Hells Kitchen looked different from the rooftops.
The lights were dimmer. The buildings older, packed tighter together like bricks in a dying wall. It didn't have Midtown's polished skyline or Brooklyn's open sprawl. Everything felt cramped, leaning forward, as if the city was trying to whisper its secrets to those who listened.
Spider-Man perched on the edge of a low-rise building, arms resting on his knees, watching the street below.
He didn't patrol here often. This was Matt's turf. Unspoken rule among street-level vigilantes: stay in your lane unless invited—or unless things were about to go very wrong.
Which, judging by what Peter saw, was happening now.
Three men circled Matt Murdock in a narrow alley—two with knives, one with a metal pipe. No one spoke. It wasn't about threats or intimidation anymore.
It was about intent.
Peter could tell by the stance of the guy on the left—shoulders tight, grip strong, ready to stab. Matt turned with eerie precision, already reacting. He ducked a swing, slammed an elbow into the nearest thug's ribs, then kicked the other in the shin and backhanded him across the jaw.
But not invincible.
One thug managed to cut across Matt's shoulder. Shallow, but enough to make him flinch.
Peter sighed and stood.
Alright. Time to join the dance.
He dropped into the alley like a silent comet, landing behind the last man with a thud.
"Hey guys. Did we forget the part where three-on-one isn't a fair fight?"
They turned—too slow.
Peter ducked under the first swing and drove his fist into the man's gut, pulling the punch just enough to knock the wind out of him without breaking ribs. The second thug rushed forward with the pipe.
Peter caught it mid-swing, yanked it from the man's hands, and webbed him to the alley wall in one smooth motion.
The third man tried to run. A web line wrapped around his ankle and pulled him off his feet.
Within ten seconds, it was over.
Matt stood still, breathing through his nose, blood trickling from the cut on his shoulder.
"You alright?" Peter asked, stepping beside him.
Matt nodded. "Would've been. But I appreciate the assist."
Peter glanced at the thugs, groaning on the floor.
Matt smirked faintly.
After a while, they stood side by side, looking out over the city. Below, traffic crawled. People moved. Lights blinked in apartment windows.
Matt leaned against a rusted air duct, wiping the blood off his shoulder with a cloth.
Peter stood a few feet away, mask still on, hands in his pockets.
"So," Peter said after a pause, "you ever run into a private investigator named Jessica Jones?"
Matt turned slightly. His face didn't show surprise, but his posture changed—tense, alert.
"Why?"
"She found me last night. After I wrapped up a robbery team. She didn't say much, but... I think she's onto something. Or someone."
Matt nodded slowly.
"She's been looking into something connected to Kingpin. Warehouse fires. Clean hits. No survivors."
Peter stayed silent. He knew exactly what she was looking into—and who caused it.
Matt continued.
"She's smart. Sharp instincts. Doesn't play well with others, but she's not out to hurt anyone who doesn't deserve it."
"You trust her?"
Matt exhaled. "Trust's a big word. I respect her. That's rare for me."
Peter tilted his head. "You think she's dangerous?"
"Only if you're on the wrong side of her investigation."
A brief silence settled between them.
Peter broke it.
"She seemed... pointed. Like she was circling something she didn't want to say aloud."
"That's Jessica," Matt said. "She doesn't ask questions she already knows the answers to. She just waits to see how you respond."
"Good trick," Peter muttered.
"It's not a trick. It's who she is."
Peter thought about that. About the way she stood on the rooftop last night—calm, but aware. Like she'd already built a case in her head.
He didn't think she suspected him. Yet.
But people like Jessica? They didn't stop until they hit a wall—or broke through it.
Matt shifted his stance and faced Peter more directly.
"You worried?"
Peter paused, then answered truthfully.
"Cautious."
Matt nodded once. "That's smart. Just stay clean. If she thought you were guilty of something serious, she wouldn't have walked away."
Peter didn't reply.
He wasn't sure if he believed that.
They stood in silence again.
Peter looked out over Hell's Kitchen. He could feel the city pulse beneath them. Crime didn't stop. Violence didn't sleep.
But for a moment, it felt manageable.
Matt wiped the last of the blood from his arm and pocketed the cloth.
"You're good at this," he said. "Better than most."
Peter blinked. "You mean patrolling?"
Matt nodded. "Your moves are clean. Precise. You don't waste time. You help people without asking for applause."
Peter shrugged. "I just don't like chaos. Doesn't mean I'm a saint."
"Nobody said you were. But you're one of the few out here doing the job right."
It wasn't praise. It was recognition.
And coming from Matt Murdock, it meant something.
Peter looked down at the street below.
"You ever get tired of it?"
"All the time."
"Then why keep going?"
Matt smiled faintly.
"Because I know what happens when people stop."
Peter nodded.
He didn't need to say anything else.
Matt adjusted his jacket and prepared to leave.
"You gonna check in on Jessica again?"
Peter asked.
Matt shook his head.
"Not unless I need to. She doesn't like people watching her back."
Peter gave a two-finger salute.
"Stay safe, Mr.Devil."
"You too, Spider-Man."
And then Matt was gone, leaping across the rooftops with practiced ease.
Peter stood there a little longer, watching the lights flicker across Hell's Kitchen.
Somewhere out there, Jessica was still digging.
And Peter knew he'd have to stay one step ahead—quietly, carefully, without ever letting the mask slip.