Peter was beginning to accept a fundamental truth of his life.
No matter how strong he became, in this house, he was always going to be the "little brother." Toby was an immovable mountain—a peak that Peter might never climb.
But Peter didn't hate that feeling. In fact, he found a strange comfort in it. If you can't climb the mountain, why not just lean against it and take a nap? Having a mountain to shield you from the wind and rain wasn't a bad deal at all. Besides, if you did manage to cross to the other side, who's to say there wasn't just a bottomless abyss waiting for you?
As his logic returned, Peter became obsessed with the source of his new powers. Looking at Toby's own superhuman display, a lightbulb went off in his head.
"I've got it!" Peter exclaimed. "Toby, this is a bloodline awakening, isn't it? Our family has some ancient, hidden lineage—like a dormant Viking berserker gene—and we just happened to trigger it? Am I right?"
Thwack.
Toby's fingers flicked Peter's forehead with practiced precision. "How many times do I have to tell you to stop watching so much anime? 'Bloodline awakening'? We're in Queens, Peter, not a Shonen jump manga. What kind of ancestor do you think we have? A legendary cotton-gin repairman?"
After silencing Peter's "Chuunibyou" delusions, Toby walked over to a seemingly solid wall and pressed his palm against a hidden scanner.
Beep.
The wall hissed and split down the middle, revealing a hydraulic lift descending into the dark. Peter stood there, jaw-dropping.
A basement inside a basement? he thought. When did he dig this? How did he hide the construction noise from Aunt May?
Toby didn't bother explaining the logistics of his secret renovation. He stepped onto the lift and descended, leaving Peter to scramble after him.
The sub-level was a revelation. Unlike the gym above, this was a high-tech sanctuary. It rivaled Dr. Connors' lab at OsCorp, packed with diagnostic equipment, chemistry stations, and servers. But Peter's eyes didn't linger on the tech. They were locked onto a glass display case running along the far wall, housing a series of specialized suits.
Peter walked to the glass, his fingers trembling as he traced the evolution of the "Spider" from left to right.
The First Suit: A "Thug Starter Pack." A black balaclava, dark sunglasses, a deep red hoodie, black cargo pants, and tactical boots.
This was Toby's "debut" outfit. It was designed purely for anonymity—something cheap and disposable so that the lawless elements of Hell's Kitchen wouldn't recognize him and retaliate against his family.
The Second Suit: A massive upgrade. It was a sleek, all-black, one-piece bodysuit. The material had shifted from common cotton to a high-elastic spandex-synthetic fiber.
Toby had built this himself after becoming a professional mercenary, using the "clean" money he'd funneled through Fisk to buy industrial-grade materials.
The Third Suit: Toby's current gear—the Black and Crimson armor he'd worn during the Yakuza massacre.
This wasn't homemade. Toby had commissioned this from a specialized "underworld designer" who only worked for top-tier legends. The material was a multi-layered ballistic nylon composite, capable of stopping small-caliber rounds and resisting blade slashes.
In terms of aesthetics, it was intimidating: black on the head, shoulders, and gloves, with the rest in a deep, blood-red. A stark, black spider emblem was etched into the chest. It featured built-in thermal imaging, temperature regulation, and moisture-wicking tech.
Toby had paid nearly $10 million for this single suit. At the time, he'd considered crushing the designer's skull for such an outrageous price, but after seeing the specs, he realized the man's talent for "black tech" was worth every cent. It was the only way to get this level of gear without having a name like Tony Stark.
Then, Peter's gaze fell on The Fourth Suit. He couldn't look away.
It was a striking combination of vibrant red and deep blue. The silhouette was similar to Toby's third suit, but the details were vastly different.
Unlike the minimalist design of the mercenary armor, this suit featured an intricate, black web-pattern etched across the red sections of the torso and mask. While the third suit looked like something a villain or an anti-hero would wear, this one felt... heroic. The red was bright and welcoming; the blue was deep and dependable. It screamed "Good Guy."
But the most obvious difference? It was significantly smaller than the others.
There was no way Toby's massive, six-foot-six frame was fitting into that. It was scaled perfectly for someone... smaller. Someone about Peter's size.
Peter turned to Toby, his breath catching in his throat. "Toby... is this for...?"
Toby leaned against the wall, watching Peter with a quiet, knowing smile. He reached out and pressed his palm to the biometric lock on the fourth display case. The glass slid open with a hiss.
"Well, stop staring," Toby chuckled. "You didn't think I made this for myself, did you? My 'size' is a bit more substantial than yours, Pete."
Peter was overwhelmed with emotion, but Toby's final jab brought a vein of annoyance to his forehead.
Size? He's making a joke about my... Peter opened his mouth to defend his honor, but then he remembered a childhood memory—him and Toby seeing who could "aim" further in the backyard. He remembered the literal "high-pressure fire hose" Toby possessed and promptly shut his mouth.
Damn it, Peter thought, looking at the suit. Some arguments just can't be won.