"Peter was sprinting when suddenly his spider-sense went off. But his muddled thoughts left him too slow to dodge. A red-and-gold suit of armour shot toward him, snatched him by the waist, flew forward at high speed, and then flung him hard to the ground.
Peter tumbled and staggered, dazed. The sleek, gold-and-red mech hovered overhead. Pulling off his mask, the shaken Spider-Man heard a voice from inside the suit:
"That guy was right… You really are just a high school kid."
Peter slammed his fist into the ground in anger.
"I'm not a kid—I'm Spider-Man!"
Stark gave a derisive snort.
"Spider-Man? Sure. The gamblers down in Hell's Kitchen love you. The only good you've done so far is helping those lowlifes win money."
Peter's fury was boiling over. This stranger in a robot suit had blindsided him, tossed him like garbage, and now mocked him to his face. He lunged at Iron Man, but the Mark V simply traced a graceful arc through the air, easily dodging.
Peter had no combat training, no idea how to fight a machine, and no grasp of tactical calculation. Against a suit backed by JARVIS, he was hopeless.
"You damned robot!" Spider-Man roared. "I'll show you what I can do!"
Iron Man landed, his voice cold.
"Oh yeah? Show me how you beat a bunch of washed-up underground brawlers."
Stark's words cut deep. Peter's face burned red, then pale, then red again. But Stark soon lost interest in berating him. His tone turned icy:
"Still wet behind the ears—go home, kid. New York isn't your playground. Don't think that just because you're a little different, you can swing through this city at night. People are already watching you."
Stark had zero patience for this version of Spider-Man. To him, having powers and wasting them in underground fight rings was idiotic. Stark, arrogant and self-absorbed as he was, he still carried a sense of duty. After surviving his kidnapping, the true Iron Man had awakened. Peter looked like nothing more than a reckless brat.
Peter stood up, tore off his mask, and shouted, "You say I'm just messing around in New York—but aren't you doing the same thing?!"
He took a breath, calmer now, and glared up.
"Yeah, I see it. That armour isn't cheap—you're rich, you can afford to play hero. But me? My uncle and aunt are sick, and we can't even pay for a damn checkup. I need money. So why can't I fight for it? I'm not hurting anyone!"
Arms crossed, Stark shot back:
"Have you thought about this? That having the power to help and choosing not to… is already hurting people."
Peter stared, dumbstruck. Then he barked a bitter laugh, shaking his head in disbelief.
"My powers are mine. I should be able to use them however I want. Why should I waste them saving strangers instead of helping myself and my family?"
Peter hadn't lost Uncle Ben yet. He hadn't learned that "with great power comes great responsibility." For now, he was defiant, certain that his strength should serve him first.
In truth, he wasn't entirely wrong—everyone lives for themselves. But Peter was destined for another path. His kindness and resilience, buried deep, would awaken with age and loss. He was fated to be a hero.
And Stark—arrogant, flawed Stark—still bore the weight of the world on his shoulders. To him, protecting people was his duty as a genius.
Seeing Peter's agitation, Stark softened slightly.
"I know you don't understand now. I didn't either. Some things… You can only learn by living through them. No amount of preaching from me will do it. But if you keep thinking this way… one day, you'll regret it."
With that, the armour lifted off into the night, leaving Peter slumped, bitter and lost.
Why was everyone against him? Why did having powers feel worse than being powerless? He had money now, but couldn't give it to Uncle Ben. He was exhausted from sleepless nights, failing in school, and fighting with Gwen. He wanted to beat Flash Thompson bloody—but couldn't risk it.
What good were these cursed powers? They hadn't made his life better.
Sitting on a rooftop in Hell's Kitchen, chilled by the night wind, Peter brooded.
That's when his sharp hearing picked up hushed whispers in a back alley below.
At the rear door of a nightclub, two hulking bodyguards stood watch. From Peter's angle, he saw them clearly while they couldn't see him. A bald man in a jacket, with a bullseye-like tattoo on his forehead, was giving orders:
"As soon as he rounds the corner, we floor it. Andre's car is tuned—it accelerates faster than anything else. If we hit him at full speed, he's finished."
One thug asked, "Where?"
"End of Mary Street. Pile of construction junk there covers the smell of gas. Perfect spot. We'll take him out before she does—then Kingpin'll know who his real number one is."
Peter listened from above. They were plotting a hit-and-run. But after being lectured by Stark, he was rebellious. What's it got to do with me? He thought bitterly. Gangsters killing gangsters. Why should I care?
This damned Hell's Kitchen had no innocents anyway.
Peter turned away and headed back. He'd told Uncle Ben he wasn't coming home tonight, so he returned to Daredevil's little safehouse. Matt was still out cold.
Peter frowned, looking at Matt's bleeding leg. By now, Peter's own bruises from Stark's slam had healed completely. But Daredevil was just… human. No healing factor, no miracles.
This was what meddling got you—wrecked, bleeding, suffering. Peter admired his fighting skill, but wanted nothing of his way of life.
What would stopping those thugs even mean? He'd get into a brutal fight with a dozen nightclub goons, risk serious injury, and at best… stop one hit job. What difference did that make?
He lay back and drifted into uneasy sleep.
In his dream, he used his powers to strike it rich, bought a house in Queens' best district, hired doctors, healed Uncle Ben and Aunt May. They were young again, smiling, prosperous.
But halfway through, the dream darkened. Armed robbers broke in, murdered his aunt and uncle, and stripped the house bare. Neighbours looked on, silent. The cops came too late. Alone, Peter roamed the city like a ghost, chasing shadows of killers he'd never find.
And in the nightmare's end, Daredevil appeared. Peter screamed at him—why hadn't he stopped the killers, after fighting so many crooks?
Daredevil looked at him coldly and said:
"The only one who could've stopped it… was you."
Peter jolted awake, drenched in sweat, lungs burning from the icy dawn air seeping through the cracks.
Matt stirred. Peter quickly fetched him water.
"Thanks," Daredevil muttered. "But I'll need another favour. Head down to the clinic at the end of Mary Street, pick up some medicine for me."