"Peter woke in a cramped, dim little room. His whole body still ached, though his mutant healing had closed most of the wounds. Across the room, a man in a red bodysuit was sorting through gear.
The man turned and said flatly, "Kid, you're lucky. They only slipped you some laxatives and anaesthetics. If it'd been anything stronger, you wouldn't have woken up."
Spider powers weren't instant perfection. Strength, speed, regeneration—they'd all grow with training and stress. Future Spider-Man would be a powerhouse. But right now? Peter was still green. Stronger than normal people, yes, but nowhere near immune to drugs. The fight promoters had dosed him hard, and he'd folded.
Peter blinked, then blurted, "I remember… You saved me, didn't you?"
"You're alive because you're stubborn, kid. And because you've got something unusual in you. Otherwise, you'd be a corpse."
Cold sweat clung to Peter's forehead. You couldn't expect a high schooler raised in a decent home, guided by Uncle Ben's honest lessons, to have real street instincts. He shuddered. "I thought… I thought I was dead…"
Then, anger surged. He slammed a fist into the cot. "I'm going back. I'll make that bastard pay for drugging me!"
"You seriously thought that pit had referees?" Daredevil asked dryly.
Peter's shoulders sagged, but he puffed out his chest. "I'm no kid. I'm Spider-Man."
Daredevil snorted. "Not even close."
A cane whistled through the air and halted at Peter's neck. His spider-sense hadn't even twitched.
Sweat rolled down Peter's temples. Daredevil was fast—so fast his heightened perception hadn't caught it. This wasn't sloppy street-fighting. This was master-tier martial arts, hammered into a body honed to the absolute human limit. In raw technique and experience, Matt Murdock was still leagues ahead.
Peter swallowed, forcing a grin. "That move was awesome, man. You used it when you saved me too, didn't you?" He mimed some shaky boxing sways.
Daredevil holstered his cane. "If you want to really be Spider-Man, you've got a lot to learn. Come back here, if you're serious."
He wasn't offering out of pure kindness. Matt wasn't that type of hero. Sure, some of it was the memory of his father's death in a fight pit—he didn't want another kid dying the same way. But another part? He needed backup. The ninja ambush had reminded him he couldn't split himself in two. A partner would make survival—and justice—easier.
And Peter fit the bill: strong, talented, reckless, and completely untrained.
So Peter started sneaking back, again and again. He learned firsthand how little he really knew. Power was useless without skill, without discipline. If he wanted to change his life, he'd need more than just fists.
At first, he thought Daredevil was wasting himself. One man against endless criminals—what difference could it make? But the more nights he spent in Matt's hideout, the more he saw.
He saw Daredevil sewing his own wounds, body trembling from pain, yet rising the next day to fight again. He saw a man with no healing factor, no armour, no billionaire bankrolling him—just grit, will, and the kind of stubbornness that bled through every scar.
And Peter's heart shifted.
He respected him. He worried for him. And he couldn't understand him.
Finally, one night, after helping dig a bullet from Matt's leg—his hands shaking, the reek of blood making him nauseous—Peter choked out:
"Why? Why keep doing this? Is it worth it?"
Matt's voice was faint, broken by pain. "I thought you'd ask sooner."
He leaned back against the wall, gasping. "You… you've had it good, Parker. A family that loves you. A safe home. A life where school bullies are your biggest problem. You think that's suffering? Kid… you're already lucky."
His voice grew dreamy, like a fevered confession.
"I was born here, in Hell's Kitchen. But my father wasn't a junkie. He tried… God, he tried to give me a chance. He boxed to keep me fed, to get me out. He wanted me to escape this place."
Matt's breath hitched. "They told him to throw a fight. He refused. And they killed him. Right in front of me."
Peter felt his throat close, tears running before he noticed. Matt rambled on, half-delirious:
"Some kids never had a chance. Born addicted, broken. Mothers are high while carrying them. They grow up working for gangs, or worse. It's a cycle—pain breeding pain, despair breeding despair. That's Hell's Kitchen."
He groaned, eyes fluttering. "…And me? I got out. I studied. I trained. I had more than they did. More power, more chances. So tell me—what excuse do I have not to fight for them?"
The words carved themselves into Peter's chest.
Matt collapsed into unconsciousness. The room was silent but for his ragged breathing. No medicine. No bandages—just strips of cloth tied over wounds.
And something ugly coiled in Peter's gut. Anger, deeper than all his whining about money. Anger that good men bled in darkness while scum lived fat and comfortable.
He couldn't rationalize it yet. He couldn't frame it in ideals or justice. But the feeling was there, burning.
He bolted from the hideout, leaping across rooftops, webbing through the cold night. Neon signs glared from casinos and clubs, while the alleys below drowned in endless dark.
The city would never change. But maybe he could."