[Third Person PoV]
Peter smiled faintly as the applause softened. He let it die down before resting his hands gently on the podium again.
"Now," he said, his tone steady but warm, "I want to take a moment to talk about what F.E.A.S.T. really is — and what it stands for."
He turned toward the large banner hanging behind him, its bold letters catching the morning light:
F.E.A.S.T.
"F.E.A.S.T. stands for Food, Emergency Aid, Shelter, and Training. It's a non-profit charity organization created to serve as a refuge — a safe house for anyone who finds themselves with nowhere else to go."
Peter paused, his eyes sweeping over the crowd as he continued. "Our doors will always be open. Whether you've lost your job, your home, or even just your sense of direction… there will be a place for you here. A place where no one will ask for anything in return. A place where dignity isn't a privilege — it's a given. There should be no shame in needing assistance, It is only natural, we're are all humans after all, there is only so much we can do on our own"
There was a quiet murmur from the crowd — small nods, pens halting mid-note. Even the most seasoned reporters were listening, not just hearing.
"F.E.A.S.T. isn't about charity," Peter continued, his voice gaining more strength and conviction. "It's about community. It's about rebuilding lives, not just patching them together. We'll provide food for those who are hungry, medical assistance for those who can't afford it, shelter for those without a roof, and training for those who want to start again — to get back on their feet and rebuild their independence."
He gestured toward the building beside him — a gleaming, newly renovated structure. "Every wall you see behind me was built with one purpose: to remind people that they're not invisible. That they matter. That they're seen, heard, and cared for."
He smiled faintly toward May and Ben again before looking back at the audience. "And I know that many share the same feeling out there, of wanting to help, of wanting to make a difference but not knowing how. There are people out there who just need one chance, one helping hand, one reminder that they're not alone. That's what F.E.A.S.T. is to me. It's not a corporate venture. It's not about profit or publicity. It's about people helping people — the way it should be."
The crowd had grown silent again, not out of disinterest but reverence. His words hung in the air with genuine weight — unpolished, unpretentious, and heartfelt.
"I know I can't change the entire world," Peter continued after a pause, his tone soft but resolute. "But if I can help one person — if even one person walks through those doors and leaves with hope, then that's enough for me. Because change doesn't start with nations or governments… it starts with individuals. It starts with us."
He looked out at the audience — hundreds of faces, bright flashes still going off — and smiled.
"So today, I'm not just asking for donations or headlines. I'm asking for partnership. For anyone out there who believes in compassion, in second chances, in the idea that no one should be left behind — this is your invitation. Whether you want to volunteer, contribute, or simply spread the word — help us make F.E.A.S.T. not just a building, but a beacon."
Peter straightened up, the feeling of weakness leaving his legs. "Because as long as there's someone out there who's hungry, hurting, or homeless… we'll keep our doors open."
He gave a small nod, then smiled again — that same earnest, nervous grin that made him seem both confident and humble at once. "Thank you for your time — and thank you for believing in what we're trying to build here."
The crowd erupted into applause, louder and more heartfelt than before. The sound rolled like thunder across the plaza.
Behind Peter, his family and friends smiled proudly — Aunt May wiping away another tear, Uncle Ben's eyes shining with quiet pride.
As the applause gradually faded into a respectful silence, Peter stepped forward toward the microphone once more. "Before we cut the ribbon," he began, his voice steady yet heartfelt, "I want to first express my deepest gratitude to those who have made all of this possible. First and foremost, to my friends and family—those who have stood by me unconditionally through every failure and success. I wouldn't have made it this far, nor become the person I am today, without your unwavering support."
He turned his head toward where Aunt May, Uncle Ben, and the rest of his friends stood. Peter shot them a quick wink, and in response, they smiled warmly while Aunt May continued dabbed her eyes, proud tears forming. The crowd, sensing the sincerity of the moment, began clapping again. Peter laughed softly and joined in, clapping along with them before raising a hand for calm and leaning back toward the microphone.
"Next," he continued, "I want to personally thank each and every one of my incredible employees over at Parker Industries. You're the backbone of this project. Each of you worked tirelessly to bring this vision to life. And to those who went the extra mile and donated out of their own pockets to help fund this initiative… you guys rock!" He flashed a grin and threw up a playful rock-and-roll hand sign.
The clapping resumed, louder and more enthusiastic. Peter waited for it to die down before speaking again, his tone softening. "As I said before, change doesn't start with someone else—it starts with us. With those who choose to make a difference. Which is why…" he paused for effect, "…I'll be personally donating fifty million dollars from my own personal fund to F.E.A.S.T."
Gasps erupted across the audience, followed by astonished chatter. Photographers scrambled for better angles while news reporters whispered rapidly into their mics. Even some of the F.E.A.S.T volunteers stared at him wide-eyed, unable to believe what they'd just heard.
As the applause began again—this time mixed with cheers—Janice appeared from the side of the stage carrying a small velvet pillow. Resting atop it was an oversized ceremonial pair of golden scissors. She approached Peter carefully, the light catching the blades as the crowd hushed once more.
Peter smiled and reached out to grasp the scissors—
—but the roar of an approaching engine shattered the moment.
Everyone turned, as a bright red convertible came screeching to a halt at the edge of the plaza. The crowd gasped as soon as the driver stepped out. The flashes intensified, photographers shouting over one another as the familiar face emerged from behind the wheel—none other than Tony Stark himself.
Tony straightened his suit jacket, brushed a bit of dust off his sleeve, and removed his sunglasses with a practiced smirk. The man practically radiated confidence. Reporters surged toward him like a wave, bombarding him with questions while cameras clicked in rapid succession.
"Mr. Stark! Are you here because of the partnership between Stark Industries and Parker Industries?" one female reporter managed to shout above the noise.
Tony turned her way, his trademark charm on full display. "It's more than just business, sweetheart," he said with a grin. "I'm here to show my support for a friend—well, a partner really. And to show just how much I believe in what he's doing, Stark Industries will be donating an additional hundred million dollars to the F.E.A.S.T organization!"
The crowd exploded. Gasps, cheers, and camera flashes filled the air like fireworks. Reporters shouted questions, trying to confirm the staggering donation. Peter stood frozen, blinking in disbelief as Tony casually made his way up the stage stairs, waving as if he owned the place.
"Peter, my good friend!" Tony called out, spreading his arms wide. "How are you doing, buddy?"
Peter forced a smile, extending a hand. "Tony, glad you could join us. Thank you for both the… generous support and donation," he said, his words polite but strained. The two men embraced for the cameras, the perfect image of mutual respect and friendship—at least on the surface.
While smiling for the flashing lights, Peter muttered under his breath, "Aren't you a little too old to be this petty?"
Without missing a beat, Tony whispered back with a smirk, "And you're a little too young to be messing with me, kid. You shouldn't have touched my company."
The two pulled apart, still smiling for the photographers as if nothing had been said. Tony clapped Peter on the shoulder and raised his hand, waving to the cheering crowd.
Peter, his grin still plastered on his face, replied through gritted teeth, his lips barely moving. "If messing with your company gets you to cough up a hundred million just to one-up me, then maybe I'll keep at it, you man-child."
The crowd, none the wiser, roared in approval as the two "friends" stood side by side for the press—two geniuses, two rivals, and two men whose egos were as bright as the camera flashes that surrounded them.
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