Peter had been operating alongside Daredevil for quite some time.
At this point, he had not yet experienced Uncle Ben's death, nor had he been shaped by the phrase, "With great power comes great responsibility."
His mindset was no different from that of any kind-hearted New Yorker. If something happened within his reach, he would help where he could. But to devote everything to helping others was something he had never even considered.
For our current Spidey, with such powerful abilities at his disposal, why shouldn't he seek some small benefits for himself?
Why should he go out of his way to help others?
If Lance were asked, he would not find this line of thinking wrong. After all, he himself believed in egoism.
And yet, perhaps Spider-Man was destined to walk the path of a hero, because he was already beginning to suffer due to his own power.
Peter did not understand why. Gaining superpowers was supposed to be a good thing, yet everything in his life had changed overnight.
The money he earned fighting in the underground boxing ring in Hell's Kitchen was enough to cover a year of household expenses, yet he could not bring himself to take it home.
Even though he had tried to stick to his principles by refusing to throw a match, he had been ruthlessly set up by the ring's boss, nearly losing his life on the canvas.
After Daredevil and Lance saved him, Daredevil had subtly expressed disapproval of his actions. Even if the words were vague, Peter still understood the meaning behind them.
At school, despite possessing strength far beyond ordinary people, he still did not dare resist the bully Thompson, afraid of exposing himself.
Among all these people, the only one who did not seem to hold any opposing attitude toward him was Lance.
Yet with his heightened senses, Peter could tell that sometimes, when Lance was clearly speaking to him, it felt as if he were looking past him at someone else.
In short, he was not becoming the person anyone expected him to be.
Of all of them, the one Peter understood the least, the one he found most difficult to comprehend, was Daredevil.
He had been following Daredevil for some time now. During that period, Daredevil had taken him through Hell's Kitchen, punishing evil, upholding justice, and fighting crime.
Peter had to admit, it was thrilling. And it was interesting.
But Peter didn't understand. He couldn't make sense of it.
He knew Daredevil was Matt Murdock, and he also knew that Lawyer Matt was just a blind man without superpowers.
He had undergone rigorous training and developed abilities beyond those of ordinary people, but no matter how exceptional those skills were, he was still human.
Bound by flesh and blood, yet daring to take on things that bordered on the impossible.
Peter admired Daredevil's actions and his abilities. But if he were asked to become someone like that, someone who gave everything for everyone without regret and then quietly endured his pain alone in the dark, Peter knew he couldn't do it.
So why did Daredevil do it?
Peter wanted to understand.
But he also knew the answer might lie in a past long buried, one that would reopen old wounds if brought to light.
So he had always been careful, never daring to cross that line.
Until tonight.
In the attic of an abandoned textile factory, the smell of blood was so heavy it was suffocating.
Daredevil lay on his side on a torn sofa, his entire right leg a mess of blood from thigh to ankle.
It wasn't a blade wound, but the result of a shotgun fired at close range.
Lead pellets were lodged in the muscle, and shattered bone fragments pierced through the skin. Blood flowed without pause, impossible to stop at a glance.
Peter's hands trembled as he tried to clean the wound. The moment the alcohol-soaked cotton touched it, Matt's body arched violently, and a hoarse, uncontrollable cry tore from his throat.
"S-Sorry!" Peter's hands shook so badly he could barely hold the tweezers. "It'll be over soon. Just a little longer…"
"K-Keep… going." Matt forced the words out through clenched teeth. He grabbed a cork, bit down on it, and went rigid.
Peter understood why.
Matt's senses were twenty times sharper than those of an ordinary person. So was his perception of pain.
What would be a shattered leg for a normal person felt like being flayed alive for him.
Cleaning. Disinfecting. Stopping the bleeding. Wrapping the bandage.
Throughout the process, Matt's body never stopped trembling. Peter knew it was the result of muscles convulsing under unbearable pain.
Several times, Matt nearly lost consciousness, only to drag himself back from the edge by biting down hard. His fingernails dug into the wooden frame of the sofa, splintering it as blood and fragments of wood mixed together.
He looked utterly miserable.
By the time Peter finished wrapping the final bandage, dawn was already breaking.
Morning light seeped through the shattered window, falling across Matt's pale face. For a moment, Peter had the illusion that he was already dead.
Matt lay slumped on the sofa, his chest rising and falling violently. Each breath came with a harsh, wet rasp, tinged with blood.
Peter quietly gathered the medical waste. Even now, his hands were trembling uncontrollably.
His hands and sleeves were soaked through. He could no longer tell whether it was his own cold sweat or Matt's blood.
After cleaning up, Peter returned and sat beside him in silence.
A long time passed.
Just as Matt thought Peter would remain quiet, the boy finally spoke.
"Why?"
Peter's face was filled with pain and confusion.
Matt didn't open his eyes. He said nothing. But Peter could sense the subtle change in his breathing.
"Why would you do this?!"
Peter stood up abruptly, his voice shaking with emotion.
"You almost died! Those people are Kingpin's men. They have guns, explosives. You could have avoided it. You could have waited for backup. So why did you go in alone?!"
"Who would come?" Matt asked.
Peter wiped his tears with force.
"There's always someone!" he insisted stubbornly. "The police. Security patrols. Anyone. It didn't have to be you."
"Because there were people inside." Matt's voice was rough, like sand scraping against stone.
"Three children. The oldest wasn't even ten."
"If I had waited for backup, for the police, for a safer option, then what we would have found were three small corpses and two shattered families. So I went in."
Peter froze, tears still clinging to his face. "But you almost died."
"But I didn't." Matt forced the corner of his mouth upward, trying to smile, but the expression twisted from pain.
"And the children are alive. Their parents are still whole. It's not a bad trade."
"Not a bad trade?!" Peter's voice rose sharply. "Your leg could be ruined. You could be paralyzed. You could…"
"…have died," Matt finished calmly. "Yes. So what?"
Peter stood there, stunned.
Matt continued.
"Sigh.. I'm tired of it. I'm tired of sitting there, hearing about terrible things happening and doing nothing."
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