Peter's fist connected with the fence post.
That's one hundred…
He collapsed into the grass, chest heaving. Sweat soaked through his shirt despite the cold. A week had passed. Seven days of this routine. There were subtle changes in his body—he could feel it. The push-ups came easier now. The run took less time.
Not enough. Never enough. He hadn't been sleeping well lately. Nightmares kept him up some nights, whispers and night terrors other times. Sleep became a luxury he could no longer afford since his confrontation with Poindexter.
Working himself to the bone and then some was an unexpected remedy. Exhaustion came hand in hand with dreamless sleeps, despite how short even those were.
He pushed himself, the familiar feeling of his stomach burning and bile building up in the back of his throat came with every movement. He grabbed his water bottle, planning to empty the contents in one go. His phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
Peter stared at it. Unknown numbers meant cops or trolls. He'd ignored plenty of both.
He emptied the bottle in one motion.
It buzzed again.
He answered.
"Peter Parker?" A woman's voice. Professional. Clipped.
"Yeah?"
"This is Detective Sarah Chen, NYPD. We need you to come down to the station. We've apprehended the suspects in your uncle's murder."
Peter's fingers curled around the bottle, tightening harshly like a snake would when squeezing the life out of its prey.
"What?"
"We caught them. Both of them. We need you to come in for identification and statement. Can you be here within the hour?"
His mind was racing. They caught—? No. No, they didn't. Poindexter was still walking free. He'd seen him. Unless..
"I... yeah. I can be there."
"Good. Ask for me at the front desk. Detective Chen."
The line went dead.
Peter stood in the backyard, phone in hand, water seeping into the grass.
They caught them. Bullshit…
Peter knew something was off. He wasn't going to the police station to confront his uncle's killer. He was going there to confirm something else.
***
The police station smelled like burnt coffee and industrial cleaner mixed in with the lingering scent of nicotine and sweat.
Peter sat in the waiting area, Anna beside him. She'd driven him in without question. Hadn't even asked why. Just grabbed her keys when he said the cops called.
"You okay?" she asked quietly.
"I'm alright," Peter nodded. He wasn't.
"Mr. Parker?"
Detective Chen appeared in the doorway. Mid-forties, Asian woman, tired eyes. She looked like she'd been working doubles.
"Come with me, please."
Peter stood. Anna started to follow.
"Just him for now, Ms. Watson. You can wait here."
Anna's jaw tightened, but she sat back down.
Peter followed Chen through the maze of desks and uniforms. Cops everywhere. Some looked up as he passed. Most didn't.
Chen led him to an interview room. Small. Grey walls. Table. Three chairs.
"Have a seat."
Peter sat.
Chen pulled out a folder. Set it on the table between them.
"We arrested two men three days ago. Marcus Webb—the shooter. Daniel Torres—the driver. They confessed to the murder of Benjamin Parker and the attempted murder of May Parker."
She opened the folder. Slid two photos across the table.
Peter looked down.
Two men. Mugshots. Both roughly Poindexter's height. Lean builds. Brown hair.
That's not right. Eye color matches weight too…
They looked eerily similar. So close. Too close… But not him. Peter picked up both photos with narrowed eyes.
"That's not them," Peter said, his came out low, his grip tightened around the photo's.
Chen blinked. "Excuse me?"
"That's not the man who shot my uncle."
"Mr. Parker, they confessed—"
"I don't care if they confessed. That's not him." Peter placed both photos back on the table and slid Marcus Webb's photo towards Chen. "This guy's nose is wrong. Jawline's different. And the shooter was alone. There was no driver."
Chen's expression flickered. Something between annoyance and pity.
"Peter... you were sixty feet away. At night. Under extreme stress. Memory under those conditions—"
"I know what I saw," Peter asserted. His unflinching gaze met the officer's .
"—is notoriously unreliable." Chen continued unperturbed, she pulled out another photo. "Webb got a tattoo a month ago. Look familiar?"
A bullseye. On the back of his right hand.
Exactly like Poindexter's.
Peter's stomach turned.
"We recovered the vehicle. Black Mercedes. Prints on the gun matched Webb. Ballistics matched the bullets recovered from your uncle and aunt. It's a closed case."
"It's a frame job."
Chen sighed. Leaned back in her chair. One hand folded over the other.
"Peter. I understand you've been through trauma. I understand you want answers. But sometimes the simplest explanation is the right one. We have the gun. We have the car. We have confessions. We have physical evidence."
"You have a setup."
"We have justice." Her voice was firm now. "These men are going to prison for the rest of their lives. Your family gets closure. That's what matters."
Peter stared at her. Really looked at her.
She wasn't lying. She believed this. She wanted it to be true.
No. Not wanted.
Needed it to be true.
"Who gave you the tip?" Peter asked.
"That's confidential—"
"Anonymous, right? Someone called it in. Said they saw something. Gave you just enough to find these guys."
Chen's jaw tightened.
"Our sources are—"
"On Fisk's payroll right." Peter breathed it.
The room went silent.
Chen's expression hardened. "That's a serious accusation."
"The actual shooter works for Wilson Fisk. His name is Benjamin Poindexter. Ex-FBI. Private security. He's got the same tattoo. Same build. He's the one who killed my uncle."
"Peter—"
"And you know it. Or you don't want to know it. Because going after Fisk is hard. But closing a case with two nobodies who confessed? That's easy. That's a win."
Chen stood. "This interview is over."
"I'm right."
"You're traumatized. And you're making conspiracy theories out of grief." She gathered her folder. "We'll be in touch about the trial. You'll need to testify."
"I won't."
Chen paused at the door. Looked back at him.
"Yes. You will. Because if you don't, these men walk. And whoever you think killed your uncle stays free, anyway." Her voice softened slightly. "Take the win, Peter. Go home. Heal. Let us do our job."
She left.
Peter sat alone in the interview room.
They weren't incompetent.
They were bought.
Or they were lazy.
Or both.
Or they genuinely believed they had the right guys.
It didn't matter which. The result was the same.
Poindexter walked free. So that's how it's going to be, huh? Never had any faith in this system anyway...
Peter pushed himself up and slammed the door on his way out.
***
The ride home was quiet.
Anna had tried to get information out of him. Peter had given her the basics. They caught someone. Peter didn't think it was the right person. The cops disagreed.
She'd stopped asking after that.
They pulled into a gas station. MJ was waiting outside, arms crossed, annoyed. Tour had ended yesterday. She'd taken a bus back since Harry's dad called him to go god knows where.
She climbed into the back seat. "Hey."
"Hey," Anna put the car in drive.
MJ glanced at Peter, taking note of his somber mood. He was staring out the window.
"You good?"
"Fine."
She glanced at Anna. Anna shook her head slightly. Not now…
MJ settled back in her seat.
They drove in silence.
Peter watched the city pass by. Buildings. People. Life continuing like nothing had changed.
***
That night, Peter sat in the comfortable mobile armchair in his basement.
The monitors glowed in the dark. NYPD database on one screen. Hell's Kitchen map on another. Poindexter's schedule on a third.
He'd been planning another attempt. Different target. Different location. Different approach.
They'd sent two men to take the fall. Two men who'd spend their lives in prison for something they didn't do. Two men who were probably paid. Or threatened. Or both.
Fisk had reached into the NYPD and closed the case with a bow on top.
And everyone was happy.
Except Peter.
He pulled up a new file. Started typing.
If the cops wouldn't do their job, he'd do it for them.
If the system was broken, he'd work outside it.
If Fisk thought he could buy his way out of this—Peter's phone buzzed.
He glanced at it.
MJ: You sure you're ok?
He stared at the message.
No, he wasn't okay.
He hadn't been okay since the night in that alley.
Since the park.
Since the hospital.
Since Poindexter's wave.
Since the basement.
Peter typed back: Yeah, just tired
MJ: liar
He almost smiled. Almost.
Peter: Goodnight, MJ
MJ: whatever. if you need to talk I'm here. even if you're being a closed off asshole about something
Peter set the phone down.
She knew something was wrong. She just didn't know what.
Better that way.
He turned back to his screens.
Pulled up Poindexter's file. Stared at the photo.
"You think you won," Peter said quietly to the empty room. "You think you're safe."
He zoomed in on Poindexter's schedule. Found a pattern. A routine.
Thursday nights. 8 PM. Poindexter left Fisk's building. Drove the King pin to an Art Gallery in Hell's Kitchen. Stayed there for two hours till after the art gallery closes then drove Fisk home.
Consistent. Predictable.
Exploitable.
Peter checked the calendar.
Thursday was three days away.
He had time to prepare.
Time to plan.
Time to make sure he didn't fail again.
His reflection stared back at him from the darkened monitor.
Something harder in his expression now.
One week of training. One week of planning. One week of trying to become something else.
Not strong enough yet.
But stronger than he was.
And Thursday night, that would have to be enough.
Peter pulled up a satellite view of the bar. Started mapping exits. Sight lines. Potential complications.
He worked through the night.
By the time the sun came up, he had a plan.
Thursday night.
One shot.
This time, he wouldn't miss.
"Peter! Dinner!"
Anna's voice came from outside.
Peter closed the files and made his way out.
"Coming!"
He took a breath. Steadied himself. Slipped the mask back on.
By the time he reached the kitchen, he was smiling.
***
Three days later - Thursday evening.
Peter stood in his room.
His lips formed a thin line, his brows furrowed as his eyes scrutinized the two objects in front of him with an almost obsessive gaze. A hint of madness and desperation shone behind his eyes.
In front of him were two objects. On one side was a handgun, a Sig Arms 1911 GSR Revolution, loaded and ready to use. His uncle's piece, Uncle Ben kept it around the house for security, he found it under the loose floorboard near their bed, everyone in the house knew where it was, like an unspoken rule no one ever talked about.
He had dark noticeable eye bags under each one from lack of sleep.
He had two choices. He could use the gun, or he could inject himself with the serum when was close enough and let the lizard take care of the rest.
Peter considered both options, one could work, the other had no chance of failing.
He then reached for the syringe, his hand trembled the closer he got. Stilling himself, he picked it up and brought it close to his other forearm. Only the closer he got to injecting it in the more his hand and body shook.
Flashes of the fight between him and Spider-Woman slammed into his psyche like a floodgate just opening in the forefront of his mind.
Memories flooded in: the pain, his pleading voice, his broken bones, his mangled flesh, and the pain, his healing body, bones creaking, mending, and pain. So much pain.
"GAAH! FUCK!!... Huff... Huff... I can't freaking do it...Huff," he was panting heavily, even looking at the syringe made him feel wrong, he didn't even realize he had dropped it. He watched it roll over by the gun.
He couldn't do it.
He stared at it almost absentmindedly, his panting calmly decreased into eerily soft and controlled breaths.
Come on Peter, don't be a pussy, Just pick it up…
His eyes darkened with a glow in the shadow of his hood like that of a predator at night, his head tilting slightly to the left, his lips thinned.
Peter picked up the gun with ease. Turning it over in his hands.
He'd never held a gun before. It was heavier than he expected. He checked the chambers. Loaded. Six rounds.
Same as the one that killed Uncle Ben and put Aunt May in a coma.
Poetic irony, Peter thought.
This was it. The line.
Everything before—the planning, the research, the training—that was just preparation.
This was the decision.
Pick up the gun, and he became something he couldn't come back from.
Leave it, and Poindexter won. Fisk won. The system won.
And Uncle Ben died for nothing.
Peter reached for the gun.
He picked it up and tucked it behind his jeans.
He slowly got up and picked up the syringe, his hands strangely no longer shaking when he held it.
Something twisted in his gut as he glanced at the green liquid in the serum. It was like whatever it was that caused his reaction when he held the serum before had subsided, if not vanished outright.
Regardless, Peter had already made up his mind.
Tonight, someone will die, either him or me. Tonight I will kill a murderer... His mind made, he placed the syringe in his drawer and closed it with a soft click.
He made way down the stairs and paused when he stepped into the kitchen.
He turned towards his window.
On the other side he could see MJ and Anna, they laughed as they talked and enjoyed their dinner. He had told them he was going for a run to clear his head.
The light radiating from their window illuminated parts of the kitchen, chasing away the shadows stopped short just inches before reaching Peter's feet.
He reached behind him and pulled out the gun. He gave it a quick once-over just to be sure that everything was functioning properly.
When his check was complete, he tucked the gun under his jeans.
He let out a breath. Things are better this way…
He spared one last glance at MJ and Anna, he made his choice.
The doors to his home clicked softly behind him as he left.
***
Sadly, it never occurred to Peter that not all his actions were his own, that some of his thoughts weren't his, that the whispers that kept him up some nights weren't nightmares.
[Ajin-Dormant_?]
It was the entity bound to Peter.
This conceptual creature would grant him an array of powerful gifts, but everything came with a price. A side effect of its dormant state was that it enhanced its host's suicidal tendencies—taking what's there and twisting it into something worse.
The entity didn't create thoughts—it amplified them—made despair feel like purpose.
All so it could bring them back from deaths embrace, to prove its worth as their greatest and most useful tool.
Theirs was a morbid relationship born from death and a perverted sense of duty, loyalty, and care.
But Peter would learn this later. Tonight, he had a murderer to kill, he would avenge his family or die trying.
[Integration_45.7%]
***
Benjamin Poindexter paused outside Fisk's gallery, scanning the rooftops. Something felt off tonight. But he couldn't place it.
A second later, the feeling passed. He adjusted his cuff, straightened his tie, and went inside.
Chapter End