Chapter Text
The rain had eased into a misty drizzle, clinging to Peter’s skin like the ghost of a storm. Gotham stretched endlessly before him, a sea of concrete and neon drowning in shadows. It should’ve felt freeing—being this high up, above the weight of the streets below—but it didn’t. The city pressed in from all sides, vast and unknowable, like a beast waiting for him to slip.
It loomed, a thing with too many eyes and not enough warmth.
He exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders as his fingers twitched at his sides. His body ached from… everything. His muscles were heavy, his thoughts heavier.
The crawling unease at the back of his skull was familiar—his spider sense whispering, nudging, urging him to pay attention.
Watching-Hello?-Concerned
He wasn’t alone.
Peter barely had time to react before the quiet scuff of boots landed behind him.
He turned sharply, every muscle tensed, eyes locking onto a figure standing a few feet away. The guy was tall, but broad-shouldered, built like someone who knew how to break things—bones, walls, people. His armor was dark, outlined with red, the color stark against the rain-slick black. But the helmet… the helmet was what sent a jolt of unease through Peter’s gut. Smooth, solid crimson, like a bloodstain that refused to wash away.
The stranger didn’t move. Not yet. He just stood there, arms crossed, his head tilted slightly. Watching. Assessing. Peter felt dissected in a way that made his nerves spark like the guy was peeling back layers he hadn’t meant to show.
“You’re pretty young to be up here.” The voice was distorted through the helmet, low and even, but there was something beneath it—curiosity, maybe. A thread of something else Peter couldn’t place.
Peter forced his shoulders to relax. “Yeah, well. It’s a free rooftop.”
The man tilted his head slightly. “That so?”
Peter shrugged, shoving his hands into his hoodie pockets. “Just getting some air. City’s a little… much.”
The silence that followed stretched uncomfortably long.
Peter could feel the way he was being studied—every shift in posture, every microexpression. He knew the feeling too well. The way certain people could just see through him as though he were made of glass.
Then came the verdict.
“You’re a terrible liar, kid.”
Peter huffed. “Yeah, well, maybe you should mind your own business.”
The man let out a quiet scoff—like a laugh, but without any real humor behind it. “Trust me, I’d love to. But I make it my business when I see a kid standing too close to the edge, looking like they just lost everything.”
Peter stiffened. The words cut too deep, hit too close.
“I wasn’t—I’m not—”
A hand raised, cutting him off. “Relax. I’m not here to drag your life story out of you.” A beat. Then, softer, “Just making sure you’re not planning on doing something you can’t take back.”
Peter swallowed, his throat suddenly too tight. He looked away. “I wasn’t.”
The man was quiet for a moment. Then, without a word, he reached into one of his pouches and tossed something at Peter.
On instinct, Peter caught it.
A protein bar.
He blinked down at it, then up at the man. “Uh—?”
“You look like hell,” the man said flatly. “And I’m betting you haven’t eaten in a while.”
Peter curled his fingers around the wrapper, the gesture throwing him off more than it should have.
Gripping the protein bar a little tighter, a scowl painted his face, “Wow. Thanks.”
The man ignored the sarcasm. “You got somewhere to go?”
Peter forced a laugh, shaking his head. “Man, you really jump to conclusions, huh? What if I just like high places.”
The silence that followed stretched longer than before.
“…Right,” the man said eventually. “I’ll play along. Your ‘somewhere to go’—does it have four walls? A roof? A door that locks?”
Peter kept his eyes on the skyline. “I’ve got a place.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
The guy let out a quiet huff. “Terrible liar.”
Peter scowled. “Well, it matches your criteria. Besides, you don’t even know me.”
“Didn’t need to. It’s written all over you.”
He turned slightly, looking toward the fire escape. He didn’t move yet, but something in Peter’s chest tightened anyway.
“If you’re smart, you’ll get off this roof before someone worse than me finds you.”
Peter hesitated. His fingers curled tighter around the protein bar.
“…Why do you care?”
The man paused but didn’t look back. For a long moment, there was only the sound of rain tapping against the concrete.
“Dunno,” he said finally. “Guess I’ve got a soft spot for kids who think they’re alone. Go home, kid.”
He dropped onto the fire escape without another word, vanishing into the shadows as easily as he had appeared.
Peter stood there for a while, staring at the space where the man had been. The protein bar felt heavier in his grip than it should have.
He exhaled, slipping it into his pocket. Saving it for later.
Then, slowly, he turned back toward the city, the wind pressing against his back.
Still alone.
But maybe, just for a moment, it hadn’t felt that way.
The city stretched before him, but Peter didn’t move.
Not yet.
The protein bar in his pocket felt heavier than it should, like the weight of someone else’s concern pressed into his palm. He hadn’t asked for it. Hadn’t expected it. And yet, for some reason, he couldn’t bring himself to throw it away.
Instead, he curled his fingers around the edge of his hoodie and exhaled, breath fogging faintly in the cool night air. His spider sense had quieted, but his nerves hadn’t. The guy—whoever he was—had disappeared as fast as he arrived, swallowed by the city like he had never been there at all.
But Peter could still feel the space he’d occupied. The way his presence had lingered.
A soft gust of wind pushed against his back, urging him away from the ledge.
He let it.
With a small shake of his head, Peter stepped away from the edge and made his way toward the fire escape on the opposite side of the building. The metal was cold beneath his fingers as he climbed down, slow and methodical, keeping his breathing steady. His limbs still ached, exhaustion deep in his bones, but he pushed through it. He always did.
The city didn’t sleep, and neither did he.
His feet hit the pavement, the damp air pressing in closer now that he was back on solid ground. The streets weren’t busy—not in this part of town—but there were still a few late-night wanderers, their faces obscured by rain-slick hoods or the glow of their phones. Gotham was different from New York, but the rhythm of the streets was familiar.
Peter shoved his hands into his pockets, hunching his shoulders as he walked. He didn’t have a destination—he never did—but he couldn’t just stand still.
Standing still meant thinking.
Thinking meant remembering.
So he kept moving.
His stomach twisted, hollow and aching, but he ignored it. The protein bar in his pocket was a reminder that he could eat if he wanted to, but the thought of food sat heavy in his chest. Saved for later, when he needed it most.
For now, he just needed to exist.
His senses stretched outward, mapping the city as he walked. The low hum of neon signs, the distant wail of a siren, the quiet shuffle of someone shifting in an alleyway. A stray cat darted across the sidewalk ahead of him, its fur slicked dark from the rain.
The streets blurred together as he walked, his mind caught in the undertow of exhaustion and grief. He didn’t have a destination, not really. Just away. Away from the rooftop, from the weight of a stranger’s words that shouldn’t have mattered but somehow did.
The mugger came out of nowhere.
A rough hand grabbed his hoodie and yanked him back, slamming him against the damp brick of an alleyway. Peter’s instincts screamed at him to react, but he swallowed them down. He couldn’t—he couldn’t.
“Well, what do we have here?” The man sneered, his breath reeking of cigarettes and something sour. Two others loomed behind him, shadows shifting in the dim streetlight.
Peter exhaled slowly. He could handle this. Should handle this.
“Not much, I’m afraid,” he said, voice even. “I’m kind of in between jobs.”
The leader’s grin twisted. “Funny guy.”
A hand rifled through his pockets, shoving roughly against his ribs. His fingers twitched, muscle memory begging him to react.
But the static in his skull surged—spider-sense flaring, not just at the muggers but at something else.
WATCHING-Danger!-NotSafe
Someone was watching.
It was a cold weight at the base of his spine, crawling up, tightening around his throat.
His hesitation cost him.
The leader clicked his tongue in annoyance, yanking Peter forward before shoving him back—hard. His shoulder hit brick first, pain blooming down his arm.
“He’s got nothing,” one of the others grumbled.
The leader scoffed. “Then he’s wasting our time.”
Within seconds Peter was on the ground. The first kick landed square in his side, knocking the breath from his lungs.
Peter curled inward on instinct, protecting his ribs as a second blow followed. Then another. Each one rattled through him, sharp and punishing. He could stop this. Could end it in seconds. But the eyes—whoever, wherever they were—burned into him, an unseen force pinning him in place.
He couldn’t afford to be found out.
Not like this.
Not again.
A final kick landed, sharp against his ribs, before the leader spat onto the pavement.
“Pathetic,” he muttered.
Then they were gone, fading into the night like they had never been there at all.
Peter stayed where he was, forehead resting against the cold, wet pavement. He focused on breathing—on the sharp ache in his ribs, on the way the air burned going down. His body would heal. It always did.
The presence lingered. Watching. Waiting.
Then, just as quickly, it was gone.
Not because he’d fought back. Not because he’d done anything to make it worth staying.
Whoever it was… they’d lost interest. Like Peter’s failure wasn’t even worth their attention.
Peter forced himself up with a quiet groan, pressing a hand to his ribs. The city stretched out around him, indifferent. The rain kept falling. The world kept moving.
And somewhere out there, someone had been watching. Expecting. Waiting for something he didn’t give them.
The thought left a bitter taste in his mouth.
He exhaled shakily, wrapping an arm around his ribs as he started walking. The apartment wasn’t far. It wasn’t much, but it was shelter. A place to disappear.
Still, the feeling of unseen eyes lingered, crawling under his skin.
Whoever they were, they weren’t impressed.
And that unsettled him more than he wanted to admit.