Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The moment Uncle Ben died in his arms, surrounded by helpless onlookers, Peter Parker realized an unshakable truth: one day, he would die too. He would join Uncle Ben in the family grave, not far from the empty coffins of his parents. If fate was cruel, Aunt May would go before him and rest beside Uncle Ben. If it was kind, perhaps Peter would lie between them, surrounded by the only family he had ever truly known. Maybe their decomposing bodies would enrich the soil, and a beautiful tree would grow from the ground. He imagined the roots embracing his decaying body, cradling him as they once had in life. Perhaps that would be enough.

He remembers the moments before and during Uncle Ben's death with vivid clarity, painted in unnatural, painful hues. The memory is seared into his mind by sound—the terrible, wet, hollow gurgle of Uncle Ben's breath, like a rusted bellows rasping for air. His uncle coughed harshly, his strength waning with each gasp, until he finally succumbed. Dark, thick blood pooled on the asphalt, staining both the street and Peter's trembling hands.

The chaos of the scene still lingers in Peter's mind: the panicked voices of the crowd, someone shouting for a doctor, another yelling to call 911. The dizzying buzz in his head drowned out the deafening roar of passing cars, but not enough to block the sickening sound of Uncle Ben's dying breaths. The harsh glare of streetlights bit into Peter's eyes, but none of it mattered. His entire focus was locked on his uncle's shallow, ragged gasps, punctuated by the wet, sucking sound of blood filling his lungs.

Peter pressed desperately against the wound, trying to stem the flow, but the blood seeped through his fingers like sand slipping from a clenched fist. The sensation haunted him for months. Even after countless attempts to scrub his hands clean in the police station restroom after giving his statement, the blood seemed to cling to his skin, staining it a faint pink. The metallic tang lingered in his nostrils, making him retch into the same sink where he tried to compose himself. The swirl of water, blood, and bile draining away reminded him too much of the sound Uncle Ben had made.

Peter knew he would die when Uncle Ben whispered his final words, words that became his mantra: With great power comes great responsibility. In that moment, Peter had wanted to scream. Why? Why had Uncle Ben said those words? Had he known Peter would seek vengeance on his killer? Did he foresee that those words would hold Peter back from snapping the man's neck when the chance came?

When Peter finally faced the killer, his rage faltered. The man's greasy hair, his bloodshot eyes-they mirrored, unfairly, the color of Uncle Ben's. What a sick joke from the universe it was. His wheezing breath echoed Uncle Ben's and Peter just couldn't do it. No matter how hard he tried, his hands wouldn't obey. Deep down, he knew that day that Uncle Ben's last words were his damnation.

Peter's certainty of his own death deepened with every loss. When Captain Stacy bled out in his arms after helping him stop the Lizard, his breath rattling with each labored exhale, it reminded Peter of Uncle Ben. The people closest to you are doomed to be hurt. It was like the final nail in his coffin. Captain Stacy's final warning felt like the logical conclusion to Uncle Ben's final words, mapping out the prophecy of Peter's life.

Peter saw Captain Stacy the day Gwen died. He stood near his car, the red and blue lights atop it flashing rhythmically, imprinting themselves on Peter’s retinas. Even after he blinked, the phantom lights remained, flickering like the ghost of a memory, sparking faint phosphenes in his vision. He closed his eyes, trying to ground himself, but his Spider-Sense flared, sharp and primal, baring its teeth like a cornered animal. Instinctively, he moved out of the way of an electrical charge that tore through the air toward him.

In that single moment, however, he felt something else—someone else. Death. She walked slowly, deliberately, with a grace that was almost regal. But she wasn’t here for him. He knew it. His Spider-Sense whispered the truth to him, like a long-buried secret unearthed: not your time yet.

He felt it when Death brushed his shoulder gently, pushing him away from the charge, as if nudging him aside. Then she passed him by, heading for the person standing behind him—the one she had come for.

Peter didn’t have the words to describe what he felt at that moment, not until it was too late. Until Gwen died. And then it all made sense. The warnings, the sharp sense of foreboding form his spider-sense—it had been telling him what he hadn’t wanted to hear: she was going to die.

And she did.

The grief she left behind was a hollow ache, a suffocating void heavy with unspoken what ifs and all the future possibilities that died with her. The memory was seared into him, clearer than any nightmare. She fell silently, her eyes closing as if she already knew he wouldn’t reach her in time. He hadn’t realized it yet—the speed of her fall, the sharp tension in the web snapping taut—but she had.

The moment her back broke, Peter understood. He had failed her.

He wished, desperately, that she had said something—anything. A final word, a prophecy, some guiding fragment he could cling to like a lifeline, as others had left him. But there was nothing. Just silence. No last words to map out his life around, no guidance to shape his grief. Only the crushing weight of her absence.

And blood.

It followed soon after, seeping from her nose, her mouth, her ears as the moments dragged on. Her eyes opened and were wide and unseeing, her torso bent at an unnatural angle when he cradled her in his arms, holding her close, as if trying to piece her back together. At least it wasn’t painful, he told himself. It was instantaneous. Her heart had stopped the moment he heard the sickening crack of bone snapping.

She was only fifteen. A couple of months older than him.

Her death was a loss the world would never recover from. Not that the world even knew. Her brilliance—her intelligence, her dreams, her ambitions she’d shared with him—they were gone now, extinguished as if they had never been.

Peter knew it when Harry died too. Twisted by hatred but still his friend, Harry’s death piled on top of the others, adding to the unbearable weight. Each loss left Peter wondering what kind of death awaited him.

Would it be like Uncle Ben’s—a bullet in the dark? Or Captain Stacy’s—a hero’s sacrifice in the line of duty? Would he slip and fall during a routine patrol, his body giving in at last? Or would the radiation in his blood turn against him, dragging him into a slow, agonizing battle with sickness, with cancer? Perhaps then it would be like Harry’s death—a drawn-out agony, leaving behind only pain.

Peter Parker knew he would die. It wasn’t a revelation, nor was it unexpected to find himself falling. There was only so much one hero could do while battling every flying rogue from his gallery of villains. But this time, it was different. He wasn’t just fighting them—he was targeting them, one by one.

The remaining villains had finally caught on to his plan. He wasn’t merely protecting New York anymore; he was ensuring that when he died, the city would no longer face threats it couldn’t handle. With great power comes great responsibility. And what greater responsibility was there than preparing the city for his absence as its only hero?

He began with the most formidable of them all—or, more precisely, the hardest to defeat. Freak.

Freak was practically immortal, his adaptive physiology making him an unstoppable, skinless monstrosity. The police had tried to gun him down, but the effort only turned him into something worse—a bulletproof nightmare. Peter could still recall their penultimate fight, the fire blazing all around them, scorching his flesh. His suit had melted into his skin, and even his healing factor had been more of a curse than a blessing since it was hard to rip the costume away from the mix of his healed flesh and fabric.

The smell of burning meat was etched into his memory, the black-and-orange flames licking the air like a scene from hell itself. Debris rained down as the building around them slowly collapsed, and the ashes swirled in the air—a dark parody of snowflakes.

The creature moved in rapid, animalistic circles, its gaping maw of jagged, uneven teeth snapping at him. Its attempts to speak were more terrifying than its silence, its voice rumbling in an inhuman growl. It lunged at him, its long, razor-sharp claws tearing through the flesh of Peter’s arms as he dodged. The monstrous breath that accompanied its every move only added to the horror.

Peter hadn’t been alone that day. Dr. Curt Connors, as the Lizard, had fought alongside him. Peter could still see the Lizard’s face, frozen and twisted in horror, as Freak’s claws tore through his body, ending the man’s life. In the aftermath, no one wanted to bury Connors. To them, he was a monster, not a man. But Peter insisted. He couldn’t leave Connors to rot, he already was forced in death to remain the creature he had despised. It was one more person lost—another ghost to haunt him. Perhaps that’s why it had been so easy to put it down.

Peter knew he couldn’t destroy Freak outright—it was too powerful, too adaptive. Instead, he incapacitated the creature permanently in the very laboratory where it had been created. Connors’ laboratory became Freak’s final downfall.

Peter devised something he called The Four Stages. The first stage, a CRISPR-based DNA editor, targeted the mutated regions of Freak’s DNA, silencing the adaptive gene that made it invincible. The second stage, Cellular Decay, employed telomerase inhibitors to weaken the creature’s cells and prevent regeneration. The third stage, Overload, involved an adaptive cell disruptor that created a feedback loop, forcing the creature’s cells to overreact and self-destruct. Finally, the fourth stage, Shut down, used proteostasis disruptors to collapse the stability of the remaining cellular machinery, ensuring the mutations couldn’t sustain themselves [1].

It was agonizing to watch. Freak wailed, its monstrous form writhing as it sensed something was wrong, but Peter couldn’t look away. He had to witness the work of The Four Stages, knowing full well they could one day be his own undoing. When it was over, Peter wiped out all evidence of what he’d done. He made sure Freak’s DNA wouldn’t reveal anything, and to the world, it seemed as if Freak had simply disappeared. Connors’ laboratory and its research burned to the ground, the fire consuming everything.

And the man Peter left webbed near the police station? Just another petty thief.

Freak was the first. The second was Sandman. The third was Mysterio followed by Hydro-Man. Each takedown was followed by another. Even Doctor Octopus met his end—though he sacrificed himself, that small detail didn’t matter to the Rogues. According to The Daily Bugle and J. Jonah Jameson, Spider-Man had “brutally and coldly” killed the Lizard, Green Goblin II, and Doctor Octopus.

Then there was Norman Osborn—the original Green Goblin. Peter created a cure and administered it, but it didn’t stop him from leaving a flash drive near the police station. The drive contained evidence of every illegal activity Oscorp Enterprises had committed under Osborn’s leadership, including the unethical experiments done in the name of “curing” Harry. Osborn had committed crimes long before his Goblin persona emerged, and within a year, Oscorp collapsed. Its reputation lay in shambles, dragged down by public outrage.

Peter felt sorry for Harry’s father, but Oscorp was responsible for the creation of nearly every rogue he’d ever faced. Taking the company down was the least he could do for the city he’d sworn to protect.

The Rogues Gallery began to shrink, slowly but steadily. Spider-Man pulled back from routine patrols, leaving the handling of ordinary criminals to the police. His focus shifted to executing his plans against the remaining villains, carefully crafting strategies to end everything with him.

The villains eventually realized what was happening, but by then, it was too late, only four left. They prowled the streets, roaring in frustration, calling for him to face them directly.

The sun was dim even so it was a the pick hour. The air was cold. He can feel the cold harsh wind even wearing the suit that he made as warm as possible without hindering his ability to move freely. The first snow of this winter falling and melting right away on impact with anything.

He shot a web at a building to his left, swinging wide and high. The wind roared in his ears, cool against his mask as he let go at the apex of the arc. For a brief moment, he was weightless, soaring, before gravity tugged him down. His fingers flicked out instinctively, firing another web that caught on a flagpole. He twisted, his body swaying.

Parker propelled himself through the air, twisting his body mid-swing as he redirected his trajectory. The web pulled taut, and he released it at just the right moment, flipping into a narrow alley below. His shoulder brushed against the brick walls as he plunged into the tight space.

With barely a pause, he twisted his body sideways and kicked off one wall, launching himself toward the opposite side of the alley. His hands found the cold steel of a fire escape, fingers gripping the edge for a split second before he vaulted over it. Landing in a crouch, he coiled his legs and sprang upward, rebounding off another fire escape.

The alley walls were a blur as he ricocheted between them. A spin here, a flip there—his movements were impossibly smooth, as he sped up. His foot grazed a loose pipe, and he used it as a springboard, propelling himself upward and flipping onto the final fire escape.

From there, he ran along the thin metal platform, his boots barely making a sound as he moved. He leapt onto a ladder, gripping it with both hands and sliding down effortlessly. As he hit the ground, his knees bent to absorb the impact, and he sprang forward again without missing a beat.

The alley opened up ahead, revealing a construction site. Without hesitation, he sprinted toward a stack of scaffolding. He jumped, grabbing a loose bar with one hand, and spun his body through the air, his feet tucking close to avoid colliding with a hanging chain.

He flipped forward off the scaffolding, landing lightly on the rooftop of a parked truck. His fingers shot out, firing a web at the next building, and within moments he was airborne again, soaring back into the open streets.

Ahead, the chaos grew louder—explosions, crackling electricity, and the faint hum of acid sizzling through concrete. He could see the flashes of light and the dark figures moving against the skyline.

Parker arched through the air one last time, twisting his body as he landed atop a nearby rooftop in a low crouch. His muscles tensed, ready.

Ahead, smoke billowed into the evening sky, a dark plume rising from the chaos. His spider-sense tingled—sharp and urgent, like a static charge crawling over his skin.

He shifted his trajectory, shooting a web to the side of a glass skyscraper. As he swung past, his reflection flickered across the windows. He twisted his body mid-air, angling himself to increase his momentum.

A rooftop came into view—high above the crowded streets. Spider-Man perched on the edge for a split second, his chest heaving as he scanned the scene below. The sight made his stomach tighten. Electro stood guard, arcs of lightning snapping across his body.

Lower down, Scorpion clung to the side of the building, his upgraded claws leaving deep gouges in the concrete. His tail lashed back and forth, a metallic whip. Sparks flew as his claws dug into the structure, the sound grating against his ears.

Further up, Lightmaster floated mid-air, his radiant glow so intense it painted the snow-covered rooftops in harsh, blinding light. The shimmering waves of energy around him pulsed like a heartbeat, making it impossible for anyone to look directly at him for too long.

And above them all was Human Fly. His wings buzzing with a nauseating drone. Acid dripped from his fanged mouth, hissing as it struck the ground below, leaving jagged scars in the asphalt.

“Yup, this is definitely bad.”

Spider-Man leapt forward, firing another web and diving into the chaos.

“Four-on-one? Guys, you really know how to make a guy feel special.”

He swung low, the tips of his boots skimming the pavement before he launched himself high into the air.

“You’re late to the party, Wall Crawler!” Electro’s cackling voice cut through the air as his head snapped toward him. A wide grin spread across the villain’s face. “I was starting to think you wouldn’t show!”

A bolt of electricity crackled toward him. Spider-Man vaulted off a lamp post, twisting mid-air as the charge detonated behind him. “Traffic was murder,” Peter quipped, already moving.

Before Electro could retaliate, Spider-Man launched into a series of flips, dodging arcs of lightning that scorched the rooftop in his wake. “Nice light show! Moonlighting as a Christmas decoration now?”

He paused for a moment, trying to catch his breath, but dizziness clouded his mind. Hunger gnawed at his stomach, making it churn. For a second, the world darkened, black spots swimming in his vision. Then his spider-sense flared.

The next blast missed by mere inches, the air sizzling with static. Parker landed on the side of the building just as a sharp clang drew his attention. Below him, Scorpion snarled, scaling the wall faster than he had anticipated. His claws gouged chunks of brick as he climbed.

“Keep running your mouth, bug-boy! I’m coming for you!”

Scorpion's tail struck like a guillotine, shattering the concrete where Peter had stood just moments earlier. Flipping backward, Spider-Man narrowly dodged another swing as the tail whipped past him. A quick web shot snagged the appendage mid-swing, and with a sharp yank, he sent Scorpion crashing into the side of the building.

"Careful, Gargan! You might hurt yourself with that thing!" Spider-Man quipped, leaping further down the structure to avoid the crackling electricity and flashing lights above. The impact left deep cracks in the wall and damaged Scorpion's armor.

Without wasting a moment, Spider-Man webbed the villain to the wall, ensuring he wouldn't plummet to the ground and turn into a human pancake. Moving swiftly, he reached for the mechanical tail, intending to rip it free and disable the suit entirely.

Before the task could be completed, Lightmaster's glow flared, the intense light flooding the area. His voice thundered over the chaos. "Enough of this! Let's kill him!"

The sky lit up as Lightmaster unleashed a blinding beam of radiant energy. Spider-Man twisted out of the way just in time, swinging the ripped tail and hurling it at the glowing figure. The heat singed the edge of his suit. “You’re gonna have to tone it down, disco ball!” he shouted, squinting as he scrambled for cover. A quick shot of webbing latched him to the underside of a metal water tower, and he swung low and fast, using the structure as a shield.

A buzzing drone filled the air, louder and more menacing by the second. Spider-Man didn’t need to look up to know the Human Fly was diving for him. Acid splattered against the metal above, sizzling dangerously close to where he’d been. He rolled to the side as more acid hit the ground, the pavement hissing and bubbling beneath him.

Sharp claws swiped at him, one grazing his shoulder. Pain erupted—hot and sharp—but it was nothing he couldn’t handle. His healing factor would see to it that no wound or scar would remain to remind him of this fight.

“Hey, garbage eater! Didn’t anyone tell you it’s rude to spit?” Parker taunted, launching himself back into the air.

The villains were closing in, tightening their noose. Electro surged forward, electricity snapping at his heels like a living storm. Sparks crackled around his feet as he charged. Spider-Man darted toward him, firing webs in rapid bursts. The EMP device tucked inside the pocket of his hoodie, but he needed the perfect moment to use it.

The heat from Electro’s energy was palpable, making the air around Peter hum and the hairs on his arms stand on end. Another blast came, the raw power roaring past him as he ducked and rolled. The pavement vibrated under his palms, his split lip stinging with the salty tang of blood.

As Electro closed the distance, Spider-Man sprang forward, firing webs to anchor onto the villain’s shoulders. Using the momentum, he vaulted over him and snapped the EMP device onto Electro’s back in mid-air.

“What’s this?” Electro sneered, his voice echoing strangely, as though coming through a bad phone connection.

“Night-night, Sparky,” Peter quipped, slamming the trigger.

The EMP detonated.

Electro’s scream tore through the chaos, sharp and guttural. The energy surrounding him fizzled and sputtered before collapsing entirely. His body twitched violently as electricity thrashed in one last desperate burst before fading. Electro crumpled to the ground, lifeless sparks still dancing across, as he lost his powers.

The backlash from the EMP fried Peter’s left web shooter. He instinctively yanked his arm back, avoiding any residual discharge. A glance at the malfunctioning device made his jaw tighten in frustration. “Of course,” he muttered, flicking the useless shooter. “Great. Two down, two to go.”

The fight showed no signs of slowing. Scorpion lunged, his claws glinting with a strange substance—remnants of Peter’s webs dissolving under some corrosive coating. Spider-Man dodged just in time, firing a strand from his remaining web shooter. The web latched onto a hanging cable from a nearby transformer. With a sharp tug, Peter swung the cable into Scorpion’s path.

Electricity surged through the villain’s armor, sparks erupting in a violent cascade as Scorpion convulsed and crumpled to the ground.

Lightmaster descended next, beams of energy slicing through the air and surroundings. Peter leapt into action, moving immediately to draw the fight away from the hostages. He bounded toward a nearby rooftop, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

No reprieve came. A searing light flashed toward him, but before he could react, Human Fly slammed into him mid-air. The villain's wings buzzed furiously, acid dripping from his fangs. They crashed into the side of a building, the impact sending pain shooting through Peter's ribs.

Before he could recover, sharp fangs tore at his throat. Peter growled, gripping the creature and hurling it away from him with all his strength.

His breaths came shallow and strained, each one accompanied by a wet, gurgling sound. Blood seeped from his throat, soaking his mask and pooling in the fabric.

His vision blurred, the world flickering in and out like a failing lightbulb.

The buzzing in his ears was deafening, the darkness encroaching fast. Instinct guided him as he staggered toward the source of Lightmaster's glow.

Ignoring the halo of searing light, Peter hurled himself at the villain. The burning sensation clawed at his skin, but it wasn't as agonizing as the fight with Freak. With a feral growl, he tore into the armor, ripping and twisting until the metal shrieked in protest. His fingers found the device powering the suit—a piece of "gravity-pump circuitry" designed to manipulate light. With one final yank, he tore it free.

Peter felt the faintness creeping in, the edges of his vision darkening as his body threatened to give out. Before he could recover, the Fly attacked again, buzzing with manic energy.

A guttural, inhuman growl escaped Peter as he grappled with the creature. Its fangs sank into his torn flesh, chewing with grotesque glee at the meat of his bicep. Staggering back, he scraped his knees against the rough surface, struggling to keep from toppling off the rooftop.

The Fly's vibrations reverberated through him, a sickening rhythm of hunger and delight. It was relishing the carnage, eager for more meat. The thought ignited Peter's fury, but he couldn't shake the sickening memory of the news reports: this monster, a cannibal, abducting people and devouring them.

How could this thing coexist in his city?

The world darkened again, but when Peter came to, he found himself lunging at the Fly. His hands gripped the villain’s wings tightly, and with a grunt, he ripped them free. The creature wailed, its piercing cries filling the night as it flailed in agony.

They plummeted together toward the street below. Desperately, Peter fired his web shooter to stop their fall—but it sputtered uselessly, out of web fluid.

His heart thundered as the ground surged closer. Twisting mid-air, he tried again, but still nothing.

The skyscrapers blurred, the wind roaring in his ears. His thoughts fractured, scattering like glass. This was it.

The impact was brutal. He crashed onto a car, the metal crumpling beneath his weight. Pain tore through him, but he could feel his healing factor straining to pull him back together. Still, he couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe, if he was honest.

Peter’s vision swam, dark and incomplete. He couldn’t even tell where the Fly had landed. Everything after the fall was a fragmented haze—the world spinning wildly, the buildings around him blurring into meaningless shapes.

He didn’t feel the cold anymore. The snow landed softly on his broken body, unnoticed. Somewhere in the distance, people screamed, their panic a faint murmur against the overwhelming silence inside him.

Spider-Man had always known he’d die someday.

But the truth was, he was afraid of death.

Chapter Text

I pressed my hands to my ears.
And shut my eyes against
The muffled warnings of the Greek chorus.

— Pinterest Quote Compilation

The waking up was brutal. Breathing became impossible, and each gasp brought a sickening rush of liquid into the lungs, triggering a violent urge to retch. It felt like drowning—not in water but in some viscous, alien substance. Eyes burned open, while limbs remained bound by what seemed to be metal. The liquid invaded mouth, nose, ears, and lungs, igniting a searing pain deep within. Every nerve screamed in protest as the body fought to heal, desperately mending unseen wounds, though the exact cause of this torment eluded memory. Muscles ached with overexertion. The boy choked on the substance until his body gave out. Darkness overtook him. Death came once more.

The next time, consciousness returned with a jarring vibration rippling through the surface beneath. A pull dragged him upward, and the instant fresh air hit his face, lungs heaved in relief. The assault on his senses was immediate and overwhelming. Sound faded into a deafening, high-pitched ringing, punctuated by the grating noise of chains in motion. Blood and green liquid spilled from his mouth as he turned to the side, desperate to avoid repetition of the suffocating feeling.

Pain flared with every attempt to move. Metal groaned and bit painfully against raw skin, adding another layer of agony to the already unbearable sensations. Damp, clinging clothes irritated every inch of exposed flesh, provoking an almost unbearable need to scratch, though relief felt unattainable. Beneath him, a rough, metallic surface scraped uncomfortably against his back and limbs, amplifying the overstimulation.

A scream shattered the suffocating atmosphere, its guttural, inhuman sound foreign and startling. Only after a moment did it register as his own voice. Peripheral vision caught movement—a needle, sharp and gleaming, aimed directly at his neck. Reflexes took over, and his hand shot out to intercept it.

When had the chains broken? Horror surged as his gaze fell on the figure standing nearby. Doc Oc loomed, his grotesque smile stretched unnaturally across a face half-consumed by burned, charred flesh. The expression didn't belong to him—it seemed stitched on, a cruel mockery of human emotion.

Laughter, cruel and distorted, echoed in the air. It wasn't just one voice; it carried the sinister undertones of the Green Goblin, taunting and jeering. Panic clawed at the edges of reason as the green liquid seeped into his vision, corrupting his mind and consuming every coherent thought.

Reality snapped back as abruptly as the waking moments before. A shiver ran down his spine, and goosebumps prickled across exposed skin. It was cold—something he only noticed now, just as he became aware of the greenish hue tinting everything around him. Shadows and highlights in varying shades of green painted the room, even the lab coat draped over a chair taking on an eerie, pale green tint that dulled its original white.

Peter dragged himself toward the desk, spotting his mask lying there alongside the lab coat that was on the chair. The floor was slick beneath him, forcing his spider-sense to take over as his body moved almost instinctively, disconnected from conscious thought. He wasn't truly seeing or understanding anything at the moment—everything felt muted and distant.

One moment, he was struggling across the floor; the next, he stood by the desk, the lab coat now draped over his shoulders. His hand reached for the mask, but something caught his attention—his web-shooters sat nearby, their cartridges empty. Someone had clearly removed them.

His gaze flicked over the desk, landing on a stack of papers. One of them caught his eye immediately: his web formula. Recognition sent a jolt through him. Without thinking—no, on pure impulse—he grabbed the paper, crumpled it, and shoved it into his mouth. He swallowed it whole before his brain could catch up.

He froze, blinking at nothing in particular, his own actions throwing him into a state of disbelief. What the hell? Since when did he destroy incriminating evidence by eating it?

Peter looked back at the desk, half-hoping the paper would somehow reappear, proving he wasn't losing his mind. Surely, he wasn't desperate enough to resort to that. What the actual fuck just happened?

Shaking off the growing panic, he turned his attention to the next table, drawn to the faint glow of a computer screen. Whatever crisis he was having could wait. First, he needed to make sure there wasn't any additional evidence stored on that machine.

The glow from the computer screen cast a harsh light across Peter’s face as he adjusted the brightness, dimming it to just one stick. The lab coat clung damply to his skin. Fingers hovering over the keyboard, trembling slightly, Peter forced himself to focus. His body, uncooperative as ever today, added another layer of frustration.

The login screen blinked in front of him—simple, unsophisticated, and lacking advanced security. Good. This was manageable. Cracking his knuckles, Peter shook out the stiffness in his hands and dove in. His spider-sense hummed faintly in the background, but this wasn’t its territory. This was all skill, no instincts. A series of well-timed commands later, and he was in, bypassing the system’s rudimentary safeguards with ease.

Whoever set this up clearly hadn't expected someone with his technical expertise to meddle. The computer itself looked ancient, a relic compared to the equipment his Midtown school provided. Private school parents with deep pockets ensured newer models filled their labs. When compared to Dr. Connors' laboratory and the advanced equipment he had seen during his brief summer internship with Gwen at Oscorp, this site didn't even rank in the top ten of sinister, unethical laboratories he had seen. No, not even the top fifty. Everything about it screamed rushed and unprofessional, like a poorly improvised field operation thrown together in desperation and hastily filled with unneeded and abandoned garbage equipment they could leave behind without experiencing significant loss, just in case of someone catching them red handed.

Navigating the system proved almost suspiciously easy. Lines of code cascaded down the screen as Peter sifted through folders, his focus sharp despite the nagging exhaustion. Surveillance logs, experimental data on something ominously titled “Lazarus,” and a folder labeled Subject M11 – Unknown Origin appeared in rapid succession.

The last one made his stomach drop. Opening it, Peter was greeted by an image that stopped his breath. A broken-down costume, eerily familiar, clung to a corpse staring blankly at the camera. No mask hid the face—deathly pale, with dilated pupils so dark they masked any hint of eye color. One eye had a milky, clouded stare, adding to the haunting lifelessness.

It couldn’t be him. No, it wasn’t him. He didn’t die—did he? No memory surfaced to connect him to this horrifying image, but doubt crept in, whispering that he should remember anything that could have brought him to this lab and into this whole experience as a lab rat.

Peter avoided the videos and files with titles too disturbing to confront, including one labeled Reviving the Eyes. Just reading the name made his skin crawl, an icy sensation settling in his chest. The urge to check his reflection, to confirm he was still himself, gnawed at him. This information had to be destroyed—erased from existence and buried in the farthest corners of his mind.

After all, superheroes had a knack for defying death, didn’t they? In comics, Captain America thawed after being frozen. Phoenix seemed to resurrect frequently in nearly every edition of her comics or movie adaptation of X-Men. Surely, this was just another bizarre chapter in the life of a masked vigilante. Still, Peter wished desperately for someone to give him guidance—someone who could explain how to navigate this fucking madness. Not to be the only hero on Earth, containing 9 million people.

Focusing again, Peter worked quickly, his fingers flying over the keyboard as he copied the most sensitive files onto a decoy drive filled with corrupted data and false leads. It wouldn’t trace back to him. But before wiping the data, he noticed a flash drive left plugged into the terminal. After a moment of hesitation, he accessed the drive, checked its contents, and transferred the files over for further inspection later.

With that done, he moved on to the real task—wiping everything else. He ran a command to delete the main folder, watching as its contents disappeared, one by one. Yet experience told him this wouldn’t be enough with his Parker luck.

Peter dove deeper into the system’s storage, locating the backup drives. Systematically, he began erasing them too, scrubbing each one clean. To ensure no one could recover the data, he ran multiple overwrite protocols, filling the drives with random, meaningless information until the original files were irretrievable fragments.

His eyes flicked to the security logs. Anyone reviewing them would know the system had been accessed. That couldn’t be allowed. Navigating to the root directory, Peter initiated a full system purge. Everything—logs, backups, caches—would be wiped, leaving behind a blank shell of a system.

The progress bar crawled forward, every second stretching into eternity. His spider-sense flared briefly, a whisper of warning in the back of his mind. He ignored it. He was so close.

Finally, the screen blinked: Complete.

Peter exhaled sharply, releasing his grip on the desk. The computer screen now displayed an empty, lifeless interface. No traces remained—no evidence of his presence or of the files he had seen. The entire system was, for all intents and purposes, destroyed.

For a moment, Peter sat there, staring blankly at the dark screen. His body felt heavy, but he forced himself to move. He reached for his mask, intending to leave, but froze mid-motion. His hand brushed the neck area of his mask, where the fabric of his costume should have been.

Absentmindedly, his fingers searched for something on his neck—though what exactly, he couldn’t recall. There was nothing there, only smooth skin. Yet the sensation persisted, an uneasy grime coating the back of his neck. It didn’t feel like the green liquid he’d encountered earlier, which dried oddly and left a cold sensation. No, this was different.

Looking down at his hands, Peter frowned. At first glance, they seemed clean. But when he glanced at the keyboard, his stomach dropped. Faint red stains smeared across the keys. He pressed his hand to the white table, leaving a vivid crimson print as his hand fell limply to his side.

The colour blended too well into his still-damp costume, almost indistinguishable in the dim light, but the shade was unmistakable. It wasn’t part of his suit. It was blood. His hands were covered in it.

Slowly, Peter raised his gaze to the monitor, dread coiling in his chest. Deep down, he felt the truth clawing at him. With deliberate slowness, he turned in the chair to face the rest of the room.

The sight struck him like a blow. Bodies littered the space, sprawled across the floor in grotesque, lifeless poses. Blood pooled and streaked across the ground, painting a horrifying tableau. He followed the crimson trails with his eyes, his gaze locking on a pit filled with green liquid surrounded by scattered corpses.

A strangled scream tore from his throat, muffled by his trembling hand. The metallic tang of iron coated his lips as his fingers brushed against them. Confused, he thought of the paper he’d handled earlier. Hadn’t it carried a faintly muted taste of blood? Yet he ignored it.

“No, no, no,” he murmured, his voice cracking. “It wasn’t me.” He shook his head violently, tears stinging his eyes. “I didn’t do this. I couldn’t have done this.”

Yet the bodies told a different story. He approached them, hands shaking, whispering the same words over and over: It wasn’t me. It couldn’t have been me.

But as he inspected the injuries, the truth stared back at him, cold and indifferent. The wounds were blunt force trauma—consistent, precise. One corpse lay with its head crushed, the skull cracked open, brain matter spilling out. Peter doubled over, retching nothing but bile onto the floor.

The buzzing in his head intensified. The muffled echoes of a crowd’s screams rang in his ears. He stumbled backward, slipping on the slick floor, and fell hard, his head smacking against the cold ground. Disoriented, he turned to push himself up—only to come face-to-face with something monstrous.

Massive, bulbous eyes glistened in the dim light, reflecting a sickly red hue. The creature’s corpse-like skin stretched tight over its grotesque face, antennae protruding from its skull. A mouth filled with jagged, yellow-stained teeth snapped at him, and Peter scrambled backward with a choked gasp.

His spider-sense remained eerily silent.

Heart hammering, he shook his head and looked back at the corpse. But now it was just… human. A lifeless, ordinary face. No antennae. No jagged teeth.

“What is happening?” Peter whispered, his voice trembling. Everything felt so vividly real, yet wrong. There was something hauntingly familiar about the creature he thought he saw. His instincts screamed at him not to remember, to leave the answers buried.

Shaking, he retreated into the shadows, curling into a ball in the darkest corner of the room.

Time lost meaning as he sat there, trembling. Then he felt it—someone had entered the hall. He couldn’t see them, but he sensed their presence. The vibrations were faint but distinct. A heartbeat thudded in his ears, steady and unhurried: Boom. Boom. Boom.

Overwhelmed, Peter covered his ears, then slipped the mask over his face slowly and soundlessly. The world turned slightly muted, but not enough to drown out the dissonance of the moment. The footsteps drew closer, their silence unnerving. He listened intently, attuning his senses to the rhythm of nearby life—the steady, calm heartbeat, the rhythmical expansion of lungs.

Every step closer to his hiding spot made him freeze, his sense screaming at him of danger. He retreated deeper into the shadows, careful not to make a sound. The intruder remained out of sight, but when his spider-sense softened to its usual faint hum, Peter moved upward.

Mid-climb, his hand suddenly unstuck from the wall against his will. He barely caught himself, grabbing onto a beam just in time to avoid an embarrassing fall. Silently, he scaled the ceiling, inching along the beams with deliberate movements, staying in sync with his heightened senses.

From his perch, he kept his gaze locked on the figure now visible below.

The boy—if he could even call him that—wore deep green fabrics that glistened faintly under the dim light, accented by streaks of gold. The richness of the material seemed almost ceremonial, but woven into the ensemble were elements of combat gear—bindings, armor, pieces that hinted at function over form, but were only seen by him in historical action films with samurai.

Peter crouched lower on his beam, trying to remain unseen as the figure turned slightly. The stranger wore a mask that clung seamlessly to his face. There were no visible straps or adhesives, leaving Peter to wonder how it stayed in place. Was it some kind of clay? Glue? Even Peter, who frequently leapt into burning buildings wearing nothing but spandex, wouldn’t go as far as gluing a mask to his face.

How long had this guy been using it? If it was glue, was it some kind of modified, super-adhesive formula? Peter wouldn’t put it past anyone—his villains had turned themselves into monsters for less. But really, who cares about a mask glued to someone’s face? Still, the idea of it being so securely attached that removing it could rip off skin sent an uncomfortable shiver through him.

Peter wouldn’t go to such lengths. The memory of trying to rip his own costume from his flesh after the fight with Freak still haunted him, the sensation burned into his mind like a nightmare. Wait... when did he fight him? Peter frowned and stuffed this information into the back of his mind for later.

The mask’s white lenses glowed faintly, pupil-less and unblinking. Peter wondered if this was how people felt when they first saw him, Spider-Man, without knowing his non-lethal code. But then he glanced down. The bodies sprawled across the room and the bloodstains on his own costume told a different story.

And so did the stranger’s sword.

Peter’s gaze followed a bead of blood as it trailed down the blade, pooling briefly at the tip before falling to the floor. As the droplet splattered and broke into smaller droplets, his spider-sense flared violently.

Before Peter could fully process the warning, the stranger hurled the sword with deadly precision, aiming straight for his head. Instinct took over, and Peter leapt, narrowly dodging the weapon as it embedded itself into the beam he’d been perched on just moments before. How sharp is this thing, seriously? Swinging to another beam, he overshot his landing and dropped into the pool of light below, landing in a crouch.

What the hell is going on? Are his powers glitching? He had jumped with the same force as always, yet somehow, the distance was far greater than he intended. He missed the beam completely. Still, he played it off, acting as if it had all been part of the plan.

The stranger’s gaze locked onto him immediately.

Peter froze, meeting the intense stare. The lenses of the stranger’s mask shifted slightly, the faint movement above the eyes resembling a frown. Despite most of the face being obscured, the expression was unmistakable—sharp, calculated, and entirely unamused.

Peter wanted to laugh it off, throw out a quip, but all that escaped his lips was a strained wheeze. The sound did him no favors, seeming only to confirm something in the stranger’s mind. The sword was raised again, aimed directly at him.

Before Peter could think, his body moved on instinct—he turned and bolted. No. Not again. Not with these unstable powers. I can’t kill again. The thought hammered in his mind, a desperate, panicked plea.

So he ran. Behind him, angry shouts erupted, echoing through the vast space. The threats came fast, promises of tortures in various horrifying forms, reverberating in his ears as his feet slammed against the concrete. He didn’t know where he was heading—just that he needed to get away. The pursuer’s footsteps were relentless, impossibly fast, and closing the gap no matter how hard Peter pushed himself.

He darted down a narrow corridor, the sharp angles of the walls compressing his sense of space. The air grew thinner, colder. Peter’s mind raced as he pushed his unstable powers to their limits. Instead, he relied on raw speed, heart hammering in his chest as he rounded a corner.

The hallway opened up into another cavernous room, lit by a dim, flickering overhead light. The sound of his pursuer’s boots on the floor was louder now, matched by the whistle of another weapon cutting through the air. Peter ducked on instinct, feeling the rush of air above him as a dagger embedded itself into the wall just ahead.

“You’re just making this harder for yourself!” the stranger barked, their voice low and menacing, tinged with annoyance.

Peter ignored the taunt, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

He veered to the left, skidding slightly as his boots slipped on a slick patch of floor. His balance wavered, but he caught himself, launching into a sprint toward a series of tall storage shelves. The space between the shelves was narrow, filled with heavy crates and dusty, forgotten machinery. It was a labyrinth, one he hoped might slow his pursuer down.

He darted between the shelves, weaving erratically to throw off their aim. The stranger followed, their movements eerily fluid, a shadow that refused to be shaken. Peter heard the scrape of metal as another blade was drawn, the sound slicing through the air.

Desperate, Peter leapt up, grabbing onto the edge of a rusted platform above. His fingers slipped for a moment, but he managed to hoist himself up just as the stranger rounded the corner below. They paused, scanning the room with a sharp, predatory gaze.

Peter pressed himself flat against the platform, muscles tense as he watched the stranger search. For a moment, he thought he might have actually lost them.

Then, a blade pierced through the metal just inches from his hand.

“Found you,” the stranger growled.

Peter yelped, rolling to the side and dropping to the floor below. He hit the ground hard. He bolted again, zigzagging through the maze of shelves until he spotted a partially open door in the corner of the room.

Please don’t be locked, he prayed in his thoughts, slipping through the gap and slamming it shut behind him.

The room was pitch dark, and the sound of his own breathing filled the confined space. He fumbled for a lock, finding an old, heavy latch that he slid into place just as the stranger’s footsteps stopped outside.

Peter held his breath, listening as the stranger’s hand tested the door. They tried the handle once, then again, harder this time. Peter felt the latch tremble under the force but held firm.

“You can’t hide forever,” the stranger said, their voice muffled through the door. There was no urgency in their tone, just cold certainty. “I’ll find you.”

Peter bit back a response, swallowing the urge to throw out some half-formed, sarcastic remark. Though he couldn't exactly speak right now, and knowing his luck, if he could have, it would slip out wrong, provoke the stranger, and this door would turn into a dartboard.

After a long, excruciating moment, the footsteps began to fade, growing softer and softer until they disappeared entirely.

Peter exhaled, a shaky, uneven breath escaping his lips. His hands trembled as he pressed his back against the wall, willing his heart to slow down. The room was small, though still larger than his own back at home. The darkness pressed in on him, but at least he was alive. For now.

What the hell is happening to me? The thought screamed in his mind as he clutched his head, though he expected no answer. And if someone did respond? Well, that would mean he was truly losing it—and that was one thing he didn’t have the bandwidth for right now.

His powers were completely out of sync—too strong one moment, utterly unreliable the next. And then there was the other thing. The thing he couldn’t bear to think about. The blood on his hands.

“I can’t… I didn’t mean to…” The wheezing whisper broke off, barely audible, even to himself, but still painful to his throat.

Shutting his eyes tightly, he tried to block out the memory, but it clawed its way to the surface. That moment inside the green cloud. The snap of bones. The horrified silence that followed. His teeth clenched as his fists tightened, nails digging into his palms. No. Focus. You don't have time for a full breakdown.

A faint sound of movement beyond the door jolted him upright, heart skipping a beat. Every muscle tensed as he strained to listen, his entire body frozen in anticipation. Was it the stranger? Had they doubled back?

The noise didn’t come again. Maybe it was just his mind playing tricks on him again.

Great. Losing my powers and my sanity, Peter thought, a fleeting ghost of humor creeping into his mind despite the suffocating weight pressing on his chest.

Scrambling to his feet, he fumbled for the switch, flooding the room with light. He was in a laboratory. It was definitely in use; the counters were cluttered with components, tools, and half-finished devices.

Peter’s gaze swept over the mess, his thoughts as messy as everything on this table. He froze, his eyes locking onto a label scrawled across a container. The words hit him like a jolt of electricity, the implications processing in an instant.

It was too much—too much luck for one year, Peter thought, staring at the complete set of components needed to repair his shooters and create a new batch of web fluid. Might as well savor this moment of fortune before it inevitably runs out.

The lab was a disaster zone, plain and simple. Doc Ock and Dr. Connors would have fainted at the sight. Rusted tools, cracked beakers, and a tangle of exposed wires littered every surface. The flickering fluorescent light overhead was a special kind of torture, aggravating his headache even through the sensory-dampening mask he’d designed specifically for busting seedy villain lairs like this one.

Okay, no pressure, Peter thought, biting his lip as he crouched over a makeshift workbench cobbled together from a warped plywood board balanced on cinderblocks. Pushing aside a sticky jar that reeked of questionable intent, he grabbed a pair of mismatched pliers. Just my life on the line. Again.

The pile of scavenged components in front of him was a mess—a chaotic assortment of springs, valves, and chemical containers with labels so faded they were practically hieroglyphics. Most of it was junk, but his hands moved with practiced precision, his mind already assembling a mental blueprint. God, he was so used to this that it was soothing him slightly.

A cracked air pump caught his attention. He dismantled it in seconds, extracting the piston and sliding it into the cartridge housing. Good enough, he thought.

A shattered watch face gleamed in the dim light, sparking a grin. Peter pried out its tiny gears and repurposed them for the trigger mechanism. “Crappy materials, crappy design,” he muttered, his voice raspy, “but hey, it’ll work.” The shooters had taken a beating—probably from electrocution of some sort—but they were salvageable.

The next hurdle was the web fluid. He unscrewed a sealed jar with a faint hiss, praying the contents hadn’t degraded. A cautious sniff made his nostrils burn and his eyes water. Still potent. He coughed, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. Carefully, he mixed the solution, stirring it with a bent paperclip before pouring it into salvaged cartridges.

Sweat trickled down his temple as he worked, his fingers stained with grease and streaks of unidentifiable goo. The adhesive housing barely held together with duct tape, but he had no time to finesse. He twisted the final screw into the repaired web shooter, held it up, and inspected his work.

Ugliest thing I’ve ever made, Peter thought, strapping the device to his left wrist. Flexing his hand, he tested its weight. But if it sticks…

He aimed at a corner of the room where a rat scurried along the floor. With a flick of his wrist, he activated the shooter. A thin strand of webbing shot out, attaching with a satisfying thwip. The rat froze in place, trapped.

A grin spread across his face as relief washed over him, exhaustion trailing close behind. “Still got it,” he whispered, his chest swelling with triumph. The light overhead gave one last flicker and then went out, plunging the room into darkness.

And then the fucking ceiling collapsed.

With a deafening crash, chunks of plaster and metal beams rained down, kicking up a choking cloud of dust. Peter stumbled back, coughing, his web shooters snapping into position instinctively. Amid the swirling haze, the distinct sound of a landing reached his ears—a soft thud. Not the frantic flailing of someone caught off guard, but the calculated drop of someone who had known the ceiling would give way.

As the dust settled, Peter’s gaze locked onto the figure now standing. Recognition hit like a punch to the gut. It was the same murderous boy who’d been chasing him. The intruder stared back, eyes sharp and unrelenting, as if assessing every inch of Peter in a heartbeat.

For a moment, the room was silent, save for the fading echoes of destruction. The tension pressed down like the debris littering the floor. Should I run? Scream? Peter’s mind scrambled for an answer.

Finally, breaking the stillness, he managed to speak, though his wheezing voice cracked, barely more than a whisper. “Uh… I’m guessing you’re not here to fix the lights.”

The boy tilted his head, amusement flickering briefly before a feral grin broke through. His voice was cold, clipped, and laced with disdain. “So, it does speak. Could you not have done that minutes ago?”

“Nope, it could not,” came the whispered reply, followed by a swift shots of webbing as the other reached for his sword. Without waiting for the inevitable retaliation, he bolted, not daring to glance back at the murderous intent etched behind him.

After what felt like an eternity of aimless running, Peter finally stumbled upon an exit. Though, for a fleeting moment, he even entertained the absurd idea of mimicking the crazed stranger and crawling through the ventilation shafts.

Snow fell softly, blanketing the world in a hushed stillness as Peter sprinted down the quiet street. His spider-sense hummed relentlessly, a warning that refused to fade. Each breath escaped in visible clouds, vanishing into the icy air.

The biting wind cut through him, the thin fabric of his suit offering little protection, and his lab coat proving just as useless. Blood and a strange green liquid had dried into a crusty mess across his arms and chest, sticking stubbornly to the fabric. Each step felt heavier than the last, the snow melting on contact with the ground, leaving behind only cold, damp misery.

The swirling flakes triggered fragmented memories—jagged, raw, and haunting. Cars honking. Snowflakes dissolving on his mask. A spiked metal tail slashing toward him. Acid splattering, sizzling against concrete. Laughter ringing out, punctuated by arcs of lightning crackling in a storm-dark sky.

A shadow passed nearby, accompanied by a persistent buzzing sound. Panic surged as Peter glanced around, searching for the source. The shadow darted past again, briefly eclipsing the dim sunlight. He jumped back, staring upward, but there was nothing— only a vast expanse of white clouds, thick.

Dread coiled in his gut, primal and overwhelming. For a moment, he no longer felt human—just a bundle of fear and seething rage encased in flesh. He stumbled, the sensation of falling engulfing him. The ground rushed up to meet him, and pain exploded through his chest as he hit hard. His body screamed in protest, though his healing factor quickly worked to mend torn muscle and shattered bone.

Flashes of something burned in his mind—unknown figures, acid hissing against his suit, a blinding light searing into his vision. The memories fractured further, slipping beyond his grasp. Snowflakes swirled lazily around him, the chill biting into exposed skin.

He staggered away, his ears straining against the muffled silence. A faint whisper seemed to call out. He didn't know what it meant, but it spurred him into motion.

Peter ran, his feet pounding against the pavement, guided by instinct more than purpose. He only stopped when he reached a bustling street, the noise of New York washing over him like a strange, dissonant comfort.

People hurried past, bundled in heavy coats, oblivious to the Christmas lights strung between buildings. The decorations swayed in the wind, bright and festive. In the distance, an unusual scene caught his eye—a figure in a bizarre costume tangled in the lights, flailing as police and firefighters worked to free them.

No one spared him a glance. No one reacted to the person suspended above them, dangling like a grotesque holiday ornament. The crowd flowed around the spectacle, indifferent. Something about it all felt... wrong.

Peter's gaze shifted to the people, the unfamiliar police uniforms, the badges on their arms. They weren't like the ones he knew—no light blue like Captain Stacy's and other New York police officers'. These were black and gray, stark and foreign.

Confusion gripped him. The street, the buildings, even the accents of the passersbies—it was all wrong. Overwhelmed, Peter turned away, shoving his hands deep into the lab coat's pockets.

The city hummed with life around him, the snow falling more gently now. But none of its wonder reached him. His chest ached with every breath.

What now?

Figure 1 (From Pinterest. This exceptional and beautiful drawing does not belong to me). Peter Parker, also known as Spider-Man, standing in his full glory under the watchful eyes of a rogue, runaway Robin, who had just returned from his mother’s side of the family after a heated argument with his father and a long pouting and brooding.

Quick sneak peek of Next chapter:

Figure 2. (Also from Pinterest) Peter Parker stands bewildered, trying to make sense of where he is and what on earth “Gotham” could be. Adding to his confusion is a newspaper’s front page, announcing the grand opening of two more bizarre, bat-themed fast-food restaurants in the Diamond and Fashion Districts. The advertisement features two rather tired employees with a “kill-me-now” look: one clad in a circus-inspired costume, the other dressed as a bat-eared furry, dramatically covering their faces with small triangular capes in what can only be described as a budget parody of Dracula.

Chapter Text

I need a mother. I need some older, wiser being to cry to.

— Pinterest Quote Compilation

There were no tears left for him to cry. His breath heaved, ragged and uneven, but nothing spilled from his eyes. Perhaps he looked pitiful, his face twisted in a futile attempt to cry. He wondered if this was what happens when the only thing you had done, the only thing you had committed yourself to since that fateful day—the day he was truly alone—was crying. Though, technically speaking, Peter Parker was alone, not Spider-Man.

Spider-Man had an old lady who always gave him candies for helping her carry groceries. Spider-Man had supporters who worried about him, haters who, despite their venomous words, still cared enough to acknowledge his existence and his work. Spider-Man had people who cosplayed as him at Comic Cons, standing alongside the fictional heroes they admired. Peter Parker had none of that. He had lost everything because of Spider-Man. Even the ability to truly cry, to hysterically tug at his hair in the middle of the street, to attract anyone's attention was gone.

He wanted to scream at the world, to declare his unhappiness, to hear his anguish echoed back in some form—anything to prove he wasn’t invisible. To cry out and have the world scream back. To feel, just once, that the world was listening.

The world didn't end just because he stood there on the bustling street. No one glanced his way or paused to ask if he was alright, and it all felt eerily familiar—like New York. Like cold, chaotic, distant New York. His heart ached for it, even though this place bore a striking resemblance, even though there was no one left alive there for him to return to. Did this city have its own version of the Statue of Liberty, like the one in Vegas? The thought almost made him laugh hysterically, though it would have been a hollow, bitter sound.

People streamed past him, and he drifted with them, swallowed by the crowd. He followed a group of more than ten, watching as some broke away toward Christmas-themed shops while others merged seamlessly into the flow. Eventually, he found himself standing before the stairs to the underground station. For a moment, he froze. Shoulders bumped into him, accompanied by grumbles of irritation. Some pedestrians veered in wide arcs to avoid him, while others cast a quick glance before turning away, choosing a different path.

He hesitated at the top of the stairs. Even in New York, he’d always thought twice before entering an underground station, and this one looked even more foreboding and gloomier in Victorian type of way, in a Dracula type of way. Was that a dead rat by the wall, yellowed and stiff, foam crusting its mouth near a rusted World War II gas mask? The sight made his stomach churn and the smell nearly visibly gag.

Peter stopped, rooted to the spot. He might have stayed there indefinitely if a voice hadn’t called out—not his name, but a generic “Hey, you in the lab coat!” He turned, locking eyes with a police officer approaching steadily, hand resting on the grip of his holstered gun. The man moved slowly, cautiously, perhaps because of Peter’s strange attire, the lab coat, or the blood staining his clothes.

What is most New Yorker thing to do when police is calling you out? Run. Which he did do. And without proper thinking. He sprinted down the stairs, his mutation the only thing keeping him from tumbling headlong. People scattered as he weaved through them, and someone pushed the gate open, allowing him and others to slip inside the station as if nothing were amiss. He might have felt guilt if he’d had the capacity, but all he felt was a burning sensation in his chest, as though a hot iron had been pressed against his heart, leaving searing marks.

The memory hit him like a freight train: the rising metro prices, Harry paying for his ticket, then holding the gate open for Gwen and Peter to slip through. They hadn’t wanted to take his money, and Harry had proposed the idea with a reckless grin. Gwen, ever the daredevil, had agreed and dared Peter to join in. He closed his eyes, and for a moment, he could hear their laughter, feel their presence beside him as they dashed into the metro. The doors slid shut, and the train lurched forward, carrying them away.

When he opened his eyes, he found himself staring at an old woman. The metro groaned and hissed as it barreled through the tunnel, its wheels grinding against the tracks in a steady, metallic rhythm. Peter rose from his seat and edged away, careful not to turn his back on her. The train jolted slightly, a sharp screech of steel against steel echoing as it rounded a curve.

Peter for just a second looked back to check there was no one behind to bump into, and when he looked back the old woman was smiling. Her lips stretched into a grin, too wide, too unnatural, like the jagged edges of a torn piece of paper. Her yellowed teeth seemed more prominent than he remembered, her face marked by a sickly pallor. spider-sense flared—not a sharp alarm, just a faint, uneasy buzz, as if whispering that something was wrong, even if not immediately dangerous. It just frustrated him more.

Where was this sense twenty minutes ago? he thought bitterly. He wanted to shake it, demand answers. With the murder boy? On a goddamn vacation? Waiting to graciously warn me about the crazy, not-so-dangerous woman? An old woman, to begin with?

Peter drew a slow breath. The air was thick with the scent of oil and damp concrete, punctuated by the occasional clang of the train jolting over uneven tracks. But there was something else—a faintly sweet odor that lingered, leaving a sugary aftertaste in his mouth. A headache threatened to creep in but faded almost as quickly, dulled by his accelerated healing.

The woman’s breathing grew ragged, each inhale labored and uneven, rasping like sandpaper. Peter halted his retreat and approached her, concern overriding his unease. He reached out, steadying her by the shoulders.

“Ma’am, are you okay?” he asked, giving her a gentle shake to get her attention.

She looked up at him, her eyes locking onto his, and then she laughed. It was a wet, wheezing sound, rattling in her chest like a dying engine. The laughter started low, a guttural chuckle bubbling up from deep within her, but it grew louder, more erratic, until it filled the cramped metro car. Her shoulders convulsed, her head tilting backto expose the taut stretch of her neck. The sound was wrong—too jagged, too raw and guttural, carrying a faint metallic undertone that made Peter’s skin crawl. Not his spider-sense, just Peter—the regular, horror-movie-watching Peter—screaming internally that this was some shitty, I’ve-seen-this-before kind of moment. You know, the type where the creepy old lady tells the pregnant woman her child is going to hell. That kind of vibe.

Peter’s breath hitched as he noticed the faint smear of red at the corner of her mouth. Her tongue flicked out, licking it away with deliberate slowness. Her laughter echoed in his ears, mingling with the grinding of the train and the hum of the lights. Despite his spider-sense remaining steady— no sudden spike, just that same dull pulse of unease—he turned and ran, his Peter instincts screaming at him to get away.

“Crazy people. That’s all it is,” Peter muttered under his breath as he hurried into the next metro car. Heads turned as he entered—not to meet his gaze, but to look past him, toward the sound of that relentless, escalating laughter. Panic rippled through the crowd. Some fumbled with their bags, pulling out what looked like gas masks, while others stumbled over themselves, scrambling and fleeing to put distance between themselves and the source of the noise. Even those already wearing masks joined the chaos, their screams blending into the cacophony.

Peter ran with them, unsure what else to do; his heart pounded—not from fear, but confusion. A gas attack? Seriously? Here, of all places? When he decided to use the metro? And with nitrous oxide?

More passengers from other cars joined the fray, spurred by frantic whispers of “Joker” and “laughing gas.” The hysteria spread like wildfire. He could hear the frantic beeping of phones dialing 911, people desperately trying to find safety. He kept running, swept up in the tide.

The robotic voice announced their approach to the next station, and the crowd surged toward the doors, freezing in place as they waited for them to open. Someone tugged at his lab coat. Peter looked down to see a little girl in a gas mask holding out a water-soaked handkerchief. She gestured for him to cover his mouth.

He took it, mouthing a silent “thank you,” but before he could say more, the doors slid open, and the girl was gone—her mother whisking her away into the crowd.

Outside, the scene was swarming with uniformed officers and yellow tape. Sticking close to the fleeing passengers, Peter hurried up the stairs, keeping his head low. The last thing he needed was to be noticed—in full Spider-Man gear—by the police. He didn’t feel like explaining why he wasn’t a criminal today.

They emerged from the underground, and the overcast winter light blinded him momentarily. The sun hid behind the clouds, yet everything gleamed with that sharp, cold clarity unique to the season. Peter shivered, buttoning up his lab coat, then grabbed the broken mask from his pocket and slipped it on.

A stack of newspapers caught his eye near a street vendor’s stall, buried among the usual tourist junk—American flag hats, tacky magnets, hoodies, T-shirts. The newspapers bore a bold headline: Gotham Gazette. Two dollars each. Seriously?

Well, back to a life of crime. Petty crime. As in, stealing a single newspaper while wearing a mask. How pathetic. If anyone saw him sprinting off with it, they’d probably feel a deep, almost insulting pity “Oh, poor kid, stealing newspapers of all things. Maybe he’s using them as a blanket”.

Peter hesitated for a split second before snatching one and bolting. The stall owner’s shouts of calling the police rang out behind him, but he was already weaving through the crowd, gripping the paper like it was some grand prize.

Ducking into a dark corner, he scaled a rusty fire escape and finally stopped to look down. He unfolded the paper, and the headline stared back again at him: Gotham Gazette.

Gazette. Fancy. A loanword from French, if he remembers well. And the city itself? Equally pretentious. Streets named after jewels and high fashion, as if that somehow masked the chaos he’d just witnessed in those barely forty minutes here. As if that wasn’t strange enough, the paper also mentioned two newly opened bat-themed fast-food restaurants—a chain called Bat-Burgers—advertised on the front page.

City weirder than New York. Which should be impossible. Really impossible.

What the hell? Where was he? And what on earth did Gotham even stand for?

To top it all off, the front page featured that ad with two exhausted employees, both sporting the unmistakable kill-me-now expression. One wore a circus-inspired uniform; the other, a ridiculous bat-eared furry getup. They dramatically hid their faces behind tiny capes in what could only be described as a low-budget parody of Dracula.

For what felt like an eternity, Peter stared at the newspaper, his eyes gliding across the text without truly absorbing it. He even mumbled some of the words aloud, but they slipped through his mind without meaning. Exhaustion weighed heavily on him, making it impossible to focus. He tried to read again, but his mind refused to cooperate.

With a sigh, he glanced around before rising from the cold metal that bit through his clothes. He climbed up and down, scanning the windows of the building. Criminals, he knew, often justified their actions by seizing opportunities—an open door, an unlocked window. That thought lingered as he studied the darkened apartments. It was easy to rationalize stepping inside when the door was already open, as if the owner had extended an invitation.

The only thing keeping guilt from consuming him was the fact that he wasn’t searching for valuables—just a change of clothes. Something forgotten in the back of a closet, something no one would miss. Still it feels fucked up to try soothe himself from a guilt this way.

Then he saw it. A fifth-floor apartment with a window left ajar.

Peter moved carefully as he slipped inside. It was a two-bedroom unit, quiet and empty. Too empty. The apartment was quiet, the air cold and crisp. The first room he entered was sparsely furnished—a TV, a small table, one big sofa, and three chairs positioned in the corners of the room. There were no personal touches. The suspicion creeping up his spine solidified when he spotted beer bottles scattered on the floor, the stale scent of booze still lingering in the cold air. On the table, a powdery white substance confirmed his unease.

Wow, there goes his luck. Out of all apartment he was inside the apartment of the alcoholic and probably a drug addict. Well, there goes any guilt about taking some clothes, he believes.

They probably left the window open to air out the stench.

Peter turned away and checked the other room. If the first space looked neglected, this one was downright miserable. A thin, stained mattress lay on the floor, barely qualifying as a bed. Even with the mask on and the window open, the stench of sweat and urine clung to the air, as if it had seeped into the walls.

He wrinkled his nose and went straight for the wardrobe. Sorting through the clothes, he carefully picked out anything that seemed relatively clean and fresh. A pair of jeans, a hoodie, a belt—they didn’t smell too bad, and by some miracle, they were actually in decent condition. He gathered them and made his way to the bathroom.

It wasn’t much better. Dingy tiles, a rusted sink, and a mirror so smudged it barely reflected anything. Peter found a roll of trash bags in the cupboard, tore one open, and used it to cover the sink before placing the clean clothes inside. Then, rolling a generous amount of toilet paper, he wiped down the seat before using it.

Once he was done, he left the apartment exactly as he’d found it, leaving no trace of his presence behind.

By the time he stepped back onto the streets, darkness had already settled in. Winter made it hard to tell the hour—four, five, maybe six? The sun always set early, turning this place into a maze of flickering streetlights and stretching shadows. Compared to New York, this place was quite dark and quiet, whilst NY shined with night life. The City that never sleeps.

Hands shoved into the pockets of the hoodie, Peter walked in the direction he’d come from, his spider-sense humming constantly and faintly in the back of his mind. He glanced up as a flickering light caught his eye. A rusted sign was strapped to it, the white graffiti words barely legible under layers of grime and scratches.

“CRIME ALLEY”

Beneath it, faded but still visible, was another name: PARK ROW, which was engraved into the metal and it seems someone really hard attempted to scrape it away.

Of course. That explained the grim apartment, considering that local public works department didn’t bother to change the street light for it to stop giving him headaches and oversensitivity, nor did they bother to change the street sign for a long time it seems by the condition of it.

Peter exhaled sharply and kept walking until he felt it.

Someone was behind him.

He didn’t turn around. Didn’t need to. His spider-sense had already given him the answer. No immediate danger, just a steady hum of caution. Someone following him with a knife or another close-range weapon—definitely not a gun. Probably just another mugger looking for an easy target.

Up ahead, a neon sign flickered to life, buzzing as it cast a sickly glow onto the cracked pavement.

Peter kept walking, squinting at the flickering neon sign before him. The T and H were clear, the E reversed, and the A unmistakable. The final letter flickered between an E and an I, but he was fairly certain it spelled THEATRE.

Behind him, footsteps approached—clumsy, loud. Not the measured, practiced steps of the boy with the sword. He had moved like a shadow, his emerald-studded sword hilt glinting in the dim light. No, this was someone far less imposing.

The incessant flickering of the neon light was driving him mad, overstimulating his already frayed senses. He squeezed his eyes shut, focusing on the sound of the approaching footsteps. As soon as the person drew close, Peter swung his leg, sweeping the attacker's ankles out from under him. The man hit the pavement hard. Peter loomed over him, staring at greasy blond hair and watching as the man groaned and started getting up.

For a moment, he wasn't here—he was back in that alley, staring at the murderer who took his uncle’s life. His breath hitched. The memory flashed so vividly that he had to blink hard to dispel it. The red glow of the neon sign brought him back to the present.

The man on the ground was a mess. His greasy blonde hair clung to his sweaty forehead, and his face was swollen, bruised in shades of pink and red. His clothes were disheveled, likely hiding more injuries.

Peter froze seeing this. What the hell happened? It took him one blink and the man was lying injured on the pavement. Peter closed his eyes and focused on the sound of the man’s heartbeat—steady, alive. It grounded him in some way from panicking on full force. At least, he isn’t dead as the lab docs were. He also hasn’t remembered what happened to them either. First time is an incident. Second time is a coincidence and if this will keep repeating third time that will show a pattern. Peter at this rate can just turn himself in to the police and be locked up from the society.

He noticed how the man clutched his stomach with a pained grimace and finally attempted to rise again. A quiet relief settled over him—he'd held back his punches enough for the man to be still able to rise from the ground.

The thug scrambled to his knees, his face flushed with a mix of anger and humiliation—or maybe it was just the bruises. He glared up at Peter with what seemed like pure hatred. And yet, he didn't move. Didn't run. Just stared.

Seconds stretched between them before Peter realized—it wasn't hatred at all. It was fear. A fear so great it dressed itself as loathing, trying to pass as something else, for both their sakes.

As this thought came crushing in, Peter began to start thinking about something else, anything to not let this train of thought to break him. He was very good at distracting himself.

He considered using this moment to ask for directions. The library seemed like a logical place to start. He could find a computer, check where he was, print out Google Maps, maybe grab a pen, figure out how to get to the nearest train station. Find a way home.

Peter crouched down, tilting his head slightly in a way that felt almost mocking for a man before him. The man froze, his breath hitching, as if playing dead or paralyzed might save him. But then, in a sudden burst of bravado, the man tried to spit at Peter’s face. Peter’s hand shot up, clamping the man’s mouth shut before he could succeed.

Peter’s eyes narrowed behind his broken mask. He spoke slowly, casually, his voice smooth now that his throat had healed. “Try that again, and I’ll break your jaw.” The words left his mouth and he stilled for a small second in shock as he didn’t know why he said this.

The man trembled under his grip, and Peter immediately felt a twinge of guilt, like he’d just kicked a stray dog. Still, he couldn’t back down from the bluff—not that he actually meant it. It wasn’t like he’d actually break the man’s jaw—he just didn’t want to risk another eye infection. The memory of the old man spitting in his face was still fresh, and he wasn’t eager to repeat that experience. That one was enough for a lifetime.

He eased his grip slightly, just enough for the man to mumble something in agreement. When Peter fully released him, the man coughed and stuttered, “D-Diamond District.”

“Diamond?” Peter asked, not exactly waiting for a response. “Where exactly is that?”

“Uptown,” the man croaked.

“And where’s uptown?”

“That way,” the man replied, pointing toward the flickering red THEATRE sign. Satisfied, Peter stood and stepped back. As if it was a signal, the man scrambled to his feet and bolted, disappearing into the darkness where the light didn’t reach. Peter watched him go and soon he was staring at the outlines of the building in the dark area where the light didn’t reach.

After a while, he turned and walked away. The buildings blurred past him as he kept moving, one step after another, until he found himself staring at the water's edge. Across the expanse, the outlines of distant buildings shimmered under a brighter sky. They were dazzling in comparison, and Peter realized this was the upper part of the city—home to the public library, likely the only one in town, nestled in the wealthiest borough. A place where, he guessed, people were less likely to mug him. Then again, who could say for sure? After all, wealth often attracts its own kind of crime, didn't it? Perhaps the rich part of the city had its own shadows, hidden behind the glittering facade.

Soon his walk quickened into a run. He sprinted, pausing only when traffic lights flashed red, forcing him to wait as cars surged past. Eventually, he reached another waterfront, this time lined with yachts bobbing gently in the night, under the streetlights.

The contrast between the city’s boroughs was stark, though not unexpected. Wealth and poverty always stood in sharp relief against each other. The upper district glowed with light, while the lower parts… he could only picture that street with its flickering, broken lamp.

Peter followed the fence, keeping to the right, his fingers briefly grazing the cold metal before moving to the next bar. He knew if he held on too long, his skin would freeze to it, and he’d have to rip himself free. The fence turned, and he followed. The rule for escaping a maze was simple: keep turning right, and eventually, you’d find the way out. This city was like a maze with its sprawling labyrinth of brick and shadow, its skyline broken by the grim silhouettes of gargoyles perched high above.

Between the towering skyscrapers, he caught a glimpse of a brightly lit building in the distance, its unique architecture demanding attention. A museum? Or perhaps a library? Either way, following the fence would only lead him in circles and as much as he wants to drown himself in a nearest water source he can’t do it. Instead, he set his sights on the brightly lit structure. Peter adjusted his course, heading straight for it.

His toes had long since gone numb, each attempt to wiggle them met with sluggish resistance. The cold was seeping into his bones, and the thought of curling up in a dark corner to sleep for a century, like Sleeping Beauty, crossed his mind. But he pushed the thought aside, focusing on the building ahead.

Pushing forward, he broke into a run. The wind tugged at his hoodie, pulling the hood down as his breath came in visible puffs, swirling in the frigid air. The building grew closer, its details becoming clearer with every step. Peter’s eyes began to droop, and he slapped his cheeks sharply, shaking his head to ward off the drowsiness. This was new. Never before had he felt such an overwhelming urge to sleep, as if his body were demanding to shut down mid-stride.

After what felt like hours, the building finally came into full view. Peter skidded to a halt, momentarily awestruck [1]. The monumental structure loomed over the city, its facade lined with intricate columns [2], their capitals adorned with elaborate designs reminiscent of the Greek and Roman temples he had studied for a competition to get a pass on English. It was both breathtaking and imposing.

Atop the grand entrance, carved into stone, massive letters spelled out: GOTHAM PUBLIC LIBRARY.

Peter ran up the stairs, his footsteps echoing against the stone as he ascended toward the grand entrance of the Gotham Public Library.

[1]— For the library, my description was largely inspired by comic book illustrations of the library, the existing Low Memorial Library at Columbia, and a drawing by goldenwiki2095 posted on DeviantArt:

Figure 1. Links and credit to this site and author: https://www.google.com/url?sa=i&url=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.deviantart.com%2Fgoldenkiwi2095%2Fart%2FGotham-Public-Library-1008445591&psig=AOvVaw393jCqxKEta0HKqbC7fQLT&ust=1739744381577000&source=images&cd=vfe&opi=89978449&ved=0CBcQjhxqFwoTCIjn0tzbxosDFQAAAAAdAAAAABAW*

[2] — These columns are known as Corinthian :) They are truly beautiful compared to the Tuscan, Doric, and Ionic columns.

Quick sneak peek of the Next Chapter :) I think I post them like a promise that I will write the next chapter and finish this work:

Figure 2. A snapshot of Peter Parker, deep in contemplation of his life choices, slouched against the side of a moving train bound for New York. After webbing himself to the train in a desperate escape, he’s now grappling with the bitter reality that not only does his luck suck, but his powers seem to be on an unannounced hiatus as well. (He is so unsure of them that he webbed himself for extra security and renews the webs in the fly after 2 hours.) Author’s note: According to Google Maps, the train ride from Egg Harbor City Station, NJ, to New York City takes 3 hours and 33 minutes. If Gotham were a real city located in the southernmost part of New Jersey, it would take him even longer to reach New York.

Here’s a map from Reddit showing the location of New Jersey. As you can see, Egg Harbor City is in the uppermost corner compared to Gotham (on the right side). :)

Figure 3. Gotham and Metropolis on a map. I never thought they would be so close together—I always imagined Metropolis being somewhere in Kansas…

Since I’ve included this map, let me also share my reference for Gotham’s layout. The following map was acquired from this site: https://www.deviantart.com/aspiecrow/art/Earth-46-Gotham-City-Map-666072965.*

Thank you, AspieCrow and Elven Angel! This map is incredible—the level of detail and effort that went into creating it is simply immaculate. And that’s coming from someone who, despite hours of following YouTube tutorials, still has the drawing skills of a chicken.

Figure 4 . Gotham map by AspieCrow and Elven Angel :) . Just turn the map it around to fit the map above precisely. Diamond District is in Burnley. Park Row is in Somerset.

Chapter Text

— Pinterest Quote Compilation

The computers were lined up in the far corner of the library’s first floor, while the second floor had them tucked between bookshelves. The upper two floors, however, were dedicated solely to books. Peter wandered between the shelves, eventually settling in the most secluded corner of the second floor—somewhere no one could easily see his screen.

Despite the late hour, the library was surprisingly busy. The red-haired woman seated near the exit was clearly a librarian, so her presence made sense. What surprised him more was the number of children, ranging in age from six to his age and even older. They occupied the first floor with majority of the computers being located there, playing games in hushed tones—quiet for most, but irritatingly loud to him—as they whispered to each other in uncoordinated bursts.

Some older students shared the second floor with him, where they seemed to be studying, judging by the rustling of papers, occasional murmurs, and one girl softly reciting chemical compounds. One boy, in particular, caught Peter’s attention—he was repeatedly hitting himself on the head with a book. Well, it was winter, after all, and if his memory served him right, Christmas break often meant cramming for exams. He recalled taking the SAT around this time just last year [1].

Finally, the coded program finished downloading onto the computer. It was a custom VPN he and Gwen had developed, designed to offer the best protection against hackers and masking your presence in the web into something more unsuspicious while also functioning as an advanced antivirus—a hybrid of sorts. Once it activated, Peter began his search, referencing the questions he had scribbled onto a newspaper.

The first question was obvious: What is Gotham? The top result was an article from the Gotham Times with the headline:

“Superman’s recent statement proves itself again: Gotham is indeed a nightmare of metal and stone. [2]”

Peter clicked on the link. The newspaper’s name appeared in an elegant, Gothic-inspired font—reminiscent of the New York Times but with more slashes and flourishes, the letters entwined with vine-like embellishments. The logo, however, was strikingly different: where the NYT featured a simple “T,” the Gotham Times displayed a monochromatic gargoyle encased in a circular frame. The city’s obsession with these stone guardians was unmistakable—they perched on every building, no matter how old or modern.

Unlike most major newspapers, including NYTimes, this one had no paywall, so Peter could read the full article. He scrolled down, skimming the text, though much of it was lost on him. References to unfamiliar names—clearly proper nouns, capitalized and seemingly important—stood out like glaring neon signs. By the time he reached the end, his Excel table contained over fifteen strange names from this single article.

The names were so absurd they bordered on ridiculous. Some were barely distinguishable from random words, while others sounded more like libel or slander than actual identities. The only real indication that they referred to people was the occasional mention of “them” breaking out of an asylum—often listed alongside a string of absurd aliases. And JJJameson had the nerve to criticize “Spider-Man” for lack of originality? At least he had a hyphen. “Superman” sounded like something a kid would come up with. Who willingly called themselves “super” and “man”?

Is he inhumanly buff like those bodybuilders who look like as if the meat and veins were wrapped tightly with imitation of human skin but extremely shiny? More buff than Captain America from comics? It would be so uncanny.

The article itself was brief, thanks the many-worlds interpretation of quantum mechanics [3]. You may even say that it was more of a public service announcement than a proper news piece. Just a list of names after a colon, as if assuming the reader already knew who they were. Peter found himself wondering how often these individuals escaped from what is implied to be a top-tier psychiatric facility. The name alone—Arkham Asylum—felt unsettling. The latter outdated word evoked horror stories—those archaic institutions more focused on containment than care. Places like the infamous Rolling Hills Asylum in New York State [4], where society discarded not just the mentally ill but also orphans, the elderly, and criminals, all labeled as “inmates.” They had a morgue in the same building and buried people in unmarked graves on the premises. The fact that Gotham’s institution still bore the asylum title didn’t inspire confidence. No wonder they kept breaking out.

A recent update at the bottom noted which criminals had been recaptured and which were still at large, alongside a bizarre mention of insurance policies—apparently, some Gothamites should consider themselves “lucky” this month if their coverage included recent captures like Firefly. Peter wasn’t even sure he wanted to search the information about insurance. He theoretically should have two more years before all this crap.

Peter wanted to dig deeper, but he was running out of time. At leats, it felt like it. Sometimes he thinks he hallucinates the ticking sound of the time running out and it grates on his senses and he just starts typing more quickly. He moved the document to unknown scientist’s flashcard and searched for trains back to New York. Only one was available—1 a.m., the rest canceled. He frowned and checked the cause. A search result informed him that yesterday’s Burning Gotham Project, courtesy of Firefly, had led to delays and cancellations, with a notice advising travelers to check if their tickets were affected.

Yeah, no. He wasn’t touching that mystery until he was home and well-rested—otherwise, he might be the next one needing an asylum break.

A cold sensation traced down his spine, and he rolled his shoulders. Time to wrap this up. Pulling up Google Maps, he searched for directions to the train station. Close enough—if “close” meant not having to cross districts. He took a screenshot by pressing a logo, shift and s keys simultaneously and prepared to print it.

Checking the time again, he considered buying a ticket but quickly dismissed the idea. He lacked an ID to process the purchase, didn’t have time to forge one, and even if he did, hacking the website to mark the payment as complete was more effort than he was willing to expend. Besides, his name would end up on the passenger list, and library cameras alone would catch him retrieving the printout downstairs. Too risky.

Methodically, he wiped his digital traces, transferring the last bits to his flash drive. Then, he selected the print option. Several printers were linked via Wi-Fi, giving him the ability to print wirelessly. Fortunately, that meant he didn’t have to use the downstairs computer near printers for that, which sat directly in the librarian’s line of sight (he’d noticed her typing furiously earlier). He noticed in the passing the printers had numbered labels—1 through 3 were visible from her desk. Better to go with printer 5. A golden middle.

A faint hum from downstairs suggested the document was already printing. He shut down the computer completely, grabbed a newspaper and a pen, and tucked them into the front pocket of his hoodie before heading down, hands still in his pockets.

It was too easy. Far too easy. Peter couldn’t shake the feeling that the axe was about to fall. Any second now, his spider sense would scream across the back of his neck, confirming this is it. This was what he’d been waiting for ever since bolting from the lab.

The woman still kept typing. Each keystroke grated on his nerves, feeding the headache pulsing at his temples. It felt like someone had wrapped a heated metal coil around his skull, tightening it slowly—relentlessly—until his head might burst like a watermelon under a hundred rubber bands. A gruesome image, but oddly fitting.

He passed her, stepping through the automatic glass doors into the biting wind. It tousled his hair, and for a fleeting moment, he regretted not having the built-in heating system that most people took for granted. Not that it mattered. Regret clung to him like a second skin these days—regret for his powers that had always been a double-edged sword. Spiders weren’t immortal, nor were they nature’s perfect creations—not like the precision of beehives or the Fibonacci spiral of a snail’s shell.

At the foot of the stairs, he paused, scanning the map—until he felt it. A prickle at the base of his neck. Instinctively, he rolled his shoulder, brushing his ear. Someone was watching. No, studying him—burning a hole into his back with their stare. His thoughts snapped to the boy with the katana again—or whatever kind of sword it was.

Deliberately, Peter veered off course—not left, not right, but deliberately wrong. A skewed instinct. A misdirection. And like a shadow in a mirror, the stranger adjusted course too. He slipped into a busy street, unprepared for the blinding light after the library’s dim halls. His headache flared, worsened by the gnawing hunger in his gut that bordered on nausea.

Above, in the corner of his eye, something moved across the rooftops. The buildings here were middling in height—not skyscrapers, not squat. Balanced in that middle ground. He caught a flash of the sword’s hilt—and recognition. At least this was a known threat. Maybe he’d even foot the bill for Peter’s meal. That sword, the tailored clothes, the gemstones—they all screamed money. Filthy money.

A neon Batburger sign flickered ahead, strangely out of place among the high-end boutiques and designer bags swinging from polished arms. Peter made a beeline toward it, half-hoping the shadow would follow. Someone had to cover the bill, and Peter wouldn’t feel the slightest shame about it. Maybe it was exhaustion talking. Or maybe it was that deep-seated New Yorker spite—the kind that found joy in making the rich pay.

The door chimed softly as he stepped inside. Warm air embraced him, melting part of his headache away. Then he froze. The interior of the restaurant looked more like a five-star lounge than a burger joint—gleaming surfaces, patrons draped in designer labels, even a jewel-collared dog lounging on a velvet pillow. Behind him, someone cleared their throat, and Peter stepped aside, letting a man and his kids pass.

Peter glanced down at his borrowed clothes. At least they were clean—and thanks to a quirk of his powers, he didn’t sweat. Things could be worse. He could’ve been poor and smell bad. People like him survived on appearances. A tidy look. A fake-brand cologne. Passable enough to blend in with the Adam Sandlers of the world in basketball shorts and flip-flops.

A waiter in bright yellow tights rushed over and asked, “Do you have a reservation?”

A reservation. At a place with burger in the name. It was like booking a table at Jack in the Box. Absurd. But of course, Peter had none.

Eventually, they stuck him in a lonely corner—table for one. Not five minutes in, the sensation returned. This time, closer. Watching.

He scanned the room: a waiter jotting down orders, the soft clack of laptop keys, and the faint slurp of someone trying to drink from an already-empty cup. Then Peter’s gaze landed on him.

Dark glasses masked the boy’s expression, and the sword was nowhere in sight—though Peter doubted it was far. Tucked under the table, maybe, or hidden in the absurdly tall potted plant conveniently beside him. His spider-sense hadn’t so much as twitched to warn him. Or maybe it had, drowned out by the constant low-grade dread that came with simply existing in this city.

Dismissing him for now, Peter flipped open the garish menu and almost laughed. A cartoon bat glared up at him, its wings besieged by a pecking songbird. The exaggerated sigh, the cartoonishly downturned eyes—whoever drew this had a vicious sense of humour.

The options were overwhelming—in the best way. Burgers, fries, salads, and drinks, each offered in multiple variations. A single burger came in beef, halal chicken, or vegan. Fries too. One version, “Jokerized,” came crinkle-cut with American cheese sauce (allegedly dyed green with matcha), ketchup and halal ground turkey. He couldn’t help but grin. Maybe—just maybe—he was starting to like this city. A little.

The menu was a novelty in itself—clever names, bold colors, designs bursting with personality. Every item sounded mouthwatering. Peter weighed his options: Sweet & Sinister or Jokerized Fries with Harlequin Dusting, the Laughing Coward Burger or The Duality Bite. Even the milkshakes had him tempted to order one of everything. Maybe he would—limiting himself to two of each item. Salad didn’t count.

It felt strange, being this unbothered. Just… being, without second-guessing every move. Usually, whenever Harry offered to pay, Peter would tie himself in knots about it. Especially without the mask. Spider-Man carried himself with easy confidence. Peter Parker? Not so much.

Or—was the mask still on?

His fingers twitched toward his face. He couldn’t remember. Exhaustion had crept in so quietly, it might’ve stripped away more than just his filter. Maybe it peeled off his caution, too.

Peter glanced up. The boy was still there. Had Peter not known better, he might’ve mistaken him for just another costumer. If Peter didn’t still feel the echo of their earlier encounter, he might’ve believed it. But when he stood, the boy’s stance adjusted—feet subtly angled, weight shifted ever so slightly. Ready to follow should Peter make a sudden exit.

Peter dropped into the chair across from him, menu still in hand. For a split second, surprise flickered across the boy’s face. It was enough to make Peter want to laugh, but he held it in. Wouldn’t end well, he reasoned. This was absolutely the type to skewer someone over a smirk.

Best to play harmless.

“Would you buy me some food?” he asked, then remembered—belatedly—that manners existed. “Please.”

If May had seen him, she absolutely would’ve scolded him. But she wasn’t here.

The guy didn't move. His chin tilted up slightly, lips pressing into a thin line. Peter couldn’t see his eyes under those dark lenses, but the slight pull of his mouth, the angle of his jaw, and the way his shoulders shifted—rigid and just a little higher—gave it away. He was frowning. Peter would bet his left web-shooter on it.

The silence dragged.

“Why should I?” Dark glasses finally asked, voice clipped, like he was already annoyed he'd wasted a full sentence.

“For cooperation,” he said breezily, tapping the laminated corner. “And, you know, mental compensation. I’ve been through a lot today. You trailing me around like a brooding crow doesn’t exactly help with the anxiety.”

He didn’t say anything, but the gloved fingers resting on the table tensed just slightly, the leather creaking ever so faintly. Not a lot of people noticed those tiny cues. Peter did. Years of reading body language while hanging upside down taught him that. That, and his feelings weren’t just enhanced—they were wired differently.

“No?” Peter tried again. “How about this. You buy the meal, I don’t fight back and make a dramatic scene about an assassin stalking a poor, tired citizen of US just trying to get his daily intake of calories.And, in return, you get questions. One per item I order. Fair trade, yeah?”

A beat passed. Two.

Then—

“Fine.”

Peter blinked. “Wait. Seriously?”

The walking frown nodded once, crisp and exact. “Order. Quickly.”

Peter held back a grin and slid into the seat across from him like he’d just won a Nobel Prize, “Okay, okay. Let’s see…”

He picked up the tablet-like screen tucked into the menu holder and started tapping options. “Laughing Coward Burger—because, same. Sweet & Sinister Fries and Jokerized ones with extra Harlequin Dusting, a Duality Bite just to recover better from having a sword thrown at me, and... oh, the Acid Pop and Harlequin Heartbreak milkshakes.”

Peter paused. “So... sixish questions?”

Stealthy McScowlface said nothing. Of course he didn’t. He sat there like he was carved from weaponized judgment.

Peter offered the tablet across the table. “Want to order something too? Or do brooding shadows not get hungry?”

Without a word, it was snatched from his hand. Sword Boy tapped a few selections, precise and fast, and handed it back.

Peter didn’t mind. He’d fought villains with more emotional range.

“Alright,” Peter confirmed as the tablet was handed back to him. He looked and tapped the green ‘Order Now’ button with a little flourish. “Dinner for one—and lurking menace. On you. Bless your generous soul.”

A soft exhale through the nose. Barely audible.

Peter leaned back, hands behind his head. Life, at least for now, was good.

Silence.

“…You’re glaring at me right now, aren’t you?”

Silence.

“Thought so.”

Peter nearly clapped when the food arrived, eyes wide, mouth practically watering. The trays were heavy, their contents sprawling across the table like a carnival fever dream—chaotic, brilliant, and borderline unhinged. Food practically buried the table in color, texture, and heat. It looked like a glitter bomb had gone off in a lunatic’s kitchen. His stomach let out a desperate groan, and honestly? Same.

Earlier, the hunger had been so intense his stomach felt like it had folded in on itself, fogging his brain into sluggishness—as if he were teetering on the edge of a food-deprived vegetative state or coma. Realistically, one day without food for him probably equaled four or five for an average person. More if he was injured. The thought struck him for the first time—was he injured? He couldn’t remember.

At least he could still eat without getting sick. One of those odd spider-enhanced quirks: a furnace of a metabolism and the ability to recover from near-starvation without nausea or gut rebellion. He just needed fuel—enough to convince his body all was fine. Research had backed it up too—something about how spiders could gain mass fast after being starved. He vaguely remembered reading that in a research paper. Or maybe hearing it from someone who read the paper. Perhaps, it was Gwen or Ned? Whatever. It tracked.

So he did exactly that. He ate.

“Were you starved or what?” the Prince of Petty asked, voice dry as desert heat as he tucked cash into the bill holder and snapped it shut.

Peter, already shoveling food into his mouth, hovered a hand over his lips, chewing aggressively. “Yeah, and what?” he managed, his eyebrows twitching upward—or at least attempting to. Years of neutral expressions behind glasses and overgrown bangs had left his default face somewhere between unbothered corpse and confused frown. Not that it ever stopped bullies—they were like vultures, always poking at him as he pretended to be some dead opossum. The mask he created was far more expressive than his face.

He stabbed a fork into a cluster of Jokerized Fries, still sizzling, their crinkle-cut edges catching the neon light like golden shards. They crackled perfectly—crispy outside, pillowy inside, each piece drowned in molten cheese and dotted with a magenta aioli that had a tangy, faintly earthy flavor. Pickled taste, but not too pickled. The plate was dusted in a diamond checkerboard of red and green: paprika for the former, and matcha salt for the latter. First time trying it, and honestly, not bad. The grassy sharpness played oddly well against the heat. Unexpected. The dirty fries also had black sesame seeds on top, which probably existed on the dish more for drama than flavor.

Only after clearing the plate did he notice it was shaped like a grin—wide, painted lips and all. Joker-themed, obviously. Though now that he thought about it, had he ever seen a Joker card with an actual smile? Probably not.

As he moved the plate aside, his tablemate plucked with a napkin-covered hand something from the dish’s corner, and slid it toward him. A plastic-wrapped playing card. Peter, gloves slick with burger grease, clamped his teeth around the edge (the sauce used on fries still tasted amazing solo), tore the wrapper, and pulled out the card with clean barehanded hand. A stylized Joker card: full-teeth grin, Xs for eyes, and a female clown in a diamond-patterned suit wielding an oversized hammer. So maybe there were smiling Joker cards. Dead ones too, apparently.

He held it up. “Do they give different cards every time?”

The other boy barely acknowledged him. A shrug. Then a turn of the head, dismissive and final. Wow. Rude.

Next came the Laughing Coward Burger—a tower of glistening excess. The brioche bun was scorched with blood-red streaks, toasted to a golden brown. Inside: a deep-fried jalapeño mac-and-cheese patty that oozed molten cheese, balanced precariously over a thick beef patty dripping with sriracha honey and wasabi mayo. One bite in, and his lips were on fire. He gasped through the heat, the wasabi burned up the back of his mouth, and the sriracha’s sticky heat danced at the tip of his tongue.

He downed half of the Harlequin Heartbreak milkshake to cool the flames—strawberry base, swirled with black charcoal fudge in a swirl of pink and shadow. It was so cold it made his teeth ache, but it is exactly what he needed. He rotated back to the burger for a third bite. Pickles snapped under his teeth. Crispy shallots crumbled like smoky confetti, tying the whole messy construction together. He alternated sips and bites until only cake crumbles and a sour cherry on whipped cream remained from the shake and nothing from the burger. A tiny cookie mallet sat beside it like a punchline.

Snapping fingers yanked him back to reality. "What?" Peter asked, sliding another burger closer.

"Who are you?"

Peter bit into The Duality Bite—a burger half culinary experiment, half visual gimmick. The bun was split down the middle: one side green, the other purple, like a Pinterest idea gone rogue. Should he be honest?

Inside the burger, one half brimmed with BBQ pulled beef—sticky, smoky, laced with brown sugar and chipotle. The other held spicy tofu crumbles, deceptively mild-looking, but hellishly hot. He swallowed, then chased it with the Acid Pop milkshake—lime sherbet and coconut milk blended to a glowing radioactive green, with popping candy fizzing on his tongue.

“Peter Quill,” He blurted it out too quickly.

Oh for— He might as well have said "Star-Lord" with jazz hands. A comic character? Seriously? What was he thinking?

He chewed slowly, trying to buy time. Mr. Heathcliff across the table narrowed his eyes, neon catching in his lashes like steel from his sword.

“You’re lying.”

Peter stayed silent. The guy didn’t press further—probably because he was confident he could find out the truth on his own.

"Your accent's New York. Which borough?"

"Manhattan."

One eyebrow ticked upward.

“Which part?”

Peter blinked. “Uh… the ‘Welcome to Hell’s Kitchen’ part?”

"What powers do you have?"

“I can finish a milkshake before the paper straw melts. Top-tier metabolism.”

“What were you doing in the lab?”

“Being kidnapped.” That one, at least, was honest.

There was the smallest twitch in boy’s eye—irritation or amusement, impossible to say. He leaned in slightly, like proximity alone might force compliance.

Fifth question.

“Why did you run from me?”

Peter’s pause was half a second too long. Suspicious. He masked it with a shrug and chased a fry across his plate.

"Because you threw the sword and were chasing me?”

"You were already cowering in the shadows long before you saw me.”

A pop hissed in the ear of murder boy—his comms crackling to life. Someone was trying to contact him. Mic’s been in his ear this whole time? Huh.

Peter used the moment to stuff his mouth with burger, flashing his most innocent ‘Who, me?’ look. The interruption likely saved him from being stabbed; he'd swear he saw red glint in the boy's gaze.

"Five questions," Peter tapped the side of his drink. "One left and we’re done."

Just then, the voice on the other end garbled—robotic, clipped. “Joker announced the start of his show.”

Peter blinked. One second, the guy across the table grabbed his wrist. The next, a pair of handcuffs clicked into place, tethering him to a dark red chain divider between booths.

“Hey!” He rattled them. Real cuffs. Not the cheap bad quality kind you buy online. Better quality than most law enforcement gear, which cemented in his mind that this guy has money.

“Sit and finish your food.”

“The desserts are yours.” Peter said in confusion.

“Are they?”

Peter called after him as the shadow disappeared. He looked at the desserts, then reached for the menu. Sundae of Psychological Trauma and The Midnight Victory. Huh.

He eyed desserts, then flagged down a bat-eared waitress. "To-go boxes, please? Thank you."

She nodded, vanished, and returned moments later with takeout containers and a paper bag. Peter packed everything with one hand, poured the rest of his milkshake into a plastic cup, sealed it, and scooped up a small flag that had fallen from the dessert.

Why did the villain get kicked out of the party?

He flipped it.

They brought a bang and a boom but forgot the punchline.

Peter chuckled under his breath.

Then he stared at the cuffs. Should he break them? Would that be suspicious? Was this a test? The camera had perfect angles. Smart bastard. Dislocate his thumb? However, breaking his finger and slipping out would show him that he has super healing. How would normal people react? Would they still feel pain much later after they put their thumb back? Would they go to the hospital to check their hand? He never even tried dislocating his thumb when he wasn't a mutant to know for sure how to behave. This option was too risky.

He eyed a fork on the table, got an idea. With his back to the camera, he used it to pick the lock. When it popped, Peter dumped the fork and handcuffs into the bag and kept his back turned to the camera the entire time.

He waved at the camera once and sauntered out at a normal pace, only running full speed once he was out of sight of the cameras.

The wait wasn't long, and the train arrived. It was very cold. The train's roar vibrated in his bones as he leaped aboard. Minutes later, as it picked up speed—the rhythmic clunk of the rails steady beneath him—Peter webbed himself and the bag to the side of the car, out of view, and let his eyes close. Sleep pulled him under.

He woke later, gasping as his spider-sense shrieked.

Figure 1.  Peter internally in Barburger.

Figure 2. Hello, rat-infested NYC, never shown in photos. Home sweet home. And yeah, NYC has 3 million resilient rats that have cemented their place as native New Yorkers.