East Brooklyn
The alarms were loud.
Too loud.
A late-night security system wailed from the Eastbrook National branch on 4th and Hansen. Glass shattered below. A getaway van idled nearby, engine still running. Inside the bank, five men in ski masks scrambled to stuff cash into duffel bags, shouting over each other.
"Two minutes, tops!"
"You said it'd be empty!"
"Shut up and grab the stacks!"
They didn't notice the shadow drop silently from the rooftop.
Spider-Man landed upside down on the overhang above the front entrance, watching them through the broken frame. He flexed his fingers, cracked his neck, and muttered to himself:
"Five guys. Two pistols. One shotgun. Zero exit plan. This'll take... what, twenty seconds?"
One of the robbers stepped out of the bank with a bag slung over his shoulder—just in time to get a full web shot to the chest.
He flew backward with a muffled grunt, smacking against the side of the van and sticking there like a dollar store action figure. The others turned just as the air above them shifted.
Thwip! Thwip! Thwip!
Three more web lines struck their marks—wrists, weapons, legs. In seconds, the robbers were stuck to the nearest wall, squirming like glued-up insects.
The last guy tried to run.
Spider-Man dropped in front of him from above, crouching with his head tilted.
"Hey. Want to bet your getaway van has illegal plates?"
The man froze.
Peter fired a web straight into his chest and launched him into the side of the bank sign. He stuck with a groan.
Sirens could already be heard in the distance.
Spider-Man dusted off his hands, turned toward the nearest fire escape, and leapt skyward.
He landed lightly on the edge of a five-story building overlooking the quiet avenue, crouched like a gargoyle in the night. From here, he watched the flashing red-and-blues arrive. Cops began unwebbing the perps and securing the scene.
Then he felt it.
Not danger. Not his spider-sense.
Just… someone watching.
He turned his head slightly.
A woman stood across the rooftop, arms folded, half in shadow. Black leather jacket, dark jeans, heavy boots. Unarmed, as far as he could tell. But her posture said don't try me.
She didn't blink. Didn't smile.
Jessica Jones.
Peter tensed, but didn't move. He knew that face. Knew the name.
He'd watched the Defenders series when he was still figuring this world out. And Jessica had stuck with him—not because of her powers, but because of how little she cared to use them.
Private Investigator.Strong as hell.Smarter than people thought.Hated capes.
"You don't look like you're from around here," she said finally, voice flat but not hostile.
Peter stayed still. "Funny. I live six blocks that way."
Jessica gave a faint nod, almost like she believed him.
"You do that?" she asked, jerking her head toward the alley.
"Yeah," he replied. "No one else was stopping them."
She stepped forward once, boots scraping the rooftop gravel.
"I've been following a trail," she said. "Burned buildings. Dead bodies. No survivors. No witnesses. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that?"
Peter shrugged slightly. "If I did, I'd say you're mixing up your masked men. I'm the friendly one."
Jessica's eyes narrowed. "I don't believe in friendly people."
"Noted."
The two stood there, the city humming beneath them.
Peter's heart rate was calm—but his thoughts raced. Jessica Jones being here meant she was already tracking something. Something he may have caused.
Is she onto the warehouse? Sebastian? One of the raids?
Jessica pulled a cigarette from her jacket, looked at it, then slid it back.
"I don't like guys in masks. Most of them hide behind it."
Peter tilted his head. "That's kind of the point of a mask."
She didn't laugh. Just stared at him.
"You're not the one torching meth labs and stacking bodies, are you?"
Peter didn't move. "No."
"Because if you were," she said, "you'd want to be smarter about it. People are watching now. Cops. Feds. Me."
He didn't answer. Didn't deny. Just held her gaze through the mask.
Jessica's tone softened—not friendly, but less confrontational.
"Whoever's doing it... they're fast, clean, and not interested in headlines. Not like you. You leave the cameras smiling."
Peter smiled under the mask, just a little.
"Everyone's got a role to play."
Jessica stared at him for a long moment, then looked out across the city.
"You're not what I expected," she muttered.
"Thanks. I get that a lot."
She turned and began walking toward the fire escape.
Just before vanishing into shadow, she paused.
"You see something out of place," she said without looking back, "don't ignore it. You're not the only one cleaning the streets anymore."
And then she was gone.
Peter stood there for another full minute, listening to the sirens roll in below.
He didn't move.
Didn't speak.
Just thought.
Jessica Jones.
Not a cop. Not a cape. And definitely not someone he could predict.
But now she was in the picture. And that meant the game was changing.