Chapter 3
One could say Peter was not having a good time.
Actually, someone should say it—loudly, clearly, and preferably with cake or something comforting involved—because after repeating himself for what felt like the hundredth time, he was about two seconds away from throwing himself through the wall and hoping for the best.
"New York," Peter snapped, for what had to be the tenth time. He threw up his hands. "It’s a city—like, a big one. Not a state. Not an underground bunker. Not a metaphor. Just. A. City."
Bruce gave no reaction. Still and unreadable. Like he was carved out of granite and had no plans to blink in the next decade.
"The Avengers?" Peter tried again, voice fraying at the edges. "They’re a superhero team—Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, Thor, Hulk? Big green guy? Really hard to miss?”
Dick tilted his head slightly, brows drawing together. "You're saying there are people with powers... and the whole world knows about them?"
"Yes!" Peter groaned. "Yes, everyone knows. That’s kind of the point. It’s public. They save the world, like, all the time. They have merch!"
His voice cracked halfway through, and he grimaced, dragging a hand down his face. His palms were still faintly trembling. The adrenaline was wearing off, and what remained was raw, fraying nerves. He was trying to stay cool, but his head was spinning. Question left and right being thrown at him.
"No, I’m not officially an Avenger," he added quickly, before they could ask again. "Tony asked me once, but I’m pretty sure it was a test, so I said no. I mean, I said no thank you. Politely. Respectfully. With honor."
Bruce raised an eyebrow. That was the most expressive his face had gotten in ten minutes.
Peter pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. "Okay. Okay. Recap. One more time: I’m Peter Parker, I’m from New York, I’m not an alien, I don’t know where your kid is, and I swear I don’t work for a shadow government or whatever you think is going on."
The silence stretched again. The kind of silence that felt loud.
Bruce just kept staring at him—those dark, razor-sharp eyes scanning Peter like a lie detector that hated teenagers. Meanwhile, Dick paced slowly in the corner, body turned ever so slightly toward the exit.
Peter clocked it instantly.
He was blocking the door.
Casually. Strategically.
Peter shifted in his seat, his foot tapping. He was trying to stay calm, but the edges of the room were starting to feel closer than they had before. Like the walls were leaning in, just a little.
And then—more questions:
What’s the Stark name?
What do you mean 'nanotech'?
Explain again who this ‘Steve’ guy is?
Are you sure, maybe one of them did want to take Damian?
What's a ‘Spider-Man’?
"Please," Peter interrupted, exasperated. "I'm not giving a TED Talk. I don’t know how I got here, I don’t even want to be here, and I definitely didn’t ask for this weird, alternate Gotham-y interrogation moment."
The tension stayed. Thick and unmoving.
Peter’s heart thumped hard against his ribs. He didn’t know what was happening, where this Damian kid was, or why he was there.
The pressure was crawling up his spine, into his throat. He couldn’t keep doing this.
Then, finally, blessedly, Bruce stood up. “Excuse us,” he said, and both men stepped out of the room, the heavy white door hissing shut behind them.
Peter didn’t relax. Not for a second.
He stood perfectly still, straining to hear through the thick walls—just in case his enhanced hearing could catch something useful. And sure enough, voices filtered through.
"Bruce," Dick said, voice low but urgent. "Look at him. He’s shaking. He just looks like a tired kid, I don’t know, his story does match up with what we know. ”
"I saw," Bruce replied, sharper. "But we still don’t know where Damian is, and Alfred looked up a Peter Parker. There’s nothing that matches him. The kid doesn’t exist and those people he went on about either. Not in any records."
“Maybe, different universe?”
“I’m not sure,” Peter’s breath hitched.
He tuned them out after that. He had to. If he focused too hard on what they were saying—on the whole "doesn't exist" part—he might lose what little grip on reality he still had.
Instead, he forced himself to look around the room.
Mr. Stark always said: Don’t wait for the window. Build the exit.
The walls were sterile and white, smooth but not seamless. The corners were reinforced. No vents. A single light overhead. Cameras in two places—one real, one probably fake. There was only one door. No windows.
Peter’s hands curled slightly, his fingers twitching in practiced rhythm.
He needed to leave.
Now.
They hadn’t handcuffed him.
Their first mistake.
Maybe it was because he looked like a kid. Maybe it was because he was a kid. Either way, they underestimated him.
Peter flexed his fingers. The Iron Spider suit was barely holding together—its plating cracked, nanotech flickering—but his web-shooters were still functional. Mostly. Just enough juice for one or two moves if he didn’t waste it.
The only exit was the door, and he knew Bruce and Dick were just outside. Blocking the hallway. Talking about him like he was some kind of ghost. A puzzle piece from the wrong box. A lie.
He couldn't go through them.
So he looked up.
The vent.
It was one of the old-school square ones, maybe six feet off the ground. Too small for an adult to get through easily. But Peter wasn’t an adult. And vents? He practically majored in crawling through vents.
First, he needed the camera gone.
Silently, he shifted his weight toward the far wall, raising his right wrist and angling it just right. One quick click and a soft, blue-crackling thread shot out—a charged web. It hit the camera with a muted sizzle, short-circuiting it instantly. Sparks flicked, then nothing.
Good.
Peter crossed the room in three steps, lightly bouncing on the balls of his feet. He jumped—quiet as a shadow—and caught the edge of the vent with one hand. A small tug. Loose screws. Older model. He pulled the cover off without a sound and slid inside.
Tight space. Stale air. Dust clinging to the corners.
But quiet.
Safe.
He exhaled slowly, crawling forward with practiced ease. The metal was cool under his palms. Every movement measured, every breath shallow. Behind him, the interrogation room sat still and empty, the broken camera blind to the fact that its prisoner had vanished.
Peter Parker was gone.
Now it was Spider-Man’s turn.