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The wind was cold at that height clean, sharp, and uncomfortably honest.
Peter sat on the edge of a rooftop, legs swinging over the city's endless maze of lights. Below him, sirens weaved through traffic, a lullaby for a restless Queens night.
He exhaled, chin resting on his knees.
"I saved a guy," he muttered, "and still wrecked an entire restaurant."
The thought wouldn't leave him alone. The old man had lived, the truck driver too, but all Peter could see when he closed his eyes was the crash the glass, the crunch, the way everything spun out of control because of him.
"Great job, Spider-Man," he sighed. "First rescue, one destroyed café. Ten out of ten."
He sat there until the guilt felt too heavy to keep balanced on the edge. Then he stood, stretching out the ache in his shoulders.
"Better head home before Aunt May calls the cops again."
He swung once, twice, let the night wind burn away what was left of the shame.
By the time he landed in the back alley near his house, his heart had settled almost.
He wasn't going to tell them, not Aunt May, not Uncle Ben.
Ben's words echoed anyway: With great power comes great responsibility.
It was true, but what he didn't say was that Peter understood now that responsibility came with mistakes. Big, messy, public mistakes.
And Ben? Ben would never let him keep going if he knew. To Ben, Peter would always be that kid who still needed help crossing the street.
So Peter kept the secret.
---
Across the Street.
From the opposite rooftop, Sylas crouched in the dark, eyes narrowed beneath his mask.
He'd been tailing Peter for days not out of distrust, but out of instinct. The kid had power, raw and new. Power could burn or it could build; Sylas had learned that lesson the hard way.
He watched Peter swing off toward home, his movements reckless but improving.
"You'll figure it out," Sylas murmured. "We both will."
He smiled faintly and turned his gaze toward the horizon, where Stark Tower's glass spire glowed like a beacon.
Responsibility.
The word echoed in both brothers' lives now, even if they carried it differently.
For Sylas, power wasn't just freedom it was insurance. Protection, every Justice Point, every Sin Point, every inch of progress meant one thing: no one touches my family.
---
Two Windows, One Secret
Midnight crept in quietly. The Parker house slept almost.
Two windows opened at once.
Click.
"Hmm?"
"Hmm?"
Peter leaned out of his window, stretching into the cool air, and froze.
Across the narrow gap between their rooms, Sylas leaned out too, almost mirroring him. For a second, they stared at each other like two kids caught sneaking cookies at the same time.
Peter forced a laugh. "Oh, hey. You're, uh… up late."
"Same to you," Sylas said casually. "What's the plan, Spider-Man? Midnight yoga?"
Peter choked. "What? No! I mean, I was just… getting some fresh air. The room's stuffy."
"Funny," Sylas said. "I was going to say the same thing."
Peter pointed lamely at the sky. "Nice night though, huh? Good… moonlight."
"Beautiful," Sylas said dryly. "Well, enjoy the fresh air."
"Yeah. Goodnight!"
"Night."
They ducked back in at the same time, each pretending the other didn't exist.
For about ten seconds.
Then Sylas grinned under his breath, tugged on his hood, and slipped through the window without a sound.
Ten minutes later, Peter's window cracked open again.
He peered toward Sylas's room, spotted what looked like his brother's sleeping form under the blanket, and sighed in relief.
"Okay. Still asleep."
He didn't notice that the "sleeping" Sylas had glowing crimson eyes half-hidden in shadow, tracking his every move.
---
Queens' skyline stretched out in a mosaic of neon and glass.
Sylas crouched on a ledge, scanning the streets below. The plan was simple: shadow Peter, make sure he didn't die doing something stupid, and maybe, if the timing was right, give him a little motivation.
A flicker of red and blue in his peripheral vision caught his eye.
Peter, swinging with raw enthusiasm and zero stealth.
"Meh, Show-off," Sylas muttered.
Then the sky above him shimmered a streak of gold and white, jet engines slicing through the clouds.
Iron Man.
Sylas ducked back into the dark instinctively. The armor passed overhead, a comet of technology heading toward Stark Tower.
"Perfect," Sylas whispered. "The one guy I didn't want to see tonight."
He still had Stark's Arc Reactor prototype tucked away in the Shadow Dominion's storage the second-generation core he'd stolen months ago. He doubted Tony would appreciate the "borrowing."
The sound of Peter's whoop snapped him back.
"WOOHOO!"
Sylas cringed. "Idiot."
The shout carried far enough that even Tony heard it, The golden armor paused mid-flight.
"JARVIS," Tony said. "You hear that?"
"Yes, sir," the AI replied smoothly. "A juvenile male vocalization approximately 0.7 kilometers northeast."
Tony squinted toward the direction of the voice, catching the faint blur of red swinging between buildings. "Well, if it isn't Sleep-Suit Boy. Keep an eye on him."
"Already analyzing trajectory, sir."
Great now two people were watching Peter.
---
Peter landed lightly on a rooftop and peered down.
Below, a man in a hoodie was jimmying the lock on a parked sedan with a crowbar.
Peter tilted his head. "Wow, Textbook car thief, Okay, I got this."
He leaped down, landing in front of the startled man.
"Evening, citizen! That's a nice crowbar. Planning to donate it to charity?"
The man blinked, then scowled. "Who the hell are you?"
"Glad you asked," Peter said, striking a heroic pose. "Name's Spider-Man. Remember it it'll look great in tomorrow's paper."
The thief's answer was a swing of the crowbar.
Peter sidestepped easily, web-shooters flicking. "Big mistake, buddy."
Thwip!
A clean shot. The thief hit the wall behind him, wrapped in industrial-strength webbing like a bug in amber.
Peter plucked the crowbar from his grip. "Toys are for good kids. This one's confiscated."
"Son of a—" The thief didn't finish. Peter webbed his mouth shut.
"No swearing either. Spider-Man's still family-friendly." He turned, waving at the confused onlookers. "Police will be here in about—"
Right on cue, two officers rounded the corner.
"Front alley!" Peter shouted down. "Guy's glued to the wall. Don't thank me all at once!"
The cops exchanged baffled looks but followed his directions anyway. Moments later, their flashlights landed on the webbed thief.
One officer blinked. "What in the—"
"Just cuff him," the other said. "Before whatever this is stops working."
Up above, Peter grinned and flipped backward off the ledge. "Nailed it!"
---
"Hey!"
The voice cut through the night a split-second before a black-gloved fist followed.
Peter twisted, barely dodging the strike. "Whoa! Hey—what—"
His foot missed the ledge. He dropped three stories before his web caught him, yanking him back up. When he landed again, his heart was racing.
The figure in front of him wore matte-black armor and a mask that swallowed the light. No emblem, no mark, nothing.
"Okay," Peter said, hands up. "New villain? Ninja? Or are you the guy from my gym class who really hates group projects?"
No response. Just movement fast, deliberate. A feint, a kick, another near-miss.
Peter flipped backward. His instincts were screaming, but the rhythm felt familiar. Controlled. Testing him.
"Wait," he said between dodges. "You're the guy who saved my uncle, aren't you?"
Still nothing.
The silence was confirmation enough.
Peter stopped attacking entirely. "Okay, you're not here to kill me. Cool. Then what's this? A pop quiz?"
Another flurry faster this time and Peter barely managed to roll clear.
"Yup, definitely a pop quiz."
He fired a quick web shot, not at his attacker but at a lamppost, pulling himself upward to gain distance. "Listen, mystery man, we can totally talk this out! Words are great! Communication builds trust!"
The man tilted his head slightly, then relaxed his stance.
The fight was over as quickly as it started. Without a word, he turned and melted into the darkness, vanishing between the buildings.
"Hey! Wait!" Peter called. "You can't just ugh. Fine."
He sighed, brushing dust off his suit. "So… you hit me, disappear, and I'm supposed to… what, send a thank-you note?"
He stared after the vanishing shadow, utterly bewildered. "Weird night."
---
High above, Sylas landed softly on another rooftop, pulling off his mask.
"That went well," he murmured. Peter's reaction had been instinctive but measured. Not bad for someone still new to his powers.
He'd seen enough. Peter could handle himself mostly.
Sylas glanced once more toward Stark Tower's distant glow before turning away. "You're getting stronger, brother. Keep it that way."
He disappeared into the shadows.
---
Elsewhere
In a lab on the outskirts of the city, sterile white light flickered across rows of shattered glass and unfinished experiments.
A man in a torn lab coat hunched over a tank of swirling green liquid, the smell of ozone and chemicals thick in the air.
He was muttering to himself, feverishly adjusting a control dial with his left hand. His right sleeve hung empty a reminder of what he'd lost.
"Almost… almost there," he whispered. "A new limb… a new beginning."
The machinery hissed in reply.
A smile crept across his face wild, desperate, brilliant.
"Soon," he said. "They'll all see."
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