Peter sat at his small, rickety desk, the surface covered in loose-leaf paper and a single, flickering lamp.
He was currently deconstructing a broken toaster he'd found on the curb, salvaging the heating elements to see if he could rig a makeshift heater.
His hands moved with a practiced, surgical precision, the kind of muscle memory that came from years of tinkering with Stark tech and web-shooters. Here, in the dim light of a room looked small, he was just a kid trying to stay warm.
Being eighteen was supposed to feel like an opening door, but for Peter, it felt like the world had simply closed its eyes.
He had spent the last few weeks learning the invisible geography of a life without a safety net. He knew which bodegas sold the day-old bread for half price and which subway entrances had the loosest turnstiles when his MetroCard ran dry.
It was a slow, grinding adaptation to a world that didn't owe him a memory or a favor. He reached for a screwdriver, his fingers brushing against a small, framed photo he kept facedown on the desk.
He didn't turn it over; he didn't need to see their faces to feel the hollow ache in his chest.
He checked the clock on his phone, a cheap burner he'd bought with cash from his first week at the bodega.
It was nearly midnight, the hour when the city shifted from the frantic energy of the day to the jagged, nervous edge of the night. His sense was a constant, low-level hum at the base of his skull, a radio tuned to a frequency of distant sirens and shouting.
For a while after the spell, he had tried to ignore it, trying to be just Peter Parker, the GED student. But the city was too loud, and his conscience was louder.
He stood up, his joints popping in the cold, and reached for the bundle of fabric hidden inside his pillowcase.
The suit was a masterpiece of necessity, a far cry from the nanotech or the integrated suits he'd worn alongside gods and kings. It was simple spandex and heavy-duty thread, stitched together by hand until his fingers bled.
Putting it on was a ritual of isolation, the mask sliding over his face to erase the last traces of the boy who no longer existed. He didn't have Karen's voice in his ear anymore, providing tactical readouts or making jokes about his heart rate.
There was only his own breathing, rhythmic and isolated, echoing inside the fabric. He opened the window, the freezing New York wind hitting him with the force of a physical blow.
He didn't swing immediately; he just stood on the fire escape, watching the steam rise from the manhole covers below.
In the old days, he would have made a grand entrance, a high-altitude dive into a web-swing that defied physics. Now, he climbed, moving limb over limb up the brickwork of the neighboring building to save his web-fluid. Chemicals were expensive, and he had to cook the formula in a stolen saucepan on a hot plate.
Every gram of webbing was a literal fraction of his grocery budget, so he learned to be frugal. He moved like a shadow, a silent red-and-blue blur against the soot-stained skyline.
He reached the roof of a mid-rise apartment complex and began his patrol, sticking to the rooftops of Hell's Kitchen.
He saw a group of men gathered around the back of a van three blocks away, their movements hurried and suspicious. In the past, he might have dropped in with a quip and a web-bomb, ending the fight in ten seconds flat.
Now, he waited, observing the scene from the darkness of a chimney stack. These were low-level traffickers, the kind of bottom-feeders who thrived in the gaps left by the bigger players.
He counted four of them, two with handguns tucked into their waistbands.
Peter felt the familiar surge of adrenaline, but he tempered it with a cold, calculated restraint. He wasn't here to be a symbol or a hero for the evening news; he was here to stop a crime and go home unnoticed.
He dropped from the roof, using a single strand of web to swing silently behind the van. The men were arguing about a shipment of stolen pharmaceuticals, their voices hushed but aggressive.
Peter moved in, not with a flashy kick, but with a series of quick, targeted strikes. He disabled the first man with a palm strike to the back, catching him before he could hit the ground and making a sound.
The second man turned, reaching for his weapon, but Peter was already there, webbing the gun to his holster before he could draw.
He didn't use full strength; he didn't want to shatter bones, just to incapacitate. He moved like water, a blur of motion that felt more like a dance than a brawl.
He was an Avenger who had fought Thanos, yet here he was, neutralizing a street thug with a gentle redirection of momentum.
It was a strange, humbling transition, a reminder that his power was a tool, not a weapon.
Within a minute, all four men were webbed to the side of the van, silenced and immobile.
"Who the hell are you?" one of the men hissed, his eyes wide with a mix of fear and confusion. Peter didn't answer; he just checked the crates in the van to confirm they were the stolen meds from the local clinic. He didn't give them a name, and he didn't stick around for the police sirens that were already beginning to wail in the distance.
He climbed back up the wall, his heart rate barely elevated, the cold air lunging into his chest.
He felt a brief flash of satisfaction, the only kind he allowed himself these days. He had done something right, even if nobody would ever know who had done it.
By the time he got back to his apartment, the sun was beginning to bleed a dull grey over the horizon. He climbed through the window, stripped off the suit, and hid it back in its secret spot.
His hands were shaking slightly, not from fear, but from the sheer exhaustion of the double life he was trying to build.
He sat back down at his desk, the broken toaster still waiting for him, a reminder of the mundane reality he couldn't escape.
He was Peter Parker, he was eighteen, and he was completely alone in a city of millions. He picked up the screwdriver again, his mind already drifting to the GED practice test he had to take in four hours.
Authors Note:-
Well , I haven't seen any spider fic after no way home....and I will integrate symbiote, mutants and doomsday.
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Comments if necessary.