Peter Parker

The diner was tucked between a hardware store and a 24-hour pharmacy, glowing with warm neon under the early evening sky. Its windows were foggy from the inside warmth, and the door jingled with every new customer. The sign outside said "Earl's Eats", but everyone in Midtown just called it The Spot—cheap, cozy, and always stocked with milkshakes that didn't taste like battery acid.

Peter walked a few steps behind Liz, Harry, and Ian as they crossed the street.

His eyes flicked toward a sleek black sedan parked on the opposite curb. Same one that had passed them—twice—since they left school. No headlights, tinted windows, engine off. Not enough to panic about. Just... not normal.

It's either tailing Harry or me, Peter thought. Probably Harry. Still—worth remembering.

He blinked once and committed the plate number to memory.

Inside the diner, they slid into a booth near the back. Liz sat next to Peter, their shoulders brushing. Harry and Ian sat across from them. The table was slightly sticky, the way all diner tables seemed to be, but the smell of fries and sizzling onions made up for it.

A tired waitress came over with a half-smile. "Milkshakes?"

"All around," Harry said. "Chocolate for me."

"Strawberry," Liz added.

"Vanilla," Ian nodded.

"Plain," Peter said.

"Plain vanilla?" Ian asked, raising an eyebrow.

"No. Just plain," Peter deadpanned.

The table groaned. Liz buried her face in her hands.

"God help us," she muttered. "He's trying to be funny again."

Peter smiled faintly.

They chatted for a while—laughing about Zara's quiz bowl rage, teasing Ian about his mini monologue on Norse mythology, and trying to guess what the final score would have been if Mr. Elden hadn't thrown in pop culture questions.

"You know what really bugs me," Ian said between fries, "is that Game of Thrones is now considered pop culture and not fantasy literature. People forget it was a book first!"

"Tell that to half the people who only remember the dragons and not the politics," Liz said.

"Still can't believe that ending," Harry muttered. "What a mess."

Peter sipped his milkshake in silence, half-listening.

His gaze drifted to the window again.

The black car was gone.

They paid the bill and stepped back into the chilly evening. The wind had picked up a bit, rustling Harry's coat collar and Liz's hair. Streetlights buzzed overhead.

"I'm calling it a night," Ian said. "Got physics homework and a guilty conscience."

"Smart," Liz replied. "Good night, Ian."

Harry yawned. "My driver's parked up the block. I'll catch you guys tomorrow."

That left Peter and Liz walking side-by-side, their arms brushing occasionally.

"That was fun," she said.

"Yeah," Peter replied. "Nice to win something without having to punch anyone."

She laughed. "You're weird. But I like it."

He smiled at her, small and real.

They stopped at her apartment. She leaned up and kissed him quickly on the cheek.

"Good night, Peter."

"Night, Liz."

She went inside. Peter stood there for a moment, watching the closed door.

Then his smile faded.

The car's gone. Whoever it was, they pulled off after we went inside.

He turned, eyes narrowed slightly.

Fifteen minutes later, Peter stepped into the unlit interior of his Base. Dustless, cold, silent. He moved to the desk and flipped the monitor on.

He typed quickly—vehicle description, partial number plate, make and model. It didn't take long.

Registered to: Osborn Biochem Security Pool – Internal Division.

Peter leaned back in the chair, staring at the screen.

Two options. One—it's just a surveillance team Norman uses to keep tabs on Harry. Entirely plausible. Rich parents do that.

Two—it's for me. Or for Harry's friends. Or both.

He exhaled through his nose.

If Norman's checking into me, it's still early. He's watching, not acting. That's fine. But it won't stay like that forever.

He shut the monitor off, stood, and moved toward the locker in the corner.

Time to patrol.

The suit slipped over him like second skin. Smooth, black fabric with red-accented lines. Light armor, no cape, no extra weight. He adjusted the mask, blinked once to activate the internal HUD, and climbed the stairwell to the exit hatch.

The night air was crisp as he swung out into the sky, low over the rooftops.

Spider-Man was back on the clock.

12 minutes into patrol

He spotted the first crime on 43rd and Tenner—two men breaking into a corner store with crowbars, one standing lookout.

Peter landed behind them without a sound.

"Need help opening that?" he said, voice slightly modulated.

They turned, startled.

One of them ran.

The other raised the crowbar.

Peter webbed the weapon mid-swing and yanked it free. A quick jab to the knee, then a sweep—down he went.

He left both of them hanging upside down with a note taped to one's chest:

"Tell your mom you were caught shoplifting."

23 minutes into patrol

A scream echoed from a parking garage.

Peter swung inside just in time to see a man trying to hotwire a black Lamborghini, eyes wide as he realized someone had caught him.

"You have excellent taste," Peter said, landing beside the car. "Shame about your methods."

The guy pulled a knife.

Peter yawned audibly and flicked his wrist. Web to the hand. Web to the knee. Web to the face.

"I'm sure prison has brochures," he muttered.

From the upper level, a couple in their mid-30s peeked down.

"Is that—?"

"Yeah! It's Spider-Man!"

They waved.

Peter gave a lazy two-finger salute.

"Thanks, man!"

"No problem. Don't let anyone steal a car that expensive again. It's just rude."

45 minutes into patrol

He perched on the edge of a broadcast antenna, looking over the city like it was his chessboard. The wind pressed gently against the suit.

Below, a boy pointed upward from the sidewalk.

"There he is! Spider-Man!"

His mother looked up, then smiled. "He's keeping watch, baby. Like a city guardian."

Peter didn't respond. But he raised a hand in return.

He could feel the warmth of that moment.

A flicker of appreciation.

He'd never crave fame. Never needed recognition.

But it was good to know the mask still meant something.

Back at the layer, Peter pulled the mask off and sat back at his desk.

The Osborn vehicle detail still sat in his mind, filed but not forgotten.

Keep an eye on Norman. He watches others, but he doesn't know how to truly hide. Not from someone like me.

The screen flickered off.

Time to rest. Tomorrow was just another day. 

But for tonight, the city slept.

And Spider-Man kept it that way.