Miles Morales landed on a Brooklyn rooftop with practiced silence, his fingertips lingering on the brick facade just a second longer than necessary. The city smelled like wet asphalt and distant thunderstorms, the kind of night where every shadow stretched too long and every alleyway whispered secrets. His spider-sense had been buzzing like a live wire for hours—not the sharp danger ping he was used to, but a low, persistent hum that made his molars ache.
Somewhere out there, Peter Parker was hurting.
Miles flexed his fingers, watching the static-charged webbing crackle between them. The other spiders had felt it too—Gwen's tense shoulders when they'd crossed paths near the Williamsburg Bridge, Silk's heavy silence during their last comms check. Even Ben Reilly, usually all sarcasm and sharp edges, had been pacing like a caged animal when Miles spotted him near Queensboro Plaza.
He crouched on the rooftop ledge, his fingers tapping an uneven rhythm against his thigh. Even with the Defenders combing the city—Luke's contacts in every precinct, Jessica's relentless digging, Danny's weird mystical sixth sense—Peter might as well have been a ghost.
His fingers drummed against the rooftop ledge—tap-tap-pause-tap—matching the erratic rhythm of his spider-sense. Below him, neon signs flickered across puddles of rainwater, distorting reflections into something almost alive. Daredevil's words from last night coiled in his gut like bad takeout: "Strange needed Parker's help retrieving something from Black Cat. After that? Poof. Ghosted."
The problem wasn't that Peter had vanished—hell, the guy specialized in dramatic exits. The problem was how he'd vanished. No quips. No post-mission tacos. Just static on the comms and that weird, gnawing absence in the Web that made Miles' molars ache.
He exhaled through his nose, watching his breath fog against the night air. The Avengers had been cagey—which wasn't new—but this level of radio silence? Daredevil had tried every backchannel, called in every favor, even sicced Jessica Jones on Stark's personal assistants. Nothing. Not even Rogers' usual patriotic platitudes. Just locked doors and hushed voices behind soundproof glass.
The first tremor hit Gwen's spider-sense like a piano wire snapping—sharp, discordant, unmistakably Peter. She'd been mid-swing near the Flatiron Building when it struck, forcing her to abort her momentum and crash-land onto a fire escape. The metal groaned under her sudden weight as she clutched the railing, knuckles whitening. Across town, Miles Morales stumbled mid-leap near Prospect Park, his venom strike misfiring into a streetlight that erupted in sparks. At the same moment, Cindy Moon's fingers spasmed around a web-line near the Brooklyn Bridge, sending her into an uncontrolled spiral that she barely corrected before impacting the East River.
Anya Corazon was the first to act. She'd been perched on the Chrysler Building's eagle gargoyle when the psychic shockwave hit—not pain, but something worse: Peter's signature flickering like a dying lightbulb across the Web of Life. Her fingers flew to her temple, pressing the hidden comms button in her mask. "Spider-Network, emergency channel. Did everyone just—"
Miles nearly overshot the rooftop when his spider-sense spiked—not with danger, but with something far more unsettling: recognition. There, leaning against the water tower like it was a damn park bench, Peter Parker stood unmasked and unhurried, Vietnam-era jacket flapping lazily in the wind. The shotgun slung across his back shouldn't have been visible, but the cloaking belt's failure left its outline shimmering like heat haze over pavement.
"You're kidding me," He breathed, landing hard enough to crack concrete. His lenses widened as he took in Peter's posture—loose, relaxed, one foot propped against the tower's rusted legs like they were sharing a soda drink after patrol. This wasn't the haunted, hollow-eyed Peter in distress he was especting.
Peter didn't turn. Just raised a hand in greeting. "Took you long enough, kid. Was starting to think I'd have to send out skywriting." His voice was all dry amusement, but Miles' enhanced hearing caught the rasp underneath—like Peter had been gargling glass.
Miles's fingers twitched toward his web-shooters—half instinct, half disbelief—as Peter finally turned to face him fully. Moonlight caught the hollows under Peter's eyes, the too-sharp angle of his jaw. The Vietnam jacket hung off his frame like it belonged to someone else. "Dude, what the hell?" Miles hissed, stepping closer. "We've been tearing the city apart—every spider in New York felt you screaming through the Web like—"
His chuckle cut Miles off, rough as sandpaper. "Screaming? Nah, kid. That was just me tuning the cosmic radio." He tapped his temple "Turns out getting your brain deep-fried by Infinity Stones leaves some... interesting reception."
Miles blinked, his lenses narrowing in that exaggerated squint Peter had learned meant genuine confusion rather than tactical assessment. "Tuning the—what? Pete, you're not making any—"
"Ah, forget about it." Peter waved the question away like cigarette smoke, already moving toward Miles with the easy stride of a man approaching a vending machine. His left hand dipped into his jacket pocket, fingers closing around cold polymer. "More importantly—found something fascinating in one of Otto's old hidey-holes."
The spraying device looked like a repurposed asthma inhaler crossed with a taser, its nozzle gleaming dully under the rooftop lights. Peter held it up between them like a curator displaying a rare artifact, watching Miles' lenses track the movement.
"Some kinda neural inhibitor," Peter continued conversationally, thumbing a hidden switch. The device emitted a soft click-hiss Miles wouldn't have noticed without enhanced hearing. "Knocks out spider-folks for about... oh, five hours?" He shrugged. "Give or take."
Miles' lenses narrowed further as Peter stepped into his personal space, the spray device clicking softly in his palm. "Wait, hold up—" Miles raised a hand instinctively, spider-sense buzzing like a faulty alarm. "You just happened to find spider-tranq in Doc Ock's junk drawer?"
Peter's finger twitched on the spray device's trigger before Miles could finish his sentence. A fine mist hissed between them—odorless, tasteless, utterly invisible unless you knew exactly where to look. Miles' pupils dilated a split-second before his knees buckled. Peter caught him by the shoulders, lowering the kid's limp form to the rooftop with the care of someone handling antique glass.
"Easy as taking candy from a baby," Peter muttered, tucking the spray device back into his jacket. He nudged Miles' shoulder with his boot—no response. The kid's chest rose and fell steadily, his mask's lenses frozen in an expression of mid-protest surprise. "Well. Easier, actually. Babies bite."
He knelt beside Miles' limp form, tilting his head at the kid's frozen expression of betrayal. "Don't give me that look," Peter muttered, prying one web-shooter loose with practiced fingers. The device hissed slightly as its pressure seals released—a sound Peter recognized from three separate timelines where he'd designed the damn things. "It's not like you're using them right now." He gave the unconscious teenager's shoulder a light poke. "You don't mind, do you? No? Cool."
Peter's fingers curled under Miles' limp arms, the kid's weight negligible against his enhanced strength—until the rooftop blinked.
One second, he was hoisting Miles' unconscious form; the next, his hands clutched empty air stained crimson. The Brooklyn skyline melted into a warzone of twisted metal and shattered glass, Miles' broken body splayed across rubble, his mask torn open to reveal glassy eyes reflecting firelight.
"Not now," Peter growled through clenched teeth, shaking his head like a dog shedding water. The vision fractured at the edges but held stubbornly—Miles' blood pooling black in moonlight, fingers still twitching as if trying to fire nonexistent web-shooters. His own voice echoed from somewhere in the ruins: Should've webbed him up tighter. Should've carried him home.
Peter wrenched his eyes shut, grinding his molars until the hallucination shattered like cheap glass. The phantom scent of blood, replaced by the mundane stink of pigeon droppings and wet brick. He exhaled sharply through his nose—once, twice—before hauling Miles' limp form over his shoulder. The kid weighed less than a sack of flour, his arms dangling with each step Peter took toward the roof's edge.
Peter had just shifted Miles' dead weight across his shoulders when the first web-line snapped past his ear like a bullwhip crack. He didn't flinch—just turned his head slowly toward the rooftop's edge where Gwen Stacy crouched in full Ghost Spider regalia, her lenses wide with disbelief.
"Oh, hey Gwen," Peter said casually, adjusting Miles' limp form. "Funny running into you here."
Gwen's fingers twitched. "Peter, what the hell—"
Another thud announced Ben Reilly's arrival, his Scarlet Spider suit's hood flaring as he landed in a combat crouch. "Jesus Christ, Parker." Ben's voice was all gravel and nicotine. "what are you doing?"
Peter sighed dramatically. "See, this is why I didn't call a team meeting." He shifted Miles higher, the kid's head lolling against his back. "You all get so emotional."
The rusted fire escape groaned under sudden weight as two more silhouettes dropped onto the rooftop—Silk landing in perfect silence, her black-and-red Silk suit gleaming under the flickering streetlight, while Anya Corazon hit the asphalt hard enough to crack it. Peter didn't bother turning, just shifted Miles' limp form higher on his shoulders with an exaggerated grunt.
"Dentist appointment," Peter said cheerfully. "Kid's got three cavities and a serious lack of flossing discipline." He cocked his head toward Gwen and Ben. "You two want me to schedule you next? Bulk discount for spider-folk."
Cindy's eyes narrowed. "Put. Him. Down." Each word came out clipped, her fingers flexing like she was already measuring the distance for a web-line to Miles' collar.
Peter sighed dramatically, adjusting Miles' dead weight. "See, this is why teenagers shouldn't skip dental cleanings. One neglected molar and suddenly everyone's a hygienist." He glanced back, giving an insincere pat to Miles's legs. "Don't worry, champ. Uncle Pete's just teaching you the most important lesson of all—"
Silk's fingers twitched toward her web-shooters, the fabric of her suit rippling with suppressed tension. "Peter," she said, her voice unnervingly calm—the kind of calm that came right before a hurricane hit. "I can feel your consciousness unraveling through the Web. There's something deeply wrong with you right now."
He tilted his head, shifting Miles' limp form like a ragdoll draped over his shoulder. "Oh gee, you think?" He gestured broadly with his free hand at their assembled spider-crew—Gwen poised on a ventilation unit, Ben cracking his scarred knuckles, Anya's black and white suit almost hidden in shadows. "We're all standing on a rooftop in skin-tight pajamas having a deeply metaphysical conversation about my soul. There's something wrong with all of us."
Peter inhaled through his nose—slow, deliberate—the way a bomb tech might study a live wire before cutting it. The scent of ozone and Miles' faint teenage-boy cologne filled his nostrils, grounding him against another hallucination. "Look," he said, shifting Miles' limp form like a sack of flour, "I'm not gonna hurt the kid. Just need to borrow him for a hot minute." He flashed the assembled spider-crew a grin that didn't reach his eyes. "He'll be back before you finish arguing about who left the milk out of the fridge."
Gwen's fingers flexed —not threatening, just restless, the way a pianist's hands might hover over keys before a difficult passage. "Peter," she said, her voice softer than any of them expected, "we know you're not okay." The wind caught the edges of her hood, making the fabric flutter like moth wings. "Just put Miles down so we can—"
Her words hung in the air like spider silk caught in a draft—fragile, trembling, threatening to snap. Peter studied her gloved fingers, the minute tremble betraying her fear. Not of him. For him. He exhaled through his nose, the sound more ragged than he intended "Can't do that," Peter said, voice stripped of its usual sarcasm. The words landed like a shotgun shell on concrete.
Gwen's fingers twitched "Then what exactly—"
"I'll let him go later," Peter interrupted, shifting his grip on Miles. The kid's head lolled against his back, mask lenses reflecting fractured moonlight. "And I'll explain everything. Pinky swear." He held up his free hand, pinky extended in a mocking curve.
Ben's laugh was a dry rasp. "Bullshit. Explain now." His scarlet-clad form shifted into a combat stance, fingers flexing like he was already counting the punches he'd get to land.
"The less you know," he said, voice dropping into something low and frayed at the edges, "the cleaner your hands stay." The rooftop wind caught his jacket collar, flapping it against Miles' limp legs like a shroud.
Anya's black and white figure also adopted fighting stance. "You can't seriously expect us to just let you walk away with Miles," she snapped, her voice sharp enough to draw blood. Her fingers flexed around nothing and then closing into fists "Not like this."
Peter exhaled, slow and measured, like a gunslinger before a duel nobody wanted. His fingers uncurled from Miles' suit with deliberate care, lowering the kid's limp form onto the rooftop asphalt like he was setting down a priceless antique. The unconscious teenager sprawled bonelessly, his mask's lenses reflecting fractured moonlight—wide, frozen circles of shock that mirrored Gwen's own expression.
"Alright, kids," Peter said, rolling his shoulders shotgun settled comfortably against his back. His Vietnam jacket flapped once in the wind—a tattered banner before the storm. "Here's the part where I say something cool like 'try not to take this personally'..." His fingers flexed at his sides, knuckles cracking like gunshots in the sudden silence. "But honestly? This is gonna suck for everyone."
The air cracked like a whip—Peter moved before their spider-senses could fully process the threat. Gwen's fingers had barely tightened to trigger her web-shooter when Peter's elbow connected with the precise nerve cluster below her ear—not hard enough to fracture bone, just enough to send her crumpling forward like a marionette with cut strings. He caught her by the hood before her face hit asphalt, lowering her gently beside Miles' unconscious form with almost apologetic care.
Ben Reilly got exactly one knuckle-crack in before Peter's knee intercepted his solar plexus with surgical precision. The Scarlet Spider's breath left him in a silent whoosh, his mask's lenses contorting mid-collapse as Peter twisted the motion into a sweeping leg kick that sent Anya's legs skittering wildly off-balance. She pirouetted like a drunken ballerina for half a second before Peter's palm connected with her carotid artery—gentle as a lover's touch, brutal as a guillotine.
Five seconds. four unconscious spiders arranged neatly in a row like fallen dominoes. Peter stood amidst the wreckage of his own making, rolling his right shoulder with a wet pop. "Told you it'd suck," he muttered, nudging Gwen's limp hand away from Miles with his foot.
Silk stood frozen mid-step, one foot still raised from her aborted lunge, her silk suit shimmering under the flickering streetlights like oil on water. Peter watched the realization ripple across her masked face—the widening eyes, the slight parting of lips beneath the fabric. He could almost hear her synaptic connections firing in panicked succession: Five seconds. Four spiders. One Peter.
"You," Cindy breathed, and the word came out strangled, her fingers twitching at her sides like dying insects.
His breath hitched as Silk's masked face flickered in his vision—one moment her Silk suit gleaming under the streetlights, the next replaced by a cascade of impossible memories: her bare fingers tracing his jawline, the warmth of her mouth pressing against his in an apartment while rain pattered against fogged windows. The hallucination carried tactile weight—the callus on her fingers from years of web-slinging, the citrus scent of her shampoo as he buried his face in her hair. "You're my always," she whispered in the vision, her voice cracking with emotion. "Across every thread, every life—"
Peter wrenched his head sideways with a sharp jerk, like a dog shaking off rainwater. The hallucination shattered— neon lights dissolving back into Brooklyn's grimy rooftops, Cindy's phantom warmth replaced by the chill night air biting through his jacket.
She took an involuntary step back. The Silk suit's fabric rippled along her arms—not from wind, but from the barely-contained recoil of her spider-sense screaming at her to run. "Your eyes," she whispered. "They just—"
"Glazed? Yeah, happens." Peter wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, tasting copper. the images of Cindy in a white sundress laughing on a balcony, Cindy in battle armor screaming his name as reality collapsed. He forced a grin that felt like a cracked windshield. "Don't worry, it's not contagious. Probably."
He moved to hoist Miles over his shoulder again when Silk lunged—not at him, but toward the unconscious spider-heroes. Her web-line snagged Gwen's wrist, yanking the Ghost Spider's limp form away from Peter, she would have done the same for Miles, but Peter had taken him up on over his shoulder. "You're not taking him," Silk hissed, planting herself between Peter and the downed spiders like a human shield. Her chest heaved under the Silk suit's fabric. "Whatever's wrong with you, we can—"
"Fix it? Yeah, heard that tune before." Peter's chuckle came out hoarse as he gestured to the unconscious spiders. "See, I'm leaving you awake for a reason Cindy" He tapped his temple with two fingers. "Someone's gotta play babysitter for the others"
He exhaled through his nose—a slow, measured breath that did nothing to ease the pressure building behind his eyeballs. Silk's masked face flickered in his vision again, superimposing itself over memories that hadn't happened yet—or maybe already had. The shotgun's weight against his back grounded him as he gestured toward Miles' unconscious form with an open palm.
"Look," Peter said, rubbing his temple "like I said before—kid's gonna wake up with nothing worse than a dry mouth and an existential crisis." His lips twitched into something that might've been a smile under better circumstances. "Hell of a rite of passage for spider-people, honestly."
Her fingers curled into fists at her sides, the suit's fabric stretching taut over her knuckles. Peter watched the subtle ripple of muscle beneath the black-and-red material—the way her stance shifted minutely, preparing to spring. He'd seen that exact posture in six different timelines before she threw the first punch.
His fingers flexed around Miles' limp form. "Cindy," he said, voice dropping into something frayed at the edges, "just... don't." The word landed between them like a spent shell casing. "Walk away. Let me do this one thing dirty, so you can all keep being the good guys."
The rooftop's silence shattered with the metallic clang of a billy club embedding itself in the water tower beside Peter's head. Its twin followed half a second later—a precision ricochet off the fire escape that sent sparks skittering across the asphalt between Peter and Cindy.
Daredevil landed in a crouch on the rooftop, his cowl's hollow eyes sweeping across the scene with unnerving accuracy. His nostrils flared—taking in the scent of Gwen's lavender shampoo mixed with Ben's sweat, Miles' faint teenage musk, Anya perfume. The way Silk's pulse hammered against her carotid artery like a trapped bird.
"Jesus Christ, Spider," Matt Murdock breathed, his voice rough enough to sand paint. One gloved hand twitched toward the billy club wedged in the water tower—not retrieving it yet, just confirming its position like a gunslinger counting bullets. "What is going on?"
Peter didn't turn toward the new arrival. Instead, he adjusted Miles' limp form over his shoulder with exaggerated care, like a mover handling a fragile sculpture. "Heya, Red," he said, voice dripping with the kind of cheer reserved for telemarketers and dental appointments. "Didn't see you there. Mostly because you're not invited—this is a spiders-only rooftop soirée." He gestured lazily with his free hand toward the unconscious heroes. "See? Web-slingers only. No capes. No clubs."
Daredevil's nostrils flared as he caught the chemical tang of neural inhibitors mixed with Miles scent. His jaw clenched tight enough to crack walnuts. "Spider—"
"If you're looking for the blindfolded brawlers' mixer," Peter continued, shifting Miles' weight, "that's about twenty rooftops to the left. Can't miss it—just follow the sound of Catholic guilt and poorly suppressed rage"
Daredevil's nostrils flared again—this time catching the acrid scent of adrenaline souring Peter's sweat, the erratic flutter of his carotid artery that belied his casual posture. The rooftop breeze carried whispers of something darker beneath Peter's usual sarcasm—the metallic tang of blood at the back of his throat, the tremor in his fingers where they gripped Miles' suit too tightly.
"Peter," He said quietly, stepping forward with his palms upturned like a priest approaching a wounded animal. His other senses painted the scene in brutal clarity—the shotgun's oiled metal singing against Peter's vertebrae, the way Miles' limp form sagged with unnatural stillness. "Whatever's happening to you we can help."
Peter blinked at Daredevil, then turned his head slowly toward Silk with all the exaggerated deliberation of a man pointing out who spilled coffee on the shared office printer. "You see this?" He gestured vaguely at Matt. "This? I blame you for this." His deadpan delivery could've preserved meat for winter.
He sighed—slow, deliberate—before lowering Miles onto the rooftop with the tenderness of someone handling a porcelain doll. The kid's limp form barely made a sound against the asphalt, his masked face turned slightly to one side like he'd simply dozed off mid-air.
"You know," Peter mused, plucking Daredevil's billy club from the water tower with a metallic shink, "most people bring wine to rooftop parties." He twirled the club absently between his fingers, the motion smooth as a card dealer shuffling a deck. "Not... whatever this is."
Daredevil's jaw tightened as he tracked the club's movement through air currents alone. "Spider—"
Peter threw.
The club spun end-over-end through the night air—not particularly fast, not particularly hard. Just enough to force Matt into that graceful sidestep Peter had seen a hundred times before in alleyway brawls and courthouse scuffles. The exact same dodge pattern he'd memorized over three separate timelines fighting alongside (and occasionally against) the Devil of Hell's Kitchen.
The billy club clattered harmlessly against the rooftop behind Daredevil—exactly where Peter had anticipated. What Daredevil couldn't anticipate was Peter already moving the moment the club left his fingertips, crossing the distance between them in three strides that blurred like a film splice. His Vietnam jacket flapped once, audibly this time—a deliberate rustle to mask the whisper-quick movement of his elbow arcing toward his unprotected nape.
His head tilted a fraction—just enough to avoid a knockout strike—but Peter's other hand was already there, palm open, fingers splayed. The heel of his hand connected with the base of Daredevil's skull in a motion so fluid it looked rehearsed.
His knees buckled. Peter caught the vigilante by the collar before his face hit asphalt, lowering him gently. "Works on ninjas, works on lawyers." He straightened Daredevil's crumpled cowl with two fingers. "Rest up, Matty. You bill by the hour anyway."
He sighed, rolling his shoulders before going to scoop up Miles' limp form again. "Alright, let's try this again—third time's the charm, right?" He shot Silk a grin that was all teeth and no warmth. "No offense, Silk, but I'm on a tight schedule here"
Peter's fingers had barely brushed Miles' collar when the rooftop trembled under twin impacts—one landing with the metallic clang of weighted boots, the other with the unmistakable crunch of asphalt fracturing under superhuman density. He didn't need to look up to identify the new arrivals; the scent of jasmine tea and gun oil announced them before Luke Cage's Voice rumbled through the night air.
"Man, Spider" Luke sighed, shaking his head as his leather jacket creaked with the motion. His knuckles cracked audibly when he flexed his fists. "You gonna make me regret not charging you Avengers rates for this?"
Peter paused mid-crouch, fingers hovering inches above Miles' limp form. He didn't bother turning—just cocked his head toward Silk with one eyebrow arched impossibly high. "You gonna tell me this water tower's actually some kinda tourist trap?" His free hand gestured vaguely at the rusted metal structure. "NYC's hottest new landmark? Rooftop hopping guided tours at nine?"
Danny Rand better known as Iron Fist landed beside Daredevil's crumpled form with feline grace, his golden fists already pulsing with chi energy. He didn't bother with questions—just pressed two fingers to Daredevil's carotid with the clinical precision of someone who'd checked pulse points on enough unconscious allies to make it reflex.
He watched Iron Fist's shoulders relax marginally—the telltale slump that meant Matt was still breathing. "Relax, K'un-Lun," Peter called over his shoulder. "I hit him with the preschool naptime special. He'll wake up grumpy but with all his lawyerly faculties intact."
Luke Cage cracked his knuckles again—a sound like snapping oak branches—and took a single earth-shaking step forward. "Don't care what got you acting stupid, Parker." Harlem's unbreakable man spoke slow and heavy, each word landing with the weight of a sledgehammer. "You're coming with us. Now." Peter snorted, and then walked straight to the human tank.
The first punch came like a freight train—all raw power and Harlem-bred determination. Peter swayed back just enough to let the displaced air ruffle his jacket collar. "See?" Peter murmured as Luke's fist whistled past his nose, "this is why I never join your poker nights anymore. No subtlety." The second punch followed in a brutal left hook that Peter ducked under with the lazy grace of a man sidestepping a puddle.
Luke's knuckles sang through empty air where Peter's head had been half a second earlier. Peter straightened with a theatrical wince. "Oof. Wind's gotta be, what, fifteen miles an hour tonight? That last one might've actually—" His chi-charged uppercut snapped Luke's head back with a crack like a home run hit. "—hurt me."
Harlem's unbreakable man staggered two steps before his knees buckled. Peter caught him by the leather jacket collar before he faceplanted, lowering the two-hundred-pound superhuman onto the rooftop with the care of someone handling blown glass.
Iron Fist hand still hovered over Daredevils downed figure when he felt it—the unmistakable surge of chi energy crackling through the air like static before lightning strikes. His golden tattoos flared brighter in response, the dragon sigils along his forearms pulsing with instinctive alarm.
Peter's fist had glowed.
For one impossible second, Iron Fist saw K'un-Lun's sacred energy coiled around Parker's knuckles—not the crude imitation of chi that most outsiders managed, but the pure, refined flow of a master. The kind that took decades to cultivate. The kind Danny himself had bled for in the mountains.
before he can raise up to even muster a fighting stance—Peter's foot connected with his temple in a golden blur.
Danny's last conscious thought was the absurdity of tasting jasmine tea —and also the estrange blend of K'un-Lun monastery fighting arts and Peter's stupid Vietnam jacket— as his skull bounced off . His golden tattoos flickered out like dying embers as he crumpled face-first onto the rooftop.
Peter dusted off his Vietnam jacket sleeves with exaggerated care, stepping over Luke Cage's unconscious form like it was just another pothole in Brooklyn. "Defenders?" He snorted, nudging Daredevil's billy club with his boot. "More like 'Defenseless.' Should rename yourselves to the 'Horizontal Brigade.'" His grin was all teeth as he turned toward Cindy. "Seriously, Cindy—what's their vetting process? 'Must look good lying down?'"
Silk's attack came without warning—a blur of black-and-red desperation. Her organic webbing shot from her forearms in twin arcs, aimed straight for Peter. He leaned back just enough to let the strands whisper past his nose, close enough to smell the faint citrus scent of her shampoo clinging to them.
"You're slipping, Cindy," Peter murmured, pivoting on one heel as she lunged past him. Her elbow grazed his Vietnam jacket—close enough to feel body heat through the fabric. "Used to be you'd feint left first."
She spun with a snarl, her second strike faster—a knee aimed at his ribs with enough force to crack concrete. Peter caught her leg just above the knee with one hand, his fingers pressing into the precise nerve cluster that made her entire limb go numb. Her masked face twisted in pain and fury as he held her suspended, her balance teetering.
"Stop." The word came out quieter than Peter intended, almost lost in the rasp of Silk's strained breathing. His grip tightened—not enough to bruise, just enough to keep her from collapsing as her leg buckled. Behind his eyes, the temporal psychosis flared: Cindy in a house, laughing as rain streaked the windows. Cindy in battle armor, screaming his name as a universe collapsed between them.
He shoved Silk away with a sudden jerk—not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to send her stumbling back three steps. The motion tore through his hallucinations like a shotgun blast through wet paper. rain-streaked windows shattered into Brooklyn's grimy rooftops again, the phantom warmth of Cindy's skin replaced by the cold bite of reality.
"Open your damn eyes, Cindy!" Peter barked, gesturing wildly at the unconscious bodies littering the rooftop. His voice cracked like a whip—raw and frayed at the edges. "If I wanted corpses, you'd be counting them in alphabetical order by now!"
Her eyes narrowed, her breath coming in sharp bursts. Her fingers twitched —then froze as Peter turned his back on her completely. The ultimate dismissal.
He took two steps toward the water tower where he'd left Miles—only for his spider-sense to prickle a half-second before a weak groan cut through the night air. Peter's head snapped down.
Miles was awake.
Peter blinked down at Miles with genuine surprise—the kid was groaning, mask lenses fluttering as he dragged himself toward Gwen's unconscious form with drunken determination.
"Seriously?" He muttered, crouching to poke Miles' shoulder with two fingers. "Octavius' neurotoxin cocktail had me down for three hours minimum. You're awake after what, a few minutes?" He shook his head, lips curling into something between a smirk and a grimace. "Kid's just too damn OP. Next-gen spiders get all the buffs."
Miles' response was a wet cough and a half-hearted attempt to web Peter's face. The strand missed by a solid foot, dissolving into the night air like sad confetti.
He gave Miles a deadpan stare that could've wilted flowers at twenty paces. "Kid, I calculated this," he muttered, shaking the nearly-empty neuro-inhibitor canister like it had personally betrayed him. The last dregs of Otto's knockout formula spritzed across Miles' face with a sad little pfft—more mist than dose. Miles blinked up at him, mask lenses crossing slightly and then passing out again.
Peter stared at the empty canister rolling across the rooftop with a hollow metallic clatter. "Fantastic," he muttered, kicking it off the edge where it pinged against a fire escape three stories down. "Out of knockout juice right when the spider-puppies start waking up" He rubbed his temple "Note to self: next time I'm kidnapping someone, pack extra chloroform."
Silk's gloved hand twitched toward Peter's wrist, stopping just short of contact. "Please," she whispered, the word cracking like thin ice underfoot. "Whatever you're doing—we can help."
He froze. Not the tactical stillness of a predator assessing threats—this was something raw, something human. Peter's fingers twitched away from Miles' collar like he'd been burned. When he spoke, each word came out slow and deliberate—as if forcing them past shattered teeth. "You can't help me, Cindy." His breath hitched, the psychosis's whispers clawing at the edges of his vision. "And you shouldn't."
Silk's masked face tilted slightly. "What are you—"
"I'm going to kill Morlun," Peter said casually, as if announcing he was grabbing coffee. His fingers twitched toward the invisible shotgun strap across his back—a reflexive gesture Silk only noticed because the fabric of his jacket rippled unnaturally where the weapon should be.
The words landed like a gut punch. her breath hitched audibly beneath her mask. "Morlun's... coming after you?" she managed, one hand rising instinctively to her throat where the Inheritor had once tried to tear into her.
Peter's laugh was sudden, sharp, and utterly humorless—the sound of a glass shattering against concrete. "That's the thing, Cindy" he said, and snorted humorlessly "He's not."
He exhaled through his nose, as he knelt beside Miles' unconscious form. The shotgun's strap creaked under tension when he shifted his weight. "Morlun's not hunting me," he said finally, fingers ghosting over Miles' web-shooter to check the cartridge levels "I'm hunting him."
"That's suicide," she breathed. The rooftop wind caught the edges of her mask, revealing a sliver of clenched jaw. "Even for you."
Peter tapped his temple with two fingers. "Plan's simple," he said, voice dropping into something dangerously calm. "Morlun's got a taste for spider-essence, right? So I dangle the juiciest, most unpredictable spider-kid on the menu." He nudged Miles' limp form with his boot. "Freshman special. Limited time offer."
Silk spread her arms gesturing around gesturing to the downed forms of Anya, Gwen and Ben. "We have teams for this," she snapped, organic webbing already clotting between her fingertips. "Us. The Avengers. Even the damn Fantastic Four would—"
His grin was razor-thin as he tapped his temple again. "See, that's the fundamental misunderstanding here, Cindy. You're listing hero teams." Peter nudged Miles' limp wrist, making the kid's web-shooter twitch. "Avengers? Fantastic Four? They're crisis responders. First aid with capes."
Her breath hitched as Peter straightened up, his Vietnam jacket flapping once in the rooftop wind—that same deliberate rustle that preceded movement.
"Heroes kill in self-defense," Peter continued, rolling his shoulders with the casual grace of a man discussing coffee preferences. "Maybe during big apocalyptic throwdowns when the math gets ugly. But a hero doesn't hunt to kill. And he shouldn't." His fingers twitched toward the shotgun strap. "That's why I'm not asking heroes to do this."
His fingers drummed a slow, arrhythmic pattern against his thigh—like a bomb counting down in a language only he understood. "Let's say—hypothetically—you rally the troops," he mused, tilting his head toward Her with the exaggerated patience of someone explaining gravity to a goldfish. "Avengers. the Defenders. Even the Fantastic Four." Peter's lips curled into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Then what? Committee meetings about lethal force ethics? PowerPoint presentations on humane execution methods?"
The shotgun's strap creaked as he shifted his weight, the sound unnervingly organic—like a rib cracking under pressure. "Morlun doesn't deserve humane," Peter continued, voice dropping into something jagged and raw. "He deserves screaming. He deserves to choke on his own ruptured organs while I whisper Elaine's name in his ear." His fingers spasmed once, tendons standing stark against his skin. "He deserves to hurt."
"Who's Elaine?" Silk's question cut through the rooftop wind like a scalpel. Her eyes narrowed as she studied Peter's face—the way his jaw clenched just a fraction too tight, how his pupils dilated briefly before constricting again. The name had landed between them like a grenade with the pin already pulled.
Peter adjusted his Vietnam jacket's collar with exaggerated care, fingers lingering on the frayed edges. "Elaine," he repeated, voice flat "Pass." His smile didn't reach his eyes—just a quick twitch of facial muscles before dissolving back into grim neutrality. "Next question."
His fingers twitched toward Miles' limp wrist again—a reflexive gesture, like checking a watch that wasn't there. The tendons in his neck stood out starkly when he swallowed hard, the ghost of Elaine's name still hovering between them like gun smoke.
She took half a step forward. "Peter, listen—" her voice cracked like thin ice, "—if Morlun's really coming, then let us help. The spiders. Just give us twenty-four hours to—"
"There's no TIME!" Peter's shout cut through the rooftop like a shotgun blast, sudden and raw enough to make her flinch beneath her mask. His fingers twitched toward the shotgun strap again—a nervous tic at this point. "tonight's my last night in the city." The words landed between them like a dropped coin—small, metallic, and somehow final.
Silk's head jerked up as if yanked by invisible wires. Her eyes narrowed. "What?" The syllable cracked like breaking ice.
"I'm out"
Peter exhaled through his nose—slow, deliberate—as if weighing whether to humor her more. The streetlights caught the faintest tremor in his fingers before he curled them into fists. "I'm out," he repeated, softer now, like the word was a live grenade he'd rather not throw. "Like, out out. Out of the city. Out of the state. Out of the goddamn hero business." His foot nudged Miles' limp ankle with unsettling gentleness. "Done."
"You don't just quit," she said, voice cracking on the last word. Her eyes flicked to the unconscious bodies scattered across the rooftop—Gwen's fingers still curled around a half-drawn web, Ben's slack body on the ground. "Not like this."
"Oh, right," snapping his fingers with exaggerated realization. "I should've filed my resignation with HR first—two weeks' notice, maybe a nice little going-away card for the city." He mimed writing in the air with one finger, his grin sharp enough to cut glass. "'Dear NYC, effective immediately I'll be transitioning from web-slinging to... anything that doesn't involve spandex and Life long fucking suffering. PS: you can all eat a dick'"
Peter sighed—a sound that carried the weight of a hundred battles and twice as many funerals. His fingers plucked absently at the frayed spider emblem on his suit, the fabric puckering under his touch like scar tissue. "You ever think about how weird this symbol is?" he mused, voice low enough that Silk had to step closer to hear. "Little eight-legged reminder that we're all just bugs waiting to get stepped on."
Her eyes narrowed. "Peter—"
"The no-kill rule," he interrupted, rubbing his thumb across the spider's symbol outline. "That's the main reason. You guys... you're still relatively clean." His gaze flicked to Miles' unconscious form, then away just as quickly. "I don't wanna be the one who drags you into the mud with me."
The wind caught his Vietnam jacket, flapping the fabric against his ribs with a sound like a flag at half-mast. "It's not about regret," he said finally, voice rough as the rooftop gravel beneath them. "I don't hate the mask, or what I did while I wore it. I m just... tired." His thumb brushed Miles' wrist, checking the kid's pulse out of habit. "Not 'need a nap' tired. 'Can't lift my own skeleton' tired."
"Bullshit," Silk breathed, taking a step forward that made the asphalt crunch under her. "You don't ghost your own people because you're sleepy, Peter." Her gloved hand twitched toward his face—stopped just short of touching the dark circles under his eyes. "What aren't you telling me?"
Peter laughed—a dry, hollow sound that didn't reach his eyes. "Wow, Cindy. Didn't realize we'd upgraded to full psychoanalysis." He turned his face away from her hovering hand, the movement sharp enough to make his jacket collar rasp against his stubble. "What do you want? A tragic backstory? Some terminal illness?" His fingers tapped an erratic rhythm against his thigh—tap-tap-taptap. "Sorry to disappoint. No dead uncle speeches tonight."
The rooftop groaned under Silk's sudden pivot as she stepped into his sightline again. "Try harder," she snapped. "Because the Peter Parker I know doesn't tap out when the city's still bleeding." Her eyes narrowed. "Not unless something's broken."
Her fingers twitched toward her mask's edge—then uncovered her face. "Last night," Cindy said slowly, syllables sharp as snipped piano wires. "When you were helping Strange." The words hung in the air like an indictment. "What happened out there?"
Peter sighed—the kind of exhale that carried the weight of a thousand unsaid things. "It doesn't matter, Cindy." He bent down, fingers curling around Miles' limp wrist with practiced ease. The kid's pulse thrummed steady beneath his fingertips. "Not anymore."
Cindy's hand shot out, clamping around Peter's forearm with enough force to dent steel. Her uncovered face was pale under the rooftop lights, lips pressed into a line. "Try again," she hissed. "Because I'm not letting you walk away with him. Not like this."
His grin spread slow and sharp, like a blade being drawn from its sheath. He gestured lazily at the unconscious forms scattered across the rooftop—Luke's massive frame sprawled near the water tower, Iron Fist's golden tattoos still flickering faintly, Matt's billy club resting inches from his limp fingers. "Cindy, sweetheart," he drawled, flexing his pinky finger with exaggerated flair, "if I wanted you unconscious right now, I could do it with this. Maybe even using only half."
His boot nudged Miles' limp ankle gently, the motion almost affectionate. "you can't follow me when I walk away." He tilted his head toward Gwen's prone form, where her fingers still twitched near a half-deployed web. "Because then who's gonna play nursemaid to Team Nap Time over here?" Peter spread his arms wide, Vietnam jacket flapping in the wind. "And let's be real—this is such a dangerous part of town." His voice dripped with mock concern. "Why, just last week, I saw a pigeon steal a hot dog right out of a baby's hands. Brutal stuff."
Cindy's fists clenched so tight her web-shooters creaked. "You're not funny," she spat, but the tremor in her voice betrayed her.
Peter slung Miles over his shoulders with practiced ease, the kid's limp form draping like a discarded coat. He took two steps toward the rooftop's edge—then froze mid-stride. The pause wasn't hesitation; it was calculation, like a chess player remembering to flip the board on their way out.
"You're gonna blame yourselves after this," he said suddenly, not turning around. His voice carried that particular rawness of someone picking at old scars. "All of you. Especially you, Cindy." His fingers flexed against Miles' thigh—not tightening, just... feeling. Checking the kid's pulse through the spider suit. "Gwen will cry about it in the shower. Ben will punch a wall. Anya will throw herself into patrolling. You? You'll rewrite every interaction we've had for the past six months looking for warning signs."
Cindy's breath hitched audibly "Peter—"
"Don't." The word came out sharper than intended. Peter adjusted Miles' weight with a practiced shrug, still not facing her. "This isn't some 'it's not you" Finally, he turned—just enough for the streetlights to catch the hollows under his eyes"
The web-shooter clicked against Peter's wrist with a sound like a hammer cocking—final, irrevocable. Miles' spare cartridge fit snug against his forearm, the kid's fingerprints still warm on the casing.
Peter flexed his wrist, feeling the unfamiliar weight of Miles' web-shooter click into place against his forearm. "This?" He tapped the cartridge with one finger, the metallic ping echoing across the rooftop. "This is all on me, Cindy. My call. My mess." he gave a surprisingly genuine smile.
"My Choice"
---------------------
Done.