Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The city of New York never sleeps, and Peter, who could recognize every corner of the town with his eyes closed, was patrolling on Christmas Eve to make sure no tragedy that could scar a family or a person on a day that should be pure happiness would happen.
It had been just over a year since Parker Luck had attacked his life in the worst way possible, months of loneliness and unwanted independence. He still had nightmares about May's death and his uncontrolled, rage-filled attack on the Green Goblin. In some of them, he became a murderer, staining his hands with blood that would never wash off and would haunt him for the rest of his life. In others, May looked at him with scorn for causing her death, for being selfish and immature, and for not considering the consequences of his "game" as a hero, leading her to a tragic fate.

Peter was sincerely tired, far too tired, but he knew his city needed him. He couldn't leave New York without Spider-Man, and he couldn't disappoint the people who had believed in him in the past… Happy, MJ, Ned… May and Tony. Even though none of them could really express it anymore—after all, half of them were dead, and the rest didn't remember him.
It had been exactly a year since the last time he tried to talk to MJ; it clearly hadn't worked, and a part of him was relieved by that. He didn't want to drag her back into the chaos of his life and responsibilities. She had already been on the brink of death once because of him; he couldn't be so immature and selfish as to test fate again.

The time on the closed coffee shop he passed indicated that Christmas Eve would arrive in less than 15 minutes. The streets were quite empty compared to the usually crowded New York. People were probably at home with their families and/or friends. He, on the other hand, had the luxury of roaming the avenues with no one waiting for him and an empty notification tray, except for maybe a message from his landlord reminding him about the rent for his tiny apartment due on January first.

He kept swinging between buildings until midnight struck. He sat down on a random rooftop and observed from above. He could see through apartment windows some families having dinner and chatting, excited children dancing, probably to a Christmas carol, and an elderly couple sitting side by side, dozing off.

What he was admiring was a reality tremendously different from his own. In his fantasies, he pretended to still have the life he once had, to make some nights feel less cold when loneliness and agony tormented him. But everything has its consequences. He had made a logical and rational decision for the first time, and he now had to live with the consequences of it, no matter how much he felt torn apart inside every day.

He stayed still for a few more minutes before deciding to return to his apartment (not a home, he didn't know if he would ever have one again). The night was getting colder, and Peter felt his muscles tightening from the low temperature. He took a quick route until he landed on his building, discreetly climbing down to his always-open window and slipping into his room.
He took off the suit and put on his sleepwear. He was so tired from the day's hustle that he fell into the arms of Morpheus in less than 2 minutes.

Unfortunately, sleep was a brief, bland parenthesis in his routine. Five hours of unconsciousness, sometimes six if the city allowed it, and then the alarm clock would wrench him back to reality. By 6:00 a.m., Peter was already awake, making his coffee to start the day right.
But when 7 a.m. came, he decided to go out to take some photos of Spider-Man that Jameson had requested, taking advantage of the fact that there weren't many people around since it was December 25th.

He was already several blocks away from his building when something caught his attention. It was a high-pitched whine, so piercing it made his molars vibrate. It wasn't the city's usual noise. This sound had a strange quality, almost organic, as if the air itself was tearing.
Instinctively, he swung toward the source of the sound. What he found in an industrial alley not far from his location took his breath away. A hunched figure, dressed in a coat of dirty rags and twisted metal plates, was manipulating a pulsating artifact floating in the air. That definitely couldn't be made from Earth technology. Spirals of dark purple metal twisted around a core of green, throbbing energy that emitted the whine. Peter recognized the fragments: they were Chitauri debris, combined with Damage Control weapon components and... something else. Something that emitted an energy signature that made the hair on his neck stand up.

"Hey!" shouted Peter, landing silently. "What do you think you're doing with that? That doesn't look very 'home-safe'."
The figure turned. Its eyes, visible through a crack in an improvised helmet, burned with a fanatical fever.
"You don't understand!" it screeched, its voice distorted. "They showed me... showed me how to escape this prison! How to weave reality!"
Its fingers, fitted with worn black leather gloves, closed around the energy core.
"They gave me this! The Essence of Symkaria!" it shouted, clearly confusing the origin of the alien materials. "I'm going to create a new world!"
Peter lunged, but he was too late.
The man—more of a mad scientist than a villain—activated the device.

There was no explosion. Instead, the world came undone. The sound cut out. The light stretched into impossible streaks. Peter felt a cosmic nausea, as if every atom of his body was being unraveled and put back in place over and over again.
The artifact, unable to handle the energy it was meant to control, collapsed in on itself, wiping out its creator and opening an unstable wormhole right beneath Spider-Man.

The last sensation Peter felt was being thrown into an airless abyss, while the reality around him reassembled into a completely new nightmare. The whine ceased, replaced by an ominous silence and the constant drip of rain in an alley of a city which he recognized was not his own.

Chapter Text

The first thing he perceived was the pain. A dull, throbbing fire in his right shoulder, as if a red-hot nail had been driven into the joint. The second thing he noticed was the freezing, damp cold, so penetrating it crept up his spine and seeped into his bones. Lastly, he focused on the smell; with his enhanced senses, he perceived hundreds of unpleasant odors—soot, gas, urine, and garbage among them. It was a direct assault on his nostrils, so intense he could swear it also seeped and settled on his palate, leaving a disgusting sensation.

Peter lay on his back, on something soft and stinking. His eyelids weighed a ton, but he managed to open them just enough to see a dirty, starless night sky, tinged orange by the light pollution of a city he didn't recognize.

No... New York...

The thought was a weak flicker, drowned by a new wave of nausea. He tried to move, but his body didn't respond. He was just a bag of numb muscles and shattered nerves, abandoned in a forgotten alley.

Then, a sound.

Not the constant drip of rain or the distant wail of sirens. This was different. Soft. Deliberate. The almost imperceptible crunch of a boot on wet gravel. Someone was approaching. And they moved with a terrifying stillness.

The buzz of his spider-sense was a distant, distorted pulse, like a badly tuned radio. He couldn't tell if it was a threat, only that something was there.

Peter tried to lift his head. He failed. His vision blurred, the edges darkening. He could only listen.

The footsteps stopped. Not right beside him, but a few meters away. A calculated pause. An assessment.

"Wow."

A voice. Masculine. Young. It wasn't harsh or distorted, but it carried a weight of experience, of having seen too much. It sounded... tired and maybe irritated.

Peter struggled to form a word, a warning, anything. Only a weak groan escaped his lips.

He heard the whisper of fabric against the ground as the figure moved closer and crouched beside him. He could feel them looking at him, studying him like a puzzle fallen from the sky.

"You're not exactly the usual kind of trash one finds around here," the voice murmured, more to himself than to Peter.

A silence. Peter felt consciousness slipping away from him like water through his fingers.

"Can you hear me?" the voice asked, a little louder, more direct.

Peter managed a trembling nod, a millimeter each way. Yes.

However, he wasn't able to add anything else. His last coherent thought was filled with uncertainty, praying he hadn't fallen into the wrong hands and that, for the first time, Parker Luck would be on his side to compensate for everything it had already put him through.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The pain came first, again. But this time it was a constant, dull throb, not a sharp stab. The cold had receded a bit, replaced by the rough rub of a wool blanket against his body. The smell had changed too: to dust, old wood, and stagnant dampness. He could also faintly perceive two immature scents, one sweet, almost imperceptible, and a stronger, rougher one.

Peter opened his eyes.

He was lying on a thin mattress on the floor. The room he was in was small, the walls exposed brick splotched with patches of missing plaster. A weak fall of snow filtered through a dirty window, enough to create a small accumulation on the floor. It wasn't a welcoming place, but it was dry and, most importantly, he was unharmed (if you ignored the probable shoulder wound, nothing else seemed seriously wrong).

He took a mental inventory. The Spider-Man suit was still on, though someone had covered him with the blanket. What wasn't present was his mask; that worried him a lot. His identity couldn't be at risk again. He raised his head and scanned the entire room. He found nothing; the room contained nothing but him and the mattress he was lying on. He tested moving his right arm and suppressed a groan. The shoulder protested with a dull fury, but movement was possible. Plus, someone had bandaged it in a crude but effective way.

The sound of a whispered conversation alerted him. It came from what was probably the living room. He slowly got to his feet and approached the door slowly; it was already ajar, but he couldn't see beyond a worn, old armchair. He decided to open the door completely to see his apparent rescuers. There, leaning against a wall with his arms crossed, was a boy. He couldn't be more than fifteen or fourteen. He wore a worn hoodie and jeans ripped at the knees. His face was thin, angular, and maintained a near-permanent scowl of annoyance. This, Peter assumed, was the young man he'd heard in the alley before losing consciousness.

Clearly, he wasn't alone; he'd heard two people just seconds ago. A movement from the boy alerted him—he was already looking at him, seeming about to say something, when, to his left, emerging from what looked like a kitchen, appeared a younger girl, maybe twelve years old. She was holding a glass of water in her palms and seemed to notice her companion's attention was elsewhere immediately. She turned, observing him with large, dark eyes that didn't blink. She had straight black hair, and her clothes, though clean, were as worn as the boy's.

"You're awake," the girl said. Her voice was a whisper, but not a timid one. It was cautious.

Peter nodded slowly, not taking his eyes off them. His spider-sense was buzzing slightly, keeping him alert. Still, he didn't feel any immediate danger, just a vigilant tension.

"Where...?" he began to say, but the word came out as a croak. His throat was as dry as sandpaper.

The girl approached him with fluid movements, like a little ghost. She offered him the glass of water she was carrying. Peter wanted to refuse out of caution, but his throat was burning, so he ended up accepting it with his left hand, drinking eagerly until the cold liquid soothed his throat.

"We're in Gotham," the boy said from the corner, looking at him. His voice was deeper than Peter had imagined, laden with a cynicism that sounded unnatural in someone so young. "The warehouse district, near Miller Dock, is the nice part." He was clearly saying the last part with marked sarcasm.

Gotham. He tried to rack his brains, but nothing came to mind—not in the United States, nor in the world in general. He had never heard of this city. He decided to ask to confirm anyway; after all, he didn't know the names of every city in the world.

"Are we in the United States?" Peter tried to ask, his voice still weak but laden with a desperate urgency.

"What?" the boy responded, his face a mask of confusion and surprise. "Of course we are. What other hell do you think we could be in?" He made a vague gesture with his hand, as if trying to say, Are you stupid or what?

But Peter wasn't deterred. He needed confirmation. "Is there a president or...?" He left the question open to see what response the teenager would give.

The boy, whom Peter now noticed looked Asian, arched an eyebrow, looking at him as if he'd started speaking in an unknown language. "Hey, did you get hit in the head or something? What planet are you from? Yeah, we have a president. We live in a democracy, or at least that's what they make us believe." He paused and added, with a cynicism that sounded like a common refrain: "Although in Gotham it's sometimes hard to tell the difference."

Peter ignored the comment about his origin. His mind, despite the fog of pain, was racing, searching for any piece of data that would let him measure the depth of the abyss he'd fallen into. He knew every city in his country; he'd learned them for the Decathlon and to get a good grade in geography, and he was sure Gotham wasn't on the map. Yet, this boy didn't seem to be lying; on the contrary, he seemed very frank and had even spoken with disgust about his city. He decided to keep searching for more information.

"And... New York?" he asked, holding his breath. "Does it exist?"

It was the question of a castaway asking for the nearest solid ground.

The boy frowned, his annoyance giving way to genuine bewilderment. "New York? Of course it exists. Why wouldn't it?" He leaned forward a little, his dark eyes scrutinizing Peter with renewed intensity. "Hey, seriously. What happened to you? Did they brainwash you or something?"

The confirmation was another blow, but of a different nature. He wasn't in a completely alien world, but perhaps in an alternate version, a distorted reflection of his own home. A United States with a city called Gotham that, from what he could feel in the air and infer from the teenager's statements, was dark, oppressive, and hopeless.

Peter didn't respond. He couldn't. His gaze lost itself in the cracks of the brick ceiling, calculating the implications. If this were a parallel United States, the laws of physics, history, and everything could be slightly different. Would there be a Spider-Man here? Judging by the kids' attitude towards him, he could almost guarantee not, and if there was, he was different. On the other hand, would there be a Tony Stark? The possibility was both terrifying and tempting.

The boy exchanged a look with the girl, who seemed to be his sister. Both had East Asian features, with dark eyes, fair skin, and very straight black hair. The girl's initial distrust had transformed into an uncomfortable curiosity. To her, this stranger wasn't just injured and lost; he was also fundamentally disconnected, like a puzzle missing structural pieces.

"What's your name?" she asked, her soft voice breaking the charged silence.

Peter wasn't sure about giving his real name. After everything that happened with Mysterio and his identity being exposed, he preferred to be much more cautious. Even if these kids didn't seem like bad people, he'd learned he could no longer trust that alone.

"Ben," he whispered, clinging to the memory of one of the men who marked his life. "Well, actually, Benjamin. Benjamin Reilly." He chose a last name at random, one he'd once heard belonged to a famous actor in his world.

The boy nodded slowly, committing the name to memory. "Alright, Benjamin Reilly. You're lucky we found you and not some gang. They would have skinned you or kidnapped you to get the most out of you." He paused, looking him over carefully again, as if evaluating whether he was worthy of his trust. Then his sister spoke.

"I'm Maya. Maya Kaito." She gestured with her head towards her brother. "And the grumpy one is my brother, Finn."

The girl, Maya, gave Peter a slight smile, her large dark eyes still studying him, but with less caution and more curiosity.

Finn snorted, looking somewhat uncomfortable that his sister had revealed their names. He turned his gaze back to Peter with an almost physical intensity.

"Luck is a resource that runs out, Ben," said Finn, his voice low but full of meaning. "And in Gotham especially, it doesn't last." He took a step forward, and Peter noticed for the first time how tall the boy was for his age, and how his movements had the efficiency of someone who had learned to conserve energy for what really mattered: survival.

"Your belongings are safe," Finn added.

This last comment finally made Peter remember that when he encountered the lunatic with the invention, he had his backpack with his camera and some money inside.

Finn kept talking. "I kept them. Not for you, but because it's the only thing you had on you, and maybe you'd have something to give us... for... our hospitality." Immediately after, he pointed with his chin towards a chair in their dining area. His yellow backpack was there, dirty and even damp in some parts, but there.

Finn continued speaking to him. "Listen, like I said, luck in Gotham is almost non-existent, so debts get paid in this city. The roof, the bandage, the water... everything has a cost."

Maya shifted uncomfortably but remained silent, her eyes going from her brother to Peter and back again.

"How much?" Peter asked, the word coming out automatically.

Finn sketched a crooked smile, a gesture that didn't reach his eyes. "That depends. On how fast you recover. On how useful those... abilities of yours are, for you to end up here, with that wound I'm pretty sure was much deeper a few hours ago." He made a dramatic pause. "A meta in Gotham is dangerous, but also very useful."

Without waiting for a response, Finn turned and headed towards the small kitchen, leaving Peter standing in the middle of the living room, feeling the weight of every word. Maya threw him one last look, a mixture of pity and warning, before following her brother.

Peter was left alone, staring at the door they had disappeared. Finn had called him a 'meta'. Peter had no idea what he was talking about, but what was evident was that the boy had noticed he healed far too quickly to be normal.

The buzz of his spider-sense had subsided a little, but a new alert, deeper and more visceral, was taking its place. It wasn't the immediate danger of a villain or a bullet, but the slow, constant threat of a city that devoured hope. Benjamin Reilly took a deep breath, the dusty air filling his lungs. Peter Parker was buried under layers of pain, lies, and now an unpaid debt. And Gotham, indifferent, was beginning to close its jaws around him.

Chapter Text

The background buzz in his senses faded to a persistent whisper; he could hear the small, old-fashioned TV showing the news and the siblings moving around in the kitchen. Peter stood motionless in the center of the empty living room, the weight of Finn's words still lingering in his mind.

He had called him a Meta.

The word echoed in his head, empty of meaning yet heavy with implications. Finn had seen him. He had noticed his unnatural recovery, and instead of looking surprised, he seemed rather pleased, as if it were useful.

His eyes wandered around the room until they landed on the dining chair Finn had pointed to a few minutes earlier. His yellow backpack, a familiar splash of color in the gray gloom, was there. He approached it and visually scanned its contents. Everything was messy, but nothing seemed to be missing: his formula notebooks, now illegible to anyone but him, and his camera, miraculously intact. At the bottom, in a hidden compartment even Finn hadn't found, he located what he was looking for: a crumpled wad of bills. Eighty dollars, he had planned to use to buy parts and make more of his web fluid.

He held them in his hand and hesitated. The simplest, most visceral idea was to grab the money and the camera and walk out the door. To lose himself in the bowels of Gotham and find his own way. But then he looked around, at the peeling walls, the dust floating in the air, the cold seeping through the cracks. He didn't know the rules of this hellhole. He didn't know what creatures lurked in its shadows, who the players were, or where to find shelter. He was a ghost in a world of predators, and Finn and Maya, however dangerous they might be (which Peter didn't really think they were, but he still had to be cautious), were the only ones who had seen him and helped him so far.

He made a decision.

With firm steps, he headed to the kitchen. Finn and Maya were standing by a rusty sink, sharing what looked like a can of cold soup. Finn looked at him immediately, his eyes assessing, wary. Maya shot him a softer look, almost apologetic.

Now that he thought about it, it made sense why Finn was so tall, even though his face didn't look a day over 15. Only now, paying close enough attention, did he perceive a very likely Alpha essence emanating from him. Unlike his sister, whose subtle scent indicated she was a Beta.

Without a word, Peter extended his hand with the eighty dollars. Then, he separated fifty and offered it to Finn.

"It's all the cash I have," Peter said, his voice firmer now. "I honestly appreciate your help. I was lucky you found me first."

Finn took the money without taking his eyes off him, slipping the bills into his pocket with a quick motion. "Don't look at me," he grumbled. "She was the one who really wanted to bring you here. If it were up to me, I'd have left you in that alley."

"Thank you anyway," Peter repeated. A moment later, he took a deep breath, looking alternately at Finn and Maya to tell them the decision he had made. "I want to stay. Indefinitely. I have... my reasons. And I can help. For real."

Maya's eyes widened slightly, a spark of hope lighting up her face. Finn frowned, crossing his arms.

"Stay and help? How? With your charming conversations about geography?" Finn said sarcastically, referencing their earlier talk. "No," he said, staring him down. "We don't know you. You're only here because you were hurt and a hospital wasn't an option."

"Please, I understand you don't trust me, really, but I don't know this place and I have no way to get home soon," said Peter, ignoring the burning starting to form in his eyes. "Let me help you, and in turn, help me too. I'm asking you."

He fell silent, waiting for an answer. When none came, he continued.

"Listen," Peter insisted, directing his gaze at Maya, knowing she would be more receptive. "You know this city. I don't. But I know how to defend myself, and I can do many other things. I'll pay you, I swear. Just... give me a chance," he finally said, breathlessly.

It was Maya who answered, her voice a soft thread. "Stay," she said, looking at him with understanding.
"But Maya…" Finn tried to retort, but Maya cut him off with a firm look, finally saying, "I choose to believe him, Finn, and this is my home too. I get to decide."

Finn was silent for a long moment, his dark eyes moving from the determination on Maya's face to the silent plea in Peter's. Finally, he let out a snort, a sound of defeat that was more of an "alright, but I don't like it" than genuine acceptance.

"Fine," he conceded, his voice rough. "You can stay. But the rules are clear. You pay your share, you help with whatever's needed, and you don't bring trouble. One mistake and you're out." His gaze was a warning seared in fire. "And 'knowing how to defend yourself' is not a plan. Gotham eats alive those who only know how to fight."

Peter nodded, the tension in his shoulders easing a little. "I understand."

It was then that his gaze, searching for something to hold onto, landed on the small TV still tuned to the news channel. A reporter, with a serious face, was talking about a foiled bank robbery attempt in the financial district.

"...the intervention of Batman and Orphan prevented what could have been a major tragedy," the reporter's voice said, while blurry, shaky images taken from a distance with a telephoto lens showed two silhouettes moving among the flashes of police lights. They were just dark smudges against a backdrop of chaos.

Peter assumed that Batman and Orphan were the heroes of this world; he had never heard of them before, but they seemed to be well-known figures here. He kept watching, and an idea began to form in his mind, as clear and inevitable as the solution to a physics problem. It wasn't a grand plan, but the only one his skills allowed him to glimpse.

"Those photos," Peter said, pointing his chin at the screen. His voice was firmer now, finding a thread of certainty in the chaos. "They're bad. Really bad."

Finn, who was still watching him distrustfully, frowned. "So? You an art critic now?"

"No," Peter replied, ignoring the comment. His gaze was still fixed on the screen, analyzing the angles, the lack of definition. "I'm a photographer. Or... I was. In my city, I sold photos to newspapers. Photos like those, but... good. Clear. Of things people want to see but no one can capture well."

He took a risk, looking directly at Finn. "Crime. Chaos. Heroes…"

The change in Finn was instantaneous. His skepticism cracked, revealing a spark of greedy interest underneath. He straightened up, his Alpha posture now focused on a tangible possibility, on a value he could quantify.

"Photos," Finn repeated, the word sounding like hard cash. "Of them?" His gesture towards the television said it all. The bats. The specters that ruled Gotham's night.

Peter nodded slowly. "If I can get a clear shot, from an angle no one else has... a close-up of a fight, a silhouette against the moon..."

"Okay," Finn interrupted him, his mind already calculating odds and profits. "The Gotham Gazette... or any sleazy tabloid, would pay an arm and a leg for something like that. Especially a good one of the Bat. Or that violent guy with the red helmet." He said the last part with a tone that almost sounded like admiration.

"It's very dangerous, Finn," murmured Maya, her voice laden with genuine concern.

"Breathing in Gotham is dangerous," her brother retorted, not taking his eyes off Peter. "But this is a risk with a reward. If you're as good as you say, and you have the guts and the agility to get close enough without getting torn in half..." His look was a final challenge and evaluation. Prove it, it said.

Peter felt the weight of the opportunity. It wasn't just about paying a debt; it was about earning a place and surviving in a world that devoured the weak. It was risking being seen by the bigger predators to avoid being the prey of the smaller ones.

"I can do it," Peter stated, and this time the confidence in his voice was real. It was the certainty of a scientist who had found the right variable in the equation.

Finn nodded, once, abruptly. "Tomorrow. I'll take you to a hot spot, a place where you sometimes see... movement. We'll see if your camera is worth as much as your word, Ben." He turned and headed down the hall, entering a room that Peter could assume was Finn's. The conversation was over.

Maya gave Peter a small, tense smile before offering him something to eat. He accepted, and she turned to look for something on the shelves.

Peter was left thinking, with the buzz of the city filtering through the walls. He looked at his camera, then at the blurry, shaky image still on the TV screen. He took a deep breath, feeling the cold weight of the metal and glass in his hands. This was his move. The only one he had for now.

The following night, as the city draped itself in its darkest cloak, Finn guided Peter through a maze of rooftops and fire escapes. They were dressed in dark clothes to blend with the night. Peter wore clothes the teenager had lent him; the pants were a bit long, and he had to roll up the sleeves of the sweatshirt, but the rest fit his body well. This bruised his ego a little; Peter wasn't short, he was of average height at 5'8", but Finn's secondary gender had definitely helped him, reaching 5'10" at just sixteen years old. He knew this because he had officially asked both siblings their ages; Maya was thirteen, and Finn was sixteen. In return for this show of trust, he ended up giving them his real age too. But he had to endure the brat's teasing about his height and physique.

Now, close to 2 a.m., they were on top of a warehouse in the Miller Dock district, overlooking an industrial landscape of oxidized silos and ghostly cranes silhouetted against the port's toxic fog.

From there, they could clearly observe an alley that, according to Finn, was a common route for quick deals. The cold air cut like a knife, and Peter, with his senses alert, could smell the brine, the oil, and the promise of violence.

They didn't have to wait long.
First came The Iron Scorpions, a dozen young men with faded jackets and nervous postures. They moved with the impatient energy of those with much to prove, their hands never still, their eyes constantly scanning the shadows. The twisted metals of their emblem—a grotesque scorpion—glinted under the faint moonlight filtering between the buildings. Then came the other faction, older, calmer men with the dangerous calm of those accustomed to being obeyed. They wore expensive coats, not jackets, and their movements were economical, calculated. There weren't many, just five, but each one radiated an authority that made the alley feel narrower.

The newcomers were clearly from the Maroni family. Peter could tell by the way the man in front, with graying hair and a suit worth more than Peter's monthly rent, stood with his feet firmly planted on the dirty concrete. This wasn't his territory, but he acted as if all of Gotham belonged to him.

"I thought we had clarified the terms," said the Maroni leader, his voice a harsh whisper that nonetheless cut the air easily. "You move the merchandise we tell you, on the routes we designate. You don't expand. You don't innovate."

The kid at the front of The Scorpions, who couldn't have been more than twenty, laughed with a harsh, forced sound.

"Your routes are slow. Your methods are old. We have..." he began, puffing out his chest.

"You have ambition," interrupted the Maroni man, and for the first time, a thin, cold smile appeared on his lips. "And ambition in children is admirable. Until it becomes tedious."

The change in the atmosphere was instantaneous. The calm was shattered. Peter, from the heights, felt it before he saw it: a spike of adrenaline, the acrid smell of fear mixing with aggression. His spider-senses screamed at him. This wasn't a negotiation. It was an execution.

And then, the world exploded.
It wasn't an explosion, but an arrival. A black motorcycle emerged from nowhere, and its rider, a specter in a leather jacket and a red helmet, moved with a violence so efficient it was almost obscene. It was Red Hood. Peter could recognize him because Maya had explained to him that very day about Gotham's vigilantes, their names, their suits, territories, and most importantly, their reputations.

The first shot, muffled by a silencer, hit the leg of the Maroni thug who was about to stab the leader of The Scorpions. The sound was a dull pfft, but the effect was catastrophic. The man screamed and fell, clutching his thigh as the dark stain of blood rapidly spread over the expensive fabric of his trousers.

Chaos erupted instantly.

Red Hood wasted no time on acrobatics; it was pure economy of motion. While the Maronis were drawing their weapons, he was already moving. A sharp elbow to a man's throat left him gasping on the ground. A quick spin and the barrel of his pistol struck another's temple, knocking him out before he could pull the trigger. Two of the Scorpions, smarter, tried to escape into the shadows, but Hood fired two tranquilizer darts that hit them in the neck with pinpoint accuracy. They fell like sacks of stones.

In less than ten seconds, only the Maroni leader, pale with a trembling hand inside his coat, and the young leader of the Iron Scorpions, paralyzed by terror, were left standing.

Red Hood walked slowly toward the mobster, stepping over the unconscious bodies of the criminals.

"Alberto," said the mechanical voice from behind the helmet. "Your boss doesn't pay enough for this. Tell Maroni the old warehouse docks are mine now. If I see any of your men here again, the next shot won't be in the leg."

The man, Alberto, nodded, too terrified to speak. Red Hood then turned to the young gangster, who instinctively shrank back against the brick wall.
"And you," the voice was flat, emotionless, "tell the other Scorpions, or whatever, that if they want to keep breathing, they stay away from my docks."

From the heights, Peter held his breath. This changed everything. Red Hood's intervention had been swift, brutal, and decisive. He wasn't a hero; he was a warlord claiming his territory. And now Peter understood why Maya had warned him to be careful. In Gotham's ecosystem, Red Hood was an Alpha predator whose mere presence frightened most criminals.

Beside him, he felt, more than saw, Finn's reaction. A tension different from his own. It wasn't fear, but a dark fascination, a kind of instinctive recognition of one Alpha for another, bigger, deadlier predator. Finn watched the carnage with his fists clenched, but his posture wasn't one of flight, but of a strange... admiration.

Peter, on the other hand, felt a cold that had nothing to do with the wind. Every blow, every non-lethal but brutally painful shot, reminded him of his own fight against the Green Goblin, the blind rage that had almost consumed him. But this was different. This wasn't rage; it was cold calculation. And deep within his being, his Omega nature shuddered. As he watched the way Red Hood moved—every gesture a display of controlled power, every decision made with absolute certainty—a primal part of Peter, one that rarely manifested, recognized something. It was the instinctive certainty of an Omega encountering an Alpha who was, irrevocably, strong.

He shook his head fiercely and repressed with ferocity any thought not relevant to the mission, gripping the camera until his knuckles turned white. He finally managed to take a few photos.

Finn turned to Peter, his eyes gleaming in the dark with a new, dangerous emotion. "You got it?" he asked, his voice a hoarse whisper.

Peter lowered the camera and nodded, showing him the screen. The image was perfect, sharp and terrifying: Red Hood at the center of the chaos, a god of war in a Gotham alley.
Finn let out a low whistle, a genuine but ruthless smile touching his lips for the first time. "Damn... that... that is worth a lot more than fifty dollars, Ben."
But Peter couldn't reply, tensing immediately as he perceived a change in the atmosphere.

"Finn," he whispered, feeling the characteristic buzz indicating danger resonating loudly in his head. "We have to... we have to go. Now."

But it was too late.

Down below, Red Hood, standing on the torso of an unconscious Maroni thug, slowly turned his head. The empty, expressionless red helmet rose directly towards their hiding spot on the cornice. It wasn't a casual sweep; it was a deliberate movement, a spotlight illuminating him and Finn in the darkness.

The distorted voice cut through the night once more.

"Seems I've got fans," it growled, and Peter could feel the gaze fixed on him, heavy and intense. A pistol was raised, not to aim, but in a gesture of arrogant recognition. "You enjoy the show, kids? Or would you like me to come up and say hello?"

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Also, this is how Peter felt when he saw Jason/Red Hood:

I think I speak for everyone when I say we understand it perfectly.