’s multiversal enforcers poured through the rifts: armored variants of Vulture, Scorpion wielding reality-bending tech, and something far worse—The Weaver, a shadowy entity bound in glowing strands, feeding on collapsing timelines.
“This is coordinated,” Jessica said. “Someone’s orchestrating every breach.”
Peter knew who.
Fisk didn’t want to rule one world.
He wanted to own them all.
The Spider-team split instinctively. Miles evacuated civilians, his venom blasts sealing minor rifts. Jessica went airborne, tearing through enemies with ruthless efficiency. The older Peter anchored the fight, barking orders with grim precision.
And Peter—this Peter—headed straight for Fisk.
They clashed atop a half-collapsed skyscraper, blows echoing across realities.
“You erased your own life for a clean slate,” Fisk sneered. “And still, the universe drags you back.”
Peter blocked a crushing punch, teeth clenched. “Funny thing about responsibility,” he shot back. “It doesn’t forget you—even if everyone else does.”
Below them, the Weaver began pulling the rifts closer together, weaving them into a single massive convergence point.
Strange’s voice crackled through the comms. “If that convergence completes, reality collapses inward. Everything we’ve ever known—gone.”
Peter’s spider-sense flared violently.
He made the call.
“All units,” he said, steady despite the fear. “We end this together. Nobody fights alone.”
The Spider-variants converged, launching a coordinated assault. Webs crossed dimensions. Energy crackled. For a moment, the multiverse held.
But Fisk smiled.
“Good,” he said. “That means you’ll all be here when it ends.”
The convergence became a storm.
Reality folded in on itself as the Weaver reached critical mass, its form expanding into a towering lattice of collapsing timelines. Each strand it pulled erased a possibility—a future, a life, a choice never made.
Peter felt it.
A tug at his chest. Memories flickering—May’s smile, MJ’s laugh, friendships that no longer existed. The spell that had given him his brand new day was unraveling under the pressure.
Doctor Strange staggered, blood at the corner of his mouth.
“I can seal the convergence,” he said grimly. “But it requires an anchor—someone tied to this fracture at its core.”
Everyone looked at Peter.
Of course.
Fisk laughed. “Your fresh start ends today, Spider-Man. One way or another.”
Peter stepped forward before anyone else could speak.
“I’ll do it,” he said.
Miles grabbed his arm. “Peter—no. There’s gotta be another way.”
Peter shook his head gently. “There always is. It just costs something.”
He swung straight into the heart of the storm.
Time slowed.
Voices echoed around him—variants, memories, versions of himself who’d made different choices. The Weaver struck, tendrils latching onto him, trying to tear him apart across realities.
Peter screamed—but held on.
“Strange!” he shouted. “Now!”
Strange began the incantation, binding the rifts together—but the magic fought back, feeding on Peter’s fractured existence. The multiverse demanded balance.
A choice.
Peter saw it clearly then.
To save everything, he would have to let go—not just of the spell that erased him from memory, but of the hope that one day it could be undone.
No shortcuts.
No exceptions.
“I’m ready,” he whispered.
He released the anchor.
Light exploded outward. The Weaver shattered, Fisk thrown screaming into a collapsing rift as the convergence imploded. One by one, the fractures sealed, snapping reality back into place.
Silence followed.
Peter fell.
Miles caught him just before he hit the ground.
“It’s over,” Miles said softly.
Peter smiled weakly. “Yeah. I think it is.”
Morning came.
New York stood intact. No rifts. No anomalies. Just a city waking up to another ordinary day.
Peter Parker woke up alone in a small apartment that no one else remembered visiting.
The world had been saved.
And his sacrifice was complete.
Doctor Strange visited once—briefly.
“The multiverse is stable,” he said. “But the spell is… permanent now. No one remembers Peter Parker. Ever.”
Peter nodded. He’d already felt it. The finality.
Miles watched him from across the room, eyes heavy. “I’ll remember,” he said. “Different universe. Different rules.”
Peter smiled. “That’s enough.”
They said goodbye without ceremony.
Peter returned to the streets—not as a symbol, not as a legend.
Just Spider-Man.
He stopped robberies. Helped people cross streets. Fixed what he could. No applause. No recognition. And somehow, that felt right.
On a rooftop at sunset, Peter looked out over the city.
A brand new day.
Not the one he wanted.
But the one the world needed.
He pulled his mask on, web-shooters clicking into place.
“Alright,” he said softly. “Let’s do this. One more time.”
And Spider-Man swung forward—
alone,
unseen,
but unbroken.
