By eight o'clock in the morning, Manhattan's relentless hustle had already reclaimed the streets. The Mysterio riot had flared and died within a single hour. Shattered storefronts caught the morning sun, and police sirens wailed somewhere in the distance, but the city was already resetting to its default rhythm. Nobody had died. A few overturned sedans and scorched billboards were the only proof it had happened at all. Quentin Beck hadn't wanted a massacre; he had wanted a stage. Now the curtain had fallen, leaving him defeated and in federal custody.
On the roof of Oscorp, Cindy Moon stared out across the skyline. She brushed a stray strand of black hair from her forehead. She turned to leave, but Peter Parker's voice stopped her.
"I wouldn't recommend webbing out of here just yet," he said. "Mysterio just wrapped up. Every news chopper in the city is circling like sharks in chummed water. If you swing out now, tomorrow's Daily Bugle headline is going to be Spider-Woman Menaces New York! Or worse, Spider-Man's Secret Identity: A Teenage Girl!"
Cindy turned and instinctively caught the aluminum can tossed her way. She looked up. Peter hung perfectly upside-down from a steel structural beam. He had his mask rolled up past his nose, casually sipping from an open coffee can.
"I swiped two from the vending machine downstairs," Peter said. "You don't mind, right?"
Cindy popped the tab on her can. She tilted her head. "Can you actually swallow coffee upside down?"
"Wait. Can't you?"
They both laughed. The tension of the morning finally cracked.
The silence stretched comfortably for a moment before Cindy leaned against the railing. "How do you keep doing this?" she asked.
"Doing what? Hanging from ceilings?"
"No." Cindy shook her head. "This. The suit."
Peter blinked, lowering his coffee.
"The Daily Bugle drags your name through the mud every single day," Cindy continued. "People online tear you apart. I saw the footage of your fight with the Shocker. People were saying that if you'd just taken him out permanently the first time, half of Midtown wouldn't have been wrecked. Most of the voices out there aren't cheering for you. So why do you keep going?"
Peter stared down at the concrete roof. He took a slow breath, letting the question settle. When he answered, it was the absolute truth.
"I was never happy being Spider-Man."
Cindy didn't interrupt.
"I didn't feel like the chosen one. I didn't feel special. When I first got these powers, I was just terrified. I wasn't scared of the abilities themselves. I was terrified of what would happen if I made the wrong choices."
He thought about the timeline, the sheer weight of what Spider-Man was supposed to represent. What if he ruined it? What if the world needed its Spider-Man and he failed to step up?
"For a long time, I was just playing a role," Peter said, his voice dropping. "I was performing as the ideal Spider-Man. The one in my head. I think I did a decent job, but I was carrying this massive weight. I wasn't happy."
He unlatched his feet from the beam and flipped down, landing silently next to her. He leaned his forearms against the railing, staring out at the jagged Manhattan horizon.
"But things changed," Peter said. "Herman Schultz wanted to force the world to see him. Carl King showed me exactly what this power looks like when it's infected by selfishness. And Beck... if I kept playing a character, if I refused to take off my mask in that dark room, I wouldn't have beaten Mysterio. They all proved it to me. There's no separate guy playing dress-up. Peter Parker is Spider-Man."
He turned his head to check if she was getting bored. "Did I talk too much?"
Cindy took a sip of her coffee. "I'm listening."
"I'm starting to think this kind of life actually suits me," Peter smiled slightly. "Honestly? The fun part of this gig isn't fighting supervillains. It's not the suit. It's those random Tuesday afternoons, just swinging between skyscrapers when nobody is in trouble. When New York doesn't need me. That's when I'm happiest."
Cindy drained the rest of her coffee and crushed the can effortlessly. She hopped up onto the edge of the parapet and spread her arms. "I'm going home."
"I literally just said the choppers are—"
"I know," Cindy interrupted, perfectly deadpan. She dropped into a crouch, balancing on the edge. "One more thing. I'm transferring to Midtown High next week. We have the exact same schedule."
Before Peter could process that, she fell backward, plunging off the roof of the Osborn Building.
Peter let out a heavy sigh, shoulders slumping. He was never going to hear the end of the Daily Bugle conspiracy theories now. But he couldn't stop the grin from spreading across his face.
He pulled his mask down, fired a webline, and launched himself into the familiar rush of the city wind.
But the good news didn't stop there. He was mid-swing when the comms in his eyepiece crackled.
"Hey, Spider-Man. Got some good news for you."
Tony Stark's voice cut through the rushing wind.
"Mr. Stark," Peter said, releasing his web and firing another. "What's up?"
"Are you free tomorrow? We're holding a press conference at the Tower. Officially announcing King T'Challa of Wakanda is joining the Avengers. Thought you might want to swing by."
"Should I rent a tuxedo, Mr. Stark?"
"No, no, no, skip the tailoring," Tony said. "I just think we need to formally introduce our, you know, newest security guard."
Peter missed a swing. He caught himself on a fire escape, heart hammering against his ribs.
A long moment of silence stretched over the line. When Tony spoke again, the usual flippancy was gone.
"We know how you took down Mysterio. Welcome to the Avengers, kid. If you want it, be at the Tower tomorrow morning."
Peter swallowed hard. "I'll be there, Mr. Stark."
He cut the connection. Today really is a good day. He dove off the fire escape, shooting a web and letting the momentum carry him high above the traffic.
Three blocks south of Oscorp.
"Is he still alive?"
The EMTs had finally managed to load the unconscious man onto the gurney. The paramedics pulled him out of the chaotic aftermath of the Osborn lobby and hoisted him into the back of the ambulance.
A young nurse glanced nervously at the attending doctor. The doctor shone a penlight into the man's unresponsive eyes, checked his vitals, and let out a grim sigh.
"He's not in immediate danger of dying," the doctor said, peeling off his gloves. "But that bullet shattered his spine. We're looking at total, lifelong paralysis. Did anyone find a wallet? Do we have an identity?"
"Nothing on him, doctor. A total John Doe."
MacDonald Gargan lay motionless on the stretcher. His eyes were closed, his breathing shallow. His face twitched slightly in his comatose state, as if his brain was still trying to process the exact moment his own finger had pulled the trigger.
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