Peter's hunt for Bullseye didn't go smoothly.
First problem? He couldn't find him.
Hell's Kitchen was full of ghosts—drifters, dealers, people who came and vanished overnight. Even as Spider-Man, Peter couldn't audit an entire neighborhood like a census taker.
Just like Elektra said—Bullseye was smart. Paranoid. Always moving. No patterns. One night he'd be outside a nightclub, the next—gone. Vanished into the maze of alleys, tenements, and gang hideouts.
Only now did Peter understand how much work Matt put into hitting Kingpin so precisely.
He felt frustrated.
Sure, he'd patrolled Hell's Kitchen before—busted muggers, caught thieves, even thrown down with armed dealers.
But organized crime? That wasn't street justice.
It was war.
And here, everyone had eyes. Every bodega clerk, every drunk on a stoop—they were all part of the network.
Bullseye knew he was being hunted.
And he was hiding well.
But Peter didn't do "giving up."
He was smart enough to admit he'd been going at this wrong.
After days of running blind, he switched gears.
Technology.
One afternoon, Schiller looked up just as Peter slammed a massive box onto the table.
Thud.
Inside: a Frankenstein desktop—half computer, half suitcase. Wires snaked out like roots. Antennae poked from the top. The keyboard looked like it was designed by someone who'd only heard of keyboards secondhand. No mouse.
Peter hunched over it, fingers flying. Blue light flickered across his face.
Pikachu leaned in, peanut butter smeared on his cheek.
"You're trying to intercept cell signals? Spy on Hell's Kitchen?"
"Exactly," Peter said. "Nobody here encrypts anything. I scrounged some junk from a classmate's dad, slapped it together. It's janky, but it works."
"But even if you catch everything," Pikachu said, "you'll still have to dig through terabytes of dumbass chatter to find one guy."
"That's what I'm coding right now," Peter said. "A filter. Flags anything tied to Bullseye—calls, texts, location pings. AI-assisted pattern recognition."
Schiller crossed his arms. "So when did you two start your little detective agency?"
Pikachu took another bite from the jar. "I'm a licensed private investigator. This kid hired me fair and square."
Peter shrugged. "I need someone watching the back end. A co-pilot."
"Oh, thank you," Schiller said flatly. "For choosing a rodent over me."
"It's not that!" Peter flushed. "I just… didn't want to bother you with something small. If I wanted to rely on someone, I'd use Stark Tower's servers. They could scan Manhattan in seconds. But that's not the point."
His hands never stopped typing.
"I used to think fighting crime was simple—like Matt made it sound. Go in. Punch bad guys. Done. How hard could it be?"
He paused.
"But actually doing it? The hard part isn't cutting the wire.
It's finding which damn wire matters."
Schiller gave a slow clap.
"Anyone ever tell you you're a natural?"
Because he was.
Not just strong. Not just kind.
But sharp. Instinctive. The kind of kid who built a surveillance rig out of scrap metal and won the game before it started.
Then—flash.
The screen lit up.
Peter froze. Read the data. Then stood.
"Got him. Signal pinged less than ten minutes ago. I can trace it."
"And then?" Pikachu asked. "Storm in like a moron?"
"Nope." Peter shook his head. "I remembered something Cap told me. Didn't listen at the time. But now? Turns out tactical theory isn't just boring lecture noise."
He pulled a folded map from his backpack. Unfurled it.
"This is Hell's Kitchen. See these lines? Found an old sewer construction map at a newsstand. Took me hours to overlay it."
"The tunnels run under almost every major building. Manholes are spaced evenly. From Point A to B, it's nearly perfect symmetry."
He tapped a red dot.
"If I drop in here, I can reach the central block in under five minutes. Mid-ring in ten. Outer ring in under fifteen."
He looked up.
"As soon as I lock onto the signal, I can be at his door in under a quarter hour."
Pikachu nodded. "He won't be too close. Or too far. Middle ring. Same logic we'd use."
"Exactly," Peter said. "Center's Kingpin's turf—too hot. But Bullseye's smart. He'll have a fallback base in the outer zone. Safer. Easier to escape."
Twenty minutes later, the screen flared again.
Peter didn't wait.
Webbed his bag.
"Got the location. Monitor the feed! Radio if it moves!"
Pikachu gave a lazy thumbs-up.
Peter dropped into the nearest manhole.
Tunnels stretched ahead—dank, dripping, labyrinthine.
But the map was accurate.
He ran like he'd trained for this.
He surfaced in southern Hell's Kitchen.
At a garbage dump.
Perfect.
Bullseye had chosen wisely—no foot traffic, no witnesses.
But for Peter? Ideal.
Junk towers for elevation. Rusted trucks for cover. Scrap metal for improvised weapons.
Even the uneven ground worked in his favor.
He crept along the edge, silent.
Spider-sense humming.
In his mind, a 3D sketch of the area formed—walls, gaps, weak points.
He scaled a crumbling wall and climbed to the roof of a two-story shack.
Dangled headfirst from a web, peering through grimy glass.
Bullseye was inside. Smoking. Talking to a thug.
Weed stench rolled out in waves.
Peter wrinkled his nose.
"Forgot to ask Stark for a gas mask. Stupid Hell's Kitchen."
He pulled on the suit.
Took a breath.
Then swung through the window—glass exploding behind him.
The goon near the window didn't see it coming.
One kick—down and out.
Bullseye cursed, dropped his cigarette, and raised an arm to block.
Bad move.
If Peter were human, it might've worked.
But spider-strength—even half-controlled—wasn't something you tanked.
The punch sent Bullseye flying.
Still, the man was a freak athlete.
Mid-air twist. Clean roll. Landed on his feet. Ran.
Peter followed.
But smoke filled the room.
His senses blurred.
Door creaked open.
Thwip-thwip-thwip.
Three blades flew at his face.
He rolled. Fired a web. Swung out—landed in the junkyard.
Bullseye stood atop a mountain of trash, silhouetted against the sky.
"Well, well," he sneered. "Another spandex-wearing punk thinks he can walk into my city?"
Peter didn't answer.
He charged.
Cap's lesson echoed in his head: Villains die by monologue.
Talk first? Get punched first.
Bullseye barely got the words out before Peter's foot connected.
No mercy. No pause.
Fists flew. Relentless.
Bullseye tried to counter—but Peter's strength was unreal.
A graze hurt. A solid hit launched him backward.
Each time he landed, it was pure acrobatics that saved him.
But Peter wasn't fast enough.
Bullseye scattered a volley of knives.
Then yanked a small orb from his coat.
Smashed it to the ground.
Hssss.
Gas exploded outward—not smoke.
Tear gas. Miniaturized, military-grade.
Peter coughed. Choked. Eyes burned.
He staggered back, wiping tears.
When his vision cleared?
Gone.
Only silence.
And the wind through the rusted cars.