Peter Parker

The Osborn Building loomed like a monolith against the New York skyline—glass, steel, and silence. Inside the uppermost floor, behind a desk too clean to be used for actual work, Norman Osborn reviewed a monitor displaying Peter Parker's school record.

Attendance: Perfect.Grades: Consistently top five.Disciplinary Issues: None.Social Behavior: Low-profile. Socially neutral. Currently dating Liz Allan.

Norman leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled under his chin.

"Unremarkable," he muttered.

Which made him interesting.

Norman didn't trust unremarkable people. Especially not ones who had his son's trust, his employees' attention, and a knack for being everywhere and nowhere.

He clicked to another file.Security team logs.Vehicle GPS reports from last night.Tail terminated when the boy entered a diner. Left without interaction.

Still… nothing.

But Norman Osborn didn't hunt with speed. He hunted with patience.

Across the city, Peter Parker adjusted the collar of a dark jacket and stepped into a small internet café three blocks from Midtown. The lights were dim, the keyboards greasy, and the smell of instant noodles filled the air.

He slid into a booth, popped open a basic laptop—no personal files, no saved history—and inserted a flash drive. The screen blinked to life with his offline toolset: facial tracking overlays, neighborhood crime data, and a few scripts he'd written himself.

He wasn't looking for a villain.

He was looking for a system.

The last few weeks, local police reports had flagged five low-level drug busts, all oddly connected by one detail—the same brand of burner phones found at each scene.

Peter found the brand—cheap, traceable in clusters.

He ran a batch cross-reference against local purchases, using public merchant data leaks and flagged online marketplaces.

Thirty-seven phones matched.

Twenty-six were duds.

Nine were scattered.

Two were active.

One pinged in Harlem.

The other? Brooklyn Docks, Warehouse District. Same number had been active at 3:00 a.m., 4 nights in a row.

Peter zoomed in on a satellite view. The lot was fenced. No business name, no signage. But security cameras were mounted, and a few unmarked delivery vans came and went irregularly.

He leaned back.

Too much activity for a dead lot.

He opened another program, tapped into a stolen private security feed he'd silently piggybacked weeks ago from an unrelated bust. One of the guard firms had listed this warehouse under "freelance rentals." No records. Just cash payments.

He clicked into archived security footage.

One van at 1 a.m.

Two guards outside by 1:30 a.m.

No lights inside.

No sound.

One car leaves by 3:45 a.m.

It was a routine.

It was a base.

Later that night, Peter opened the hatch of his underground lair, eyes cold and calculating under the flickering fluorescent light. His Spider-Man suit sat idle on its platform.

Tonight, he wasn't Spider-Man.

He pulled on the black suit—reinforced fabric, matte coating, red-tinted visor, light armor built into the chest and forearms. No emblem. No colors.

Just a ghost in the dark.

He fastened the final seam at his wrist, holstered his retractable tools, and grabbed a silent grapple-line launcher from the wall.

He activated the comms recorder in his suit. Not to contact anyone—he didn't trust others—but to log his movements. Habits keep data clean. Truth protected.

"Target located: Brooklyn Industrial Zone, Lot 47C. Patterned activity suggests contraband circulation—likely narcotics and weapons. Entry point unknown. Observation phase initiated."

He left through the underground tunnel exit, gliding through shadowed rooftops until the world became smaller and quieter.

1:03 A.M. – Brooklyn Docks

He perched atop a rusted crane, crouched like a gargoyle in the mist. From his vantage point, the warehouse sat like a bunker beneath him—long, gray, windowless.

Two men stood at the main gate.

Both had tactical vests—not heavy armor, but military surplus-grade.

They didn't act like druggies or punks.

They acted like employees.

Peter shifted lenses on his visor, zooming in.

One man adjusted something under his jacket—a sidearm holster. Not concealed well. The other smoked with the kind of boredom that only came with repeating a task for weeks.

A white van pulled into the lot. No license plate.

The rear opened.

Three men stepped out. One carried a black duffel bag. Another carried a plastic crate, probably full of cash, tools, or both.

Peter started mapping entry points. One loading dock entrance. Two external doors. One likely rooftop hatch.

He tapped a silent photo-capture. The program stored timestamped stills of every face, every motion.

He wasn't acting tonight.

He was learning.

Strike later. Clean. Surgical.

2:20 A.M.

Peter moved to a rooftop across from the warehouse. From there, he could see a back alley exit connected to a side building—likely an old storage annex.

A figure emerged.

Hood up. Slim. Moving fast but not panicked.

Peter watched as the figure handed something small—a baggie?—to a biker waiting at the alley corner. The biker gave a wad of bills. Quick nod. Gone.

Peter zoomed and enhanced the freeze-frame.

Drug handoff confirmed. Low volume. Street-to-street distribution.

This wasn't a gang.

This was a business.

And businesses could be robbed.

Back at the lair just before sunrise, Peter stood in front of his monitor. Onscreen, all collected data formed a detailed web of nodes: vehicle photos, delivery timestamps, possible blueprints of the warehouse block based on old city construction permits.

He plugged it all into a folder titled:

[Target: Drop Zone - L47C]

Inside it, he wrote a simple goal:

Rob the dealers. Take the weapons. Take the cash. Leave no evidence.

He stared at the screen in silence.

Then, like a ritual, he muttered under his breath:

"Let them think it was someone else."