Chapter Text
Peter
The fire was still burning when he hit the ground.
Smoke stung Peter’s eyes as he stumbled through the charred remains of his home. Sirens howled in the distance, but everything sounded muffled, like he was underwater. The world tilted. He stepped over something—no, someone—and it took him a full second to realize it was May.
Her hand stuck out from under a beam. Still. Small. Burned.
“No…”
The word slipped from him, hollow and weak.
A sharp cry tore out of his throat before he could stop it. The sound scared him—it didn’t even sound human.
And then they came.
HYDRA agents stepped through the haze, their silhouettes forming around the glowing wreckage. One of them smirked behind his mask. “Luthor told you to stay out of this.”
Rage exploded in Peter’s chest. He didn’t hesitate.
He lunged.
Fists flew. Webs snapped. He broke a nose. Dislocated someone’s shoulder. His own ribs cracked beneath a stun baton but he kept fighting.
It wasn’t enough.
There were too many. They were too prepared. And Peter was breaking.
He couldn’t stop seeing her—May’s hand, limp and still. The tremble in her voice on the phone when she warned him, right before the line cut off.
Another blow landed.
Pain flashed white-hot through his side.
Run, something inside him screamed.
He did.
—
He didn’t remember half the journey to the train station.
Just blood, alley shadows, and the endless certainty that he was being watched.
HYDRA had always been dangerous. But now they were personal. Every camera on the street might be theirs. Every eye in the crowd might be reporting back.
He barely got onto the train. Crammed between tired commuters and a man snoring into his coat. His hoodie was up, face down, hands shaking uncontrollably in his lap.
The doors closed. The train lurched forward.
The train was old.
Not the charming kind of old, with polished brass handles and nostalgic creaks — this kind of old was the worn-out, overused, barely-held-together-by-duct-tape kind. The fluorescent lights overhead flickered in stuttering pulses, buzzing like a swarm of angry insects. Some panels were cracked, stained with years of grime that no one bothered scrubbing off anymore. The air was stale, tinged with a cocktail of wet concrete, body heat, cheap coffee, and burnt metal.
The seats were hard plastic with torn upholstery clinging to the edges, exposing foam beneath like wounded skin. A few passengers leaned against the scratched windows, headphones in, trying to disappear. A kid in the far corner clutched a Game Boy that blinked with static. Two tired parents argued under their breath near the doors. A man a few rows ahead snored loudly, his mouth wide open, lips dry and cracked.
The walls were littered with faded advertisements for fast food, rehab clinics, and a discount lawyer who swore he’d “fight for YOU.” One of them had been partially peeled away, revealing a “WANTED” poster underneath with the image torn in half.
The whole place vibrated just slightly with every shift of the tracks, a dull, rattling hum that never let up — like the train itself was anxious.
Outside, the city blurred by in streaks of rusted steel and graffiti-tagged tunnels, distant lights flashing in and out of view like dying stars.
It wasn’t a place to relax.
It was a place to survive.
And in the middle of it all, curled into himself and flinching at shadows, Peter Parker sat like a live wire—one wrong jolt away from breaking apart entirely.
And Peter thought he saw them again.
Two rows down—black coat, pale scar, same build as the one who fired the shot at May’s chest. The man was just sitting, reading a newspaper. But Peter’s vision blurred. His breath hitched. Panic detonated like a grenade in his chest.
He couldn't breathe.
His hands clawed at the edge of the seat, knuckles bone-white. The train felt too small, too loud. He curled in on himself, heart jackhammering out of control.
He was going to pass out.
He was going to throw up.
He was going to die.
“Hey,” a calm voice said beside him, gentle but firm. “You're okay. You're safe. It’s alright.”
A hand—gloved, but soft—touched his wrist, not grabbing, just there.
“Can you look at me?”
Peter blinked through the haze and saw a red-haired woman in a wheelchair beside him. Her blue eyes were kind, grounded.
“I’m Barbara,” she said, voice smooth like it had handled panic before. “Breathe with me. In… two, three… out. Good.”
Peter tried. His chest still felt like it was caving in, but the sound of her voice cut through the noise.
“You’re having a panic attack. You’re not crazy. Your brain just thinks you’re still in danger.”
She was so calm. How was she so calm?
“Want a distraction?” she asked. “I’m heading home. Gotham. I was in Metropolis for a book event—boring, honestly. I work in a library. You a reader?”
Peter stared at her, trying to focus.
“Yeah,” he croaked, barely audible.
Her eyes lit up. “Me too. Got a whole collection of banned books in the back room. Don’t tell the council.”
That made him huff through his nose—something just short of a laugh.
“There we go. You with me now?” she asked.
He nodded shakily, still pale.
Barbara reached into her bag and pulled out a wrapped protein bar. “Eat something. Helps ground you. And we’ll do something called the 5-4-3-2-1 method, okay?”
Peter blinked. “What?”
“Trust me,” she said. “Name five things you can see.”
He looked around. “Floor… your boots… window… ad poster… guy’s tie.”
“Good. Four things you can feel.”
“Seat… jacket… my fingers… uh… the floor.”
“Three you can hear.”
“Train wheels. That kid crying. Your voice.”
“Two you can smell.”
He hesitated. “Grease. Your… shampoo?”
“Lavender,” she smiled. “And one thing you can taste?”
“Blood,” he muttered bitterly. Then softer, “Granola. Thanks.”
Barbara nodded, like this was normal. “You’re doing great.”
The train rumbled on. Peter sat back, breath slowing.
He wondered what she saw when she looked at him.
Some kid—hood up, face pale, eyes wide and wild, like a cornered animal. Hands shaking. Clothes scorched at the edges. Blood smeared along his jaw. Breathing like the walls were closing in.
Not a hero. Not Spider-Man. Not someone who had faced gods, aliens, and monsters.
Just a broken teenager running from something bigger than himself.
Maybe she thought he was high. Or homeless. Maybe both.
She didn’t flinch, though. Didn’t wrinkle her nose or move her bag to the other side of the chair like most people did when they saw someone like him. Her voice stayed level. Calm. Like this wasn’t the first time she’d helped someone pick up the shattered pieces of themselves in a place like this.
He wished he could tell her he wasn’t always like this.
That there was a time—just weeks ago—when his life made sense. When he was smiling under the mask. When May was alive.
But all of that felt like a different person.
And right now? He wasn’t sure he even remembered how to smile.
She didn’t ask questions.
He didn’t offer anything.
But when she said “Gotham” again, something clicked.
Gotham was a no-go zone for Avengers. For most of the Justice League too, now that the split had solidified. Too territorial. Too dangerous.
Exactly what he needed.
A ghost town of masks and monsters.
If he was lucky, they'd never think to look for him there.
“Gotham,” he murmured under his breath.
Barbara didn’t react, but her eyes flicked toward him. Calculating.
She knew he wasn’t just some runaway.
But she didn’t press.
Not yet.
—
The train screeched as it pulled into the station, brakes shrieking against the tracks like something was dying. Peter flinched at the sound, heart jackhammering again in his chest. His fingers tightened around the edge of the seat, his knuckles bone-white.
Barbara gave him a small nod, her voice still even. “Deep breath, kid. You're okay. Just Gotham Central. Loudest stop in the city.”
He nodded back, more out of politeness than belief. He still wasn’t sure he was okay. But the ache in his chest had dulled, and his vision had stopped tunneling. That counted for something.
People began standing up, gathering their bags, shuffling toward the doors in sluggish clumps. Peter hesitated, eyes darting between the people and the flickering station lights outside. He didn’t want to move. He didn’t want to stay.
Barbara gave him a small, sideways glance. “You heading into Gotham?”
Peter hesitated. Then, quietly: “Yeah.”
A beat.
“Smart choice,” she said. “Just keep your head down. And maybe stay away from the narrows at night.”
The train hissed, and the doors rattled open.
Peter stood, pulling his hood further over his head. His backpack, too light without his suit in it, thumped against his side.
“Thanks,” he muttered, his voice hoarse from disuse.
Barbara smiled. Not the kind people gave out of pity, but the kind you gave someone when you meant it. “You’re gonna be okay. Just breathe. And don’t forget—library’s open during the day.”
He gave her a shaky nod, then stepped off the train.
Gotham hit him like a punch to the gut.
The moment his foot hit the platform, his Spider-Sense exploded.
It was like alarms screaming from every direction — too loud, too many signals, too much. His knees buckled slightly as he stumbled forward, the crowd jostling him without a second glance.
He couldn’t breathe.
Too many threats.
Someone had a knife.
Another person’s heartbeat was spiking — anger, maybe.
Someone was watching him from the upper platform.
Someone else was armed, and the safety was off.
He didn’t know if it was aimed at him, or not.
And it didn’t matter. It felt like it was.
He staggered, catching himself on a cracked support beam as sweat beaded on his neck. Every nerve ending screamed. His hands trembled again.
This wasn’t New York.
This city didn’t just pulse with danger — it bled with it.
And deep in the noise, like static behind the static, there was something else. A wrongness. Like the dark had teeth and it had already smelled his blood.
Peter clenched his jaw, breathing through his nose.
Get it together.
You’ve been through worse.
You survived May—
The thought gutted him.
He forced his legs to move.
Peter shoved his way through the turnstiles and out into the open air—or what passed for it in Gotham.
The city hit him hard: the smell of damp concrete, oil, and burnt-out neon. The sounds were constant—sirens in the distance, the honk and screech of cars, footsteps that didn’t match any rhythm. The light was dim even in daylight, sun barely cutting through the thick clouds and towering, soot-streaked buildings.
He walked fast, head down, hood still up. Every instinct screamed Don’t stop. Don’t look back.
But he already knew.
He was being followed.
It started as a prickle. A gut-deep awareness. His Spider-Sense had stopped flaring like an air raid siren, but it was still buzzing—steady and sharp, like a blade pressed just beneath his skin.
Someone was matching his pace.
He slipped between two pedestrians, cut down a side street. No change. Still there. Still distant. Still... deliberate.
Peter exhaled shakily, adjusting the straps of his backpack. He kept walking, but started scanning windows—reflections, shadows, corners. Nothing. Nothing. Movement, ten o’clock. Gone before he could focus.
Maybe Hydra found me. Maybe I didn’t lose them. Maybe I’m leading them right into this city—
He turned the corner hard, hoping to shake whoever it was. The narrow street he found himself in was nearly empty—just a row of dumpsters, a shattered fire escape above, and a mural of a grinning joker face peeled halfway off the brick wall.
The buzzing got louder.
His eyes darted to a glint above—rooftop movement?
No one there. But someone had been.
He stepped back against the wall, hands in the pocket of his hoodie, gripping the pepper spray May had insisted he carry years ago, long before she knew what he was.
He didn’t think it’d help now.
He tried to look casual. He failed.
They’re watching me. I don’t know who—but they are. And they’re good.
Too good for Hydra. Too subtle. And if his gut was right—
It wasn’t Hydra anymore.
It was someone else.
Peter didn’t run.
Running meant he was scared.
Running meant he was prey.
He knew the rules of the city. Especially this city.
So he kept walking. Forced himself to breathe. Measured his pace, casual but alert, just like he'd practiced when tailing marks back in New York. Only now, the roles were reversed.
Whoever it was—they were trained. Quiet. They hadn’t tripped his Spider-Sense in full, not until now, and that was terrifying. Only people like Natasha could do that. People who knew how to move like a ghost.
His fingers twitched for his suit, but it wasn’t with him. He’d left it buried in his pack when he ran.
Too dangerous to wear. Too dangerous not to.
His heart thudded like a drumline in his ears.
Across the street, in the shadow of a broken marquee, a figure paused.
Civilian clothes. Hands in his jacket pockets. Not armed, not obvious. But watching.
Peter’s breath caught.
He didn’t look again. Just turned the next corner and cut through an alley. Walked past a rusted dumpster. Stepped over a broken umbrella and a lost shoe.
Waited.
Nothing.
Then—just a flicker—he heard it.
The faintest scuff of rubber on rooftop gravel above him.
His skin went cold.
He’s above me.
He didn’t know who. He didn’t know why. But he knew they weren’t random. Weren’t a mugger. Weren’t some street-level goon.
He was being tracked. Catalogued. Studied.
And deep in the back of his mind, Peter felt the faintest tick of familiarity. Whoever it was—they’d been trained like him. Or better.
Tim
Tim Drake crouched low behind a rusted vent, his eyes locked on the boy moving through the alley below. The kid’s oversized hoodie swallowed him almost like armor, messy dark hair falling into sharp, pale features. His backpack hung low and battered, and there was a desperate tension in the way he moved—as if bracing for a blow he’d already taken.
He didn’t look like the usual Gotham street rats. No gang colors, no tattoos, no swagger. Just sharp nerves and constant glances over his shoulder. Not paranoid, but trained—though not like the League trained. Raw, unpolished, and terrified.
Tim ran through his mental checklist.
A fugitive? No active alerts matched him.
A street kid? Maybe, but he smelled too clean, too alert.
An enemy spy? Possibly. The nerves screamed “trained,” but not in the way Tim knew.
Most likely a victim.
None of these theories explained why Bruce had sent him after this boy.
Earlier, in the Batcave, Bruce had pointed to the screen showing the drenched, beaten boy slipping through Gotham’s shadows like a ghost. Something rare and sharp tugged at Bruce’s heart—a pull Tim didn’t often see.
“See that kid?” Bruce said quietly, voice steady but serious. “Follow him. Keep your distance. He looks new to Gotham. And he’s in danger.”
“This isn’t a rescue mission. Not yet. We watch. We learn.”
Tim had nodded, fingers tightening on the edge of the vent as he settled in.
This kid wasn’t just lost.
He was hunted.
As the boy disappeared from view for a moment, Tim scanned the surrounding alleys, looking for any sign of pursuers. Gotham’s streets were alive with shadows and whispers, but he saw no immediate threat. Still, the kid’s constant glances backward told a different story—something invisible followed him.
Tim moved silently, keeping pace but never closing in too much. His own senses were on high alert; Gotham always had eyes and ears everywhere, and any mistake could blow the whole operation.
The boy’s footsteps faltered near a dimly lit street corner. He paused, pressed his back to the brick wall, and pulled his hoodie tighter around his face. Tim’s mind raced—was the kid catching his breath? Or trying to hide?
Tim’s instincts screamed that this wasn’t just a random runaway. There was more beneath the surface, layers of secrets and pain. And whatever had chased the boy to Gotham wasn’t finished yet.
Tim exhaled slowly, ready to tail him further into the city’s tangled maze. He had no idea who this boy really was—or how much his arrival would shake Gotham’s fragile balance.
But one thing was clear: this was only the beginning.
Peter
Peter’s fingers trembled inside the sleeves of his hoodie, still damp from the train ride. The moment he’d stepped off, Gotham had swallowed him whole. The city was alive in a way that made his skin crawl—like every shadow whispered secrets and every breath of wind carried danger. New York had grit. Gotham had teeth.
He kept his head down as he moved through the streets, cutting between buildings and down alleys, trying to stay off the grid. It wasn’t paranoia. Not anymore. Hydra had killed May—murdered her—and they'd almost gotten him too. His chest still ached from the last hit he’d taken. His side screamed with every step, a reminder that he hadn’t run fast enough.
Now he didn’t know if they were still following him… or if they were already here.
Peter’s steps faltered. That sharp pulse in his skull—the Spider-Sense—wasn’t just a whisper now. It screamed.
Move.
He turned just as a shadow dropped in front of him.
Red.
A flash of black.
Boots hit the ground in perfect silence.
The figure rose slowly, cape settling around his shoulders as he straightened—tall, armored, masked. A bat insignia stitched in red across his chest.
Red Robin.
Peter’s breath hitched. He didn’t think. Just acted.
His right hand shot under his hoodie and pressed tightly against his ribs, fingers shaking as they clutched the wound he’d been pretending wasn’t bleeding as badly as it was. Warm, wet blood soaked through the fabric—his whole side ached, throbbing in time with his heartbeat.
He forced his body to stay upright. To not sway.
Tim took a cautious step forward, hands still at his sides, non-threatening.
“You don’t have to run,” he said quietly, voice steady, trying to sound young and calm. “You look like you need help.”
Peter flinched like he’d been struck.
Don’t run? That’s all he’d been doing. From Hydra. From May’s body. From home.
His eyes were wide beneath the hoodie, fixed on the mask. He didn’t see a calm presence—he saw someone trained to bring people like him down.
He’s trying to trap me.
No one could be trusted. Not now. Not after what happened.
Tim took another step.
“Hey—kid—it’s okay. I’m not here to hurt—"
Peter turned on his heel and bolted.
Pain exploded in his side, but adrenaline shoved it back down as he sprinted into the shadows of Gotham.
Behind him, Tim swore softly under his breath and gave chase.
Adrenaline roared through him, drowning the ache in his ribs and the burning in his legs. His hoodie flapped behind him, one arm still pressed tightly to his side, fingers soaked in blood. The pain tried to pull him down with every breath, but he refused.
Run. Just run.
He didn’t know where he was going—didn’t care. The streets blurred past him, narrow alleys twisting like a maze. Gotham was darker than New York, like it breathed differently. Like it watched.
Footsteps echoed behind him—too light to be Hydra, too steady to be random. The Bat was following.
Peter’s mind screamed.
Why are they still after me?
He’d changed trains twice. He’d doubled back. He’d tried to be careful.
They always find me.
He ducked through a chain-link fence, vaulted a crumbling low wall, and cut across an alley that stank of rain and smoke. His vision wavered. His lungs burned. His ribs were on fire now.
Another wave of dizziness hit, and he stumbled, nearly collapsing onto one knee.
Not yet. Just a little farther.
He pushed forward, dragging himself behind a dumpster overflowing with garbage. His hand slipped on the wet ground as he crouched low and tried to control his breathing.
He bit down on a pained sound as he checked his side again—his palm came away bright red and sticky. It wasn’t stopping.
He clenched his jaw. Spider-healing wasn’t fast enough for this. Not this deep. Not after this long without rest.
The footsteps had stopped.
Peter held his breath, spine pressed to the cold brick wall behind him. The shadows around him were thick, but not thick enough. If the Bat had heat sensors or sonar—he was done for.
He felt the telltale buzz of his Spider-Sense again, lower this time. Not full-blown danger. A warning.
Close.
Watching.
Peter reached into his pocket with his clean hand and pulled out the busted burner phone he hadn’t used since he’d left Queens. No service. No signal. Just static and broken glass.
No way out.
He squeezed his eyes shut.
He didn’t want to die in Gotham. He didn’t want to die hunted.
A quiet voice, calm and unhurried, drifted from somewhere just out of sight:
“I’m not here to hurt you.”
Peter didn’t move.
He didn’t speak.
He just pressed his palm harder against the wound in his ribs and prepared to run again if he had to.
Peter didn’t answer.
Didn’t breathe.
Didn’t blink.
He waited, crouched in the dark behind the dumpster, the weight of the city pressing down on him like it knew what he’d done, who he’d lost, and who was still hunting him.
That voice again—closer now.
“I saw you get off the train. You looked lost,” Tim said, softer. “Injured. You don’t have to—”
Peter shoved a cracked brick off the wall behind him and into the alley. It clattered loud against metal, echoing down the opposite end.
Tim’s footsteps shifted toward the sound.
Peter didn’t wait.
Go. Now.
He sprang up from behind the dumpster and launched himself up the nearest fire escape, ignoring the searing pain tearing down his side. His hand slipped once on the cold metal rail, and his vision went white with agony, but he forced himself up—two stories, then three, then the rooftop.
He rolled onto the surface, gasping, hoodie soaked with blood and sweat. He didn’t stop to rest. He ran again.
Across the rooftop.
Down a drainpipe.
Onto a lower fire escape, then into a narrow window where someone had left an apartment airing out.
Empty.
Peter ducked behind the open curtain and slid to the floor, sucking in shallow, ragged breaths.
Outside, a shadow passed over the building. He heard Tim land on the roof above—silent, methodical. Searching.
Peter didn’t move.
He could feel Tim scanning for him, sharp and methodical—probably using every piece of tech the Bat had thrown his way. But Peter knew how to disappear. He’d learned from the best. Hydra made sure of it. SHIELD had taught him a thing or two, too, before they fell apart.
And right now, Gotham was loud enough to lose yourself in.
He tucked himself into the dark of the unfamiliar room and let the city’s noise cover him. Horns. Sirens. Rain against windows. Too many heartbeats, too much movement.
And Tim Drake—Red Robin—was gone a moment later. Moved on.
Still searching.
Peter stayed frozen in place until his limbs stopped shaking.
Only then did he crawl to the far wall and ease himself down, back to the corner, breathing through the pain.
He had to move again soon. Couldn't stay long.
But for now—just a minute—he closed his eyes and listened to the city.
And for the first time since Aunt May hit the ground, he didn’t feel entirely alone.
--
The buildings in this part of Gotham leaned like tired men — too many years, too much weight. Peter had slipped through the back alleys, ducking under rusted fire escapes and over chain-link fences until he found one with a broken lock on the rear entrance. He didn’t hesitate.
Every step hurt. His hoodie clung wetly to his skin, blood cooling in sticky patches. The wound on his side throbbed with every breath.
The building was mostly silent. Most of the lights were out — not because people were sleeping, but because no one lived here anymore.
Peter climbed the stairs one slow step at a time, dragging himself higher with one hand braced against the wall. Paint peeled under his fingers. A broken door hung open on the third floor. He stepped inside.
It wasn’t much. One small living space with a fold-out couch, a cracked TV screen, and a half-kitchen stripped bare. Layers of dust confirmed no one had been here in a long time. The electricity was off. The silence, oddly, felt safe.
He kicked the door shut behind him and locked it with what little was left of the bolt.
Safe enough.
For now.
The apartment smelled faintly of dust and old takeout. It looked like no one had been here in weeks — a few boxes scattered, blinds half-drawn, the kind of place that felt paused mid-life.
Peter didn’t care.
He staggered into the narrow bathroom, clutching his side. The blood had soaked through his hoodie, sticky and warm against his palm. He hissed as he peeled it up, revealing the wound — jagged, maybe a knife, maybe shrapnel, definitely deep.
“Okay,” he muttered, forcing a breath through clenched teeth. “Patch job. Temporary fix. I’ve had worse. Sort of.”
He opened every cabinet he could find. Dusty toothbrush. Expired mouthwash. Razor blades. A half-used first aid kit, shoved in the back behind a plunger. Jackpot.
He dumped the kit on the counter and sat down on the closed toilet lid, his legs trembling beneath him. The mirror above the sink caught his reflection, and for a moment, he couldn’t recognize the face staring back.
Dark circles. Pale skin. Blood crusted along his cheekbone. Eyes glassy, almost hollow.
He looked like a ghost.
Like someone who'd already lost.
“Keep going,” he whispered to himself, pressing gauze to the wound. “You don’t stop. Not now.”
The antiseptic burned like fire. Peter bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to draw blood, jaw locked, muscles screaming. He could still feel the way May's hand had gone slack in his, the echo of her voice—
Peter, go.
He shook the thought away.
Wrapped the bandage tight.
Tied it off with fingers that wouldn’t stop trembling.
Every nerve in his body wanted to collapse. He wanted to lay back, to sleep, to wake up and find out this was some sick dream.
But he couldn’t.
He pressed his forehead to the sink’s edge, breathing in short, silent bursts. The adrenaline was fading now, and the pain was crawling in to take its place.
He had to move soon.
But not yet.
Not just yet.
Peter reached for the hoodie again, blood-soaked and stiff, and pulled it over his head. The red lining inside looked like it was mocking him.
He tucked himself in the corner of the small apartment, hoodie pulled tight over his arms, one hand pressed gently to his side.
And he waited for the sun to rise.
Or the city to shift.
Or for the next person to try and kill him.
Whichever came first.
The city outside murmured in low tones — sirens in the distance, wind slipping through broken windows, the occasional shout echoing off concrete. But inside the abandoned apartment, everything was still.
Peter sat curled up on the floor beneath the only window that wasn’t entirely boarded shut. The weak light of a flickering streetlamp painted his face in pale gold, throwing his shadow long across the stained floorboards.
He wasn’t sure how long he’d been sitting there. Time had warped. It always did after everything went to hell.
His hoodie was too damp with blood to offer much warmth, and the ache in his side pulsed in time with his heartbeat. But that wasn’t what had him cold.
It was the silence.
He couldn’t stop seeing it — the way May had fallen. The sound she made when she hit the floor. How her eyes never closed, how she didn't get to say goodbye.
Peter pressed his hand harder to the bandaged wound on his side like he could push the memory out through the skin.
“You told me to run,” he whispered. His voice cracked.
He hadn’t cried. Not yet. He didn’t think he could.
Not until it was over. Not until he knew he was safe. Not until… whatever was happening stopped happening.
He’d let Hydra get too close. He thought he could handle it — track Luthor’s connections, pass the intel to Tony, get out. Quiet. Clean. He didn’t expect May to be dragged into it.
She had no armor. No powers. Just her faith in him.
And he let her down.
He leaned his head back against the cracked wall, staring at the ceiling. The pain was duller now — either the adrenaline was gone or he was just getting used to it.
“Should’ve died back there,” he murmured. “Would’ve been fair.”
But something had made him keep moving. Instinct, maybe. Or spite. Or some tiny, stubborn part of him that refused to die when there was still something left to do.
His breath hitched. He curled tighter into himself, blinking rapidly. No tears. Not here. Not yet.
A slow breath. Then another.
He let his senses drift out, felt the pulse of the city through the cracked window, the slight hum of early traffic beginning to buzz far below.
Gotham didn’t know who he was.
And maybe that was the point.
A clean slate. Or at least, a hiding place.
But the ache in his chest wouldn’t let him pretend for long.
He missed her.
And more than that, he was scared. Not of Hydra. Not of dying.
He was scared of being alone.
And he already was.
Peter hadn’t moved from the floor. The gray morning light had begun to filter in, cold and dull through the soot-streaked glass, laying everything bare in its silence.
He should leave.
He couldn’t stay here — someone would find him, someone always did. Hydra wasn’t stupid, and if Luthor really was as deep in their pocket as he suspected, Gotham wasn’t some neutral haven. It was just another battlefield, dressed up in gothic stone and shadows.
Still, something in him hesitated.
Maybe it was the fact that no one here knew him yet. Maybe it was that the city felt different — sharper around the edges, sure, but not his kind of sharp. It wasn’t Queens. It wasn’t Avengers Tower or SHIELD bunkers or sanctums with magical relics humming in the walls. It was… unfamiliar. And weirdly quiet, even when it screamed.
And then there was the kid — the guy in red and black who dropped down in front of him, who moved like someone who knew how to kill and had decided not to. Tim, he’d heard someone call him that once on a police band scanner. Red Robin, part of the Gotham vigilante family.
Peter pressed a trembling hand tighter to his ribs, the ache flaring. He remembered the moment clearly — Tim dropping from the shadows, his eyes flicking to Peter’s injuries, his mouth opening to speak.
And Peter?
Peter had bolted like a scared kid. Like a liability.
And that’s what he was. Hydra didn’t even need to catch him to win. He’d lead them here like breadcrumbs. Gotham could burn just like Queens did. Just like May did.
He winced and squeezed his eyes shut, jaw clenching. A low, breathless noise escaped him — not quite a sob, more like a sound someone makes when they’re falling and they know they’ll hit bottom soon.
But underneath that spiral, something else flickered. Something quieter. He remembered the woman on the train — Barbara. Warm voice. Calm hands. Library talk. A lifeline when he was drowning.
She’d said Gotham was hard, but worth it.
Peter didn’t know if he believed that. But he was tired of running. Tired of being the problem, the storm people didn’t see coming until it was too late.
He wanted to believe this place might give him space to think. To fight back.
To heal.
Even if no one here knew who he really was, even if they hated what side he used to be on — maybe they wouldn’t ask him to be anything else. At least not yet.
He opened his eyes slowly and stared down at the dirty bandages he’d wrapped himself in. His hands were still shaking. His body still ached. But there was resolve in his chest now, settled like a stone.
He couldn’t go back. Couldn’t outrun it anymore.
So maybe he wouldn’t.
Maybe he’d stay just long enough to put Hydra in the ground.
And then… then he’d figure out what came next.
With effort, Peter pushed himself up from the floor and reached for the hoodie he’d peeled off hours ago. He moved stiffly, carefully — everything hurt, but it was a familiar pain now. Manageable.
He tugged the hood over his head, shadowing his face in the light, and stepped toward the boarded window, peering through the cracks at the street below.
Gotham was waking up.
And so was he.