Chapter Text
The boy crawled in through the window like a shadow: silent, practiced, invisible. His fingers curled around the chipped sill, nails blackened at the edges, knuckles raw. The latch had long since rusted into a stubborn memory of security, so he pushed it open with a soft grunt, careful not to wake the neighbors.
Not that they’d care. Not that they’d remember him.
The frame groaned faintly, swallowed by the thick, humid air. He paused, crouched halfway through, listening. The building was quiet, but not peaceful, quiet like a graveyard, where silence was just the absence of movement, not the absence of suffering.
His boots hit the cracked floor with a dull thud, leaving faint prints in the dust that had settled like ash. The apartment was cold, not winter cold, but the kind that seeped into your bones when the heat hadn’t been paid for. The kind that made your joints ache and your breath feel heavy, like you were inhaling regret.
The air pressed against him like a damp shroud. It smelled of mildew, old sweat, and something faintly metallic, blood, maybe, or rust. He scanned the room: damp walls, peeling paint, mold in the corners. The furniture was sparse, battered, and mostly broken. A couch with springs poking through its belly. A coffee table missing a leg, propped up by a stack of outdated newspapers. The only window, cracked with age, let in a weak streak of gray dawn light that struggled to pierce the gloom.
He moved slowly, deliberately, like someone afraid the room might collapse if he stepped too hard. First, he peeled off the mask, then the rest of the suit. Each movement was slow, like shedding skin. The fabric clung to him: damp, grimy, soaked through with blood, sweat, and memories he couldn’t afford to remember. The suit was a second skin, now tattered and hanging on by threads. A symbol of battles fought and lost. Of promises broken. Of people he couldn’t save.
He dropped the suit in the corner, where it landed in a heap, damp and pitiful. He didn’t look at it. The room felt colder without it. Like the suit had been the only thing holding him together.
Later, he thought. Later he’d find a better place, a better life. But right now, survival was all he had.
He moved to the kitchenette. The worn floor squeaked faintly under his feet. The fridge was old, humming with the weight of neglect. He opened it slowly; the groan was loud in the quiet apartment. Inside: half a sandwich, a bruised apple, and a bottle of tap water he’d refilled three times. He grabbed the sandwich and the apple, sitting on the edge of the rickety counter, eating in silence. The dull ache in his stomach was familiar—just like the ache in his ribs, bruised from more than just tonight’s skirmish.
It wasn’t much. But it was enough. And right now, enough was a hard-won victory.
He finished his food quickly, too quickly, then pushed himself up. The apartment was tiny: just a bed tucked into the corner, a broken chair, the couch, the coffee table, and the battered kitchen. He shuffled toward the bathroom, footsteps muffled on the thin, worn-out rug.
The flickering overhead light cast sickly yellow shadows across cracked tiles. He turned on the faucet; it sputtered and coughed out a stream of lukewarm water. The mirror was fogged, the humidity clinging to the room.
He didn’t look at it.
He already knew what he’d see: bloodshot eyes, hollow cheeks, a jaw clenched too tight for someone “so young.” Eyes that had seen too much and remembered too little.
Disgust.
Pity.
Contempt.
Revulsion.
That’s all the mirror ever gave him.
Stepping into the shower, he let the water hit his skin like a punishment. He scrubbed fast—not to get clean, but to feel something. Anything.
The water turned pink, then clear.
Peter didn’t linger. The steam curled around his shoulders as he stepped out and wrapped himself in a towel that smelled faintly of mildew and old detergent. It was thin, frayed at the edges, and barely covered the bruises blooming across his ribs like ink stains.
He dressed quickly: hoodie, jeans, boots. No costume. Not right now. Just… Peter. Or whatever was left of him.
The hoodie was faded, the cuffs stretched and threadbare. The jeans had a rip near the knee, not the fashionable kind, but the kind that came from crawling through alleyways and ducking under fences. The boots were scuffed, soles worn thin from miles walked in silence.
He moved toward the door, careful not to disturb the fragile balance of the apartment.
———————
The door creaked as he opened it, hinges groaning like they resented being used.
The hallway was dim, lit by a single flickering bulb that had been dying since he moved in. The walls were stained with things he didn’t want to name. The smell of cigarettes, sweat, and the faintest hint of something chemical and illegal seeped from behind doors.
From Apartment 5C, a voice rasped through the thin wood: “You hear that, Marla? That kid’s back. Told you he was sneakin’ in again.
A woman’s voice followed, hoarse and tired. “Let him be, Ray. He’s just a kid. Probably got nowhere else to go.”
Peter kept his head low, shoulders hunched as he moved quietly past. The door to 5C was cracked open just enough for Ray’s bloodshot eyes to catch him.
“You owe me for that busted lock, Nate,” Ray muttered, voice thick with smoke. “Don’t think I forgot.”
Peter didn’t respond. He kept walking.
From 3D, a baby cried. The sound was sharp, desperate. A woman’s voice, young, worn thin, shushed it with practiced exhaustion. “Shh, baby, shh. Mama’s here. Mama’s here.”
Peter glanced at the door. The paint was peeling, and a stuffed bear sat just outside, missing an eye. He remembered once helping the woman carry groceries up the stairs. She hadn’t thanked him. Just looked at him like she wasn’t sure he was real.
From 6D, laughter erupted, too loud, too manic. A man shouted, “You think you can cheat me, you little rat?” followed by a crash. Peter didn’t flinch. He’d heard worse. He’d seen worse. And there was nothing Peter could do about it.
From Apartment 4C, a voice called out, sharp and nasal. “Hey, Tech-Boy. You gonna fix that window you keep sneakin’ through?”
Peter froze. The door was ajar, and behind it stood Mr. Klemens, a wiry man with a permanent scowl and a wife-beater that hadn’t been washed since the Obama administration. He wore a tattoo that read My Grandpa, though Peter had never seen a child visit.
“I’ll get to it,” Peter said quietly.
Klemens snorted. “You always say that. But then every day, I wake up to the sound of that dumb window of yours.”
Peter nodded, avoiding eye contact. “Sorry.”
From 2C, a woman leaned out. She wore a silk robe that had seen better days, her hair wrapped in a towel, mascara smudged beneath tired eyes. “Leave him alone, Tobias. He’s not the one who set off the fire alarm last week.”
Klemens grumbled something and retreated into his apartment, slamming the door with a force that made the hallway light flicker again.
Ms. Harper gave Peter a small nod. “You look like hell. You okay?”
Peter nodded, barely. “Yeah. Just tired.”
She studied him for a moment, then nodded. “Aren’t we all. But, hey. You need anything, you knock. I mean it.”
He murmured a thank you and kept walking.
The door to 1D opened just as he passed. Mr. Lowe leaned out, cigarette a glowing stub, chipped black nail polish catching the light. “You sure you don’t want soup this time?”
Peter shook his head. “Thanks. Maybe later.”
He shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
The hallway felt longer than usual. Every step echoed. Every door whispered stories he didn’t want to hear.
No Ned.
No MJ.
No Aunt May.
No Mr. Stark.
No Avengers.
No ID.
No passport.
No SSN.
No records.
No pictures.
No proof of existence.
Just Spider-Man. And even that was starting to feel like a myth.
Peter reached the staircase. The old wooden steps creaked beneath him as he made his way down. Just as he neared the bottom, the door to Apartment 1B swung open with a creak that sounded like judgment.
The landlord, Mrs. DelVecchio, stepped out in her slippers and robe, clutching a mug that read World’s Okayest Boss. Her eyes, sharp and unrelenting, locked onto him like a heat-seeking missile.
“Stavros,” she snapped, her voice sharp enough to cut drywall. “You’re short on your electric again. I told you last week: end of the month or I shut it off. You think I’m running a charity?”
Peter blinked slowly. The words hit him like static. He didn’t have the energy to argue. Not today.
“I—I know,” he mumbled, adjusting the strap on his backpack as he stepped past her. “I’m working on it.”
“Right,” she scoffed, folding her arms. “You think I don’t notice the hours you keep? Creeping in at dawn, looking like you’ve been hit by a truck. You better not be doing anything illegal in my building.”
The boy’s gaze dropped to the ground. The bruises blooming under his hoodie, the ache in his ribs every time he breathed, they all told the story he couldn’t voice aloud. Illegal? Maybe. But not in the way she meant.
“I’m sorry,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “I’ll get it to you. By Friday.”
She muttered something under her breath, probably about “kids these days,” and retreated into her apartment with a slam that rattled the hallway light.
Peter exhaled slowly, then kept walking—he just needed to put one foot in front of the other.
———————
Stepping outside into the cold air, the city began humming around him. Delivery trucks rumbled past, honking taxis weaving through traffic, pedestrians rushing to nowhere. He moved with purpose, blending into the background like a shadow.
It was just before dawn. The faint glow of early morning crept through the thick gray clouds, and the smell of water lingered in the air, signaling possible rain within the hour. The air was cold, and the ache in his muscles reminded him of yesterday’s exhaustion. Bruises from last night’s fight were still tender beneath his clothes. His body protested every movement, but he knew he couldn’t afford to rest, not yet.
Outside, the air was crisp and biting. The streets were still mostly empty as he began walking, the concrete under his worn shoes uneven but familiar. A gust of wind tugged at his hoodie, slipping beneath the fabric and chilling the sweat still clinging to his skin. He pulled the hood tighter around his face, trying to disappear into the rhythm of the city.
Peter preferred to walk whenever he could, only taking the subway when absolutely necessary to save what little money he had. The long walk was part of his routine now, a way to keep moving and stay hidden, even if it meant fighting against the ache in his legs and back. It gave him time to think. Not that he wanted to.
His thoughts drifted as he walked. Not to anything good. Just flashes of things he couldn’t fix. A face he couldn’t forget. A voice he’d never hear again. The kind of memories that crept in when he was too tired to block them out.
As he traversed the city, the sun rose higher, casting a harsh light that made his eyes sensitive. The brightness prickled at his eyelids, forcing him to squint painfully. The more crowded areas, busier streets, markets, places where people gathered, made his ears ache with the constant noise. A siren wailed in the distance, followed by the blare of horns and the screech of tires. It all pressed against him, loud and relentless.
The city’s hum became a roar. He passed a street vendor shouting about fresh fruit, a delivery truck idling with its engine growling, and a group of construction workers shouting over each other. Usually, he’d drown out the chaos amplified by his senses. But today, it was too much. The sounds blurred together, a wall of noise that made everything throb. His heartbeat pounded in his ears, a relentless drum that made it hard to filter out the world.
Peter kept walking.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he arrived near the small neighborhood bodega where he worked: a quaint convenience store tucked between a laundromat and a pawn shop. The door creaked open as he stepped inside, the familiar scent of old wood, canned goods, and faint bleach filling his nose. The fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting a sickly glow that made everything look a little off.
Peter kept his head low, trying to disappear amid the clutter.
A customer pushed through the door, an older man with a thick beard and eyes squinting behind glasses. “Hey, kid,” he grunted, voice rough. “Got any of that cheap soda? The one in the blue bottle?”
Peter nodded politely, grabbed a bottle from the back shelf, and slid it across the counter. “Here you go.”
The man grunted again and rummaged in his pockets, finally throwing a crumpled dollar bill onto the counter. Peter quickly snatched it and slipped the soda into a paper bag. He didn’t bother to say much, just gave a nod. It wasn’t much, but it paid the bills—barely.
A few minutes later, a woman with a stroller came in, fussing about her crying kid. “Do you have anything for allergies?” she asked, voice strained.
Peter offered a small smile, grabbed a box of tissues and a bottle of cough syrup. As she fished out her wallet, her kid reached out and tugged at Peter’s sleeve, a tiny hand grabbing his wrist. He forced himself to hold back a wince as it tugged on a bruise on his shoulder, gave the kid a quick smile, then gently pulled away as the woman handed over cash.
The line of customers was never long, but each one brought their own annoyance: complaints about prices, slow service, or just the noise of the small space. He kept his hands steady despite the fatigue creeping into his limbs. His fingers ached from the cold, and his knees felt like they might buckle if he stood still too long.
A loud bang from the back room made Peter flinch hard, the sound slicing through the haze in his head like a slap. His spidey-sense should’ve warned him, should’ve buzzed in his skull, should’ve nudged him a second before the crash. But it hadn’t. Not until it was too late.
The signal came late. Sluggish. Like the rest of him.
He turned toward the noise, already knowing what he’d find.
The stack of boxes had fallen. Not just tipped, collapsed. A mess of cardboard, crushed packaging, and scattered contents now littered the floor in a chaotic sprawl. Cans had rolled under shelves. Bottles had cracked open, leaking sticky syrup across the floor. A bag of rice had burst, grains skittering like sand across the tiles.
His stomach sank.
Normally, he’d have caught it. Stopped it. Heck, he’d have webbed it mid-fall if he had to. But today, his reflexes were dulled by fatigue, his senses fogged by hunger and bruises. He was running on fumes, and the consequences were now spread across the floor like a punishment.
The manager looked up from seat, eyes tired but sharp. He didn’t say anything. Just gave Peter a nod and jerked his chin toward the back.
Peter didn’t argue. He slipped behind the counter, ducked into the storage room, and knelt beside the mess.
It was worse up close.
He started sorting through the wreckage, fingers trembling as he picked up dented cans and wiped syrup off cracked plastic. His knees ached against the hard floor. His hoodie stuck to his back, damp with sweat. Every movement felt like dragging his body through molasses.
He worked in silence, stacking what he could, salvaging what hadn’t burst or broken. Then came the harder part, lifting the boxes. One by one, he put them back where they belonged. His arms shook with the effort. His ribs protested. But he kept going.
The manager took over at the register without a word, handling customers with the same quiet efficiency Peter usually did. It was the closest thing to kindness he’d gotten all day.
He didn’t mind the silence.
Silence was easier than small talk.
Easier than pretending he was okay.
———————
After leaving the bodega, Peter headed down the uneven sidewalk, shoulders slumped but moving forward. The familiar ache in his legs nagged at him with every step, but he pushed through, knowing he couldn’t afford to stop. The streets grew busier as he neared the warehouse district. Trucks idled, and the clang of metal echoed around him. The sun had climbed higher now, casting a glare that made his eyes sting painfully. At least it wasn’t raining. He wouldn’t be able to handle the cold that followed.
He passed a row of dumpsters, the smell of rot and oil thick in the air. A man slept beside one, wrapped in a blanket that looked more like a tarp. Peter didn’t stop. Just kept walking.
Finally, he arrived at the warehouse, a long, low building with rusted doors and a loading dock cluttered with crates and pallets. The scent of oil, grease, and dust coated everything, making his nose twitch. Inside, the air was thick and warm with the smell of machinery and diesel fumes. The foreman, a burly man with a gravelly voice, looked him over with a dismissive glance.
“Hey, kid,” he said, giving him a rough pat on the shoulder. “Get those boxes over to the trucks, will ya?”
Peter nodded and tried to ignore the sharp sting of fatigue in his limbs. The foreman, oblivious to his tired eyes and trembling hands, led him to a heavy crate and handed it off. He barely managed to keep his grip as the weight threatened to throw him off balance. The box was awkward, and sweat beaded on his forehead as he steadied himself.
Peter shuffled from one truck to another, stacking boxes, trying not to drop anything or trip over his own tired feet. The constant hum of machinery and loud warehouse noises filled his ears, but they blurred together, making it hard to focus. His arms ached, his back protested, and sweat dripped into his eyes, blurring his vision.
He didn’t talk to anyone. Didn’t joke. Didn’t smile. Just moved from task to task, like a cog in a machine that was starting to rust.
Several hours passed in a blur of lifting, shifting, and dodging the occasional careless truck driver or coworker. Each movement felt heavier than the last. He pushed himself, knuckles scraped, muscles screaming, heart pounding in his chest.
His thoughts drifted again. Not to anything good. Just flashes of rooftops, broken glass, a voice that used to call his name. He blinked hard, forcing the memories down.
When the last crate was finally loaded, he leaned against the side of a truck, catching his breath and feeling the burn in every limb.
The sun had dipped low behind the skyline. The city was cooling, but Peter’s body still burned.
He wiped his forehead, straightened up, and turned toward the street.
There was just one stop before his next shift.