Chapter 4
Peter was crawling through the vents.
And yes, it was exactly as uncomfortable as it sounded.
The metal shaft was narrow—narrower than anything he’d ever squeezed himself into, and considering his time as Spider-Man, that was saying something. He moved like liquid muscle and stubborn willpower, joints bending at odd angles, one knee twisted awkwardly beneath him while his other leg was crammed sideways to make room.
"Yeah," he muttered to himself, barely above a breath, "this is exactly how I wanted to spend my day. In a tin can. With my spine doing interpretive yoga."
His palms skimmed along the cool surface of the vent, fingers brushing screws and dust and the occasional dead bug. He wrinkled his nose and pushed forward, shifting his weight with every careful, calculated inch. The suit didn’t help—half-dead nanotech clung to him like molted snake skin, snagging occasionally on screws and uneven bolts.
He stilled for a second.
Eyes closed. Breathe in, breathe out. Focus.
Peter sharpened his hearing, pushing past the echo of his breath and the creak of metal. He strained to catch anything useful—voices, footsteps, maybe the sweet, beautiful sound of traffic.
But no engines. No honking. No rumbling subway. Just the faintest whisper of wind and—
Wait.
Birds.
Birds?
Chirping. Cheerful, suburban chirping. The kind that lived in well-trimmed trees and HOA-regulated neighborhoods.
"You have got to be kidding me," Peter whispered. “I’m in the burbs?”
Another twist in the vent nearly folded him in half. He winced, pulling his arm tight against his side to squeeze through a narrower section, biting back a hiss as his shoulder scraped metal.
And then—voices.
Muffled. Close.
Peter froze, bracing himself silently against the vent wall.
"...find him," one voice growled—deep, low, unmistakable. Bruce. "He can’t have gone far."
Peter felt his pulse spike.
Yeah. Cool. Awesome. Totally fine. Definitely not about to be hunted by some evil billionaire in a vent system like some kind of raccoon.
He adjusted again, inching further into the darkness, his eyes scanning for the nearest grate or opening. If he could just find one exit, just one—
Then maybe, maybe, he could get the hell out of this weird, mansion and figure out where the multiversal nightmare dropped him.
Preferably somewhere with pizza. Or at least Wi-Fi.
Peter finally found a vent that opened into a room.
He exhaled slowly, fingers bracing against the small metal grate as he peeked through. His body ached from all the contorting, and his legs were threatening to mutiny, but—hey, progress.
The room was... a war zone.
It smelled faintly like instant noodles, old socks, and something vaguely metallic—like solder or battery acid. Not bad, necessarily. Just… lived-in.
Clothes were everywhere. Piled on the floor like they’d been dropped mid-existential crisis. Socks dangling from the edge of a laundry basket that had clearly given up hope. Empty water bottles, takeout containers, at least three energy drink cans—and a half-eaten granola bar that looked like it had been there long enough to qualify as part of the furniture.
The floor was barely visible under layers of chaos. Piles of laundry marked their own territory—some clean, some very obviously not—mingling with discarded hoodies, tangled charging cables, and at least one sneaker that looked like it had been abandoned mid-chase. A cereal bowl sat precariously on top of a closed textbook, spoon still inside, crusted with what might've once been milk.
But what caught his attention—what really made him pause—was the setup.
Peter's eyes widened as he took in the massive ultrawide curved monitor, its screen aglow with a nature-themed desktop background, icons arranged with clinical precision. Beneath it sat a mechanical keyboard with custom keycaps—some in sleek matte black, others translucent and glowing from within. The RGB lighting gently rippled across it like ocean waves, shifting from deep violet to icy blue.
The PC tower itself was a thing of beauty. Matte black casing with a transparent tempered glass side panel, revealing a clean interior lit with soft, cool-white LED strips. Inside, a custom liquid cooling loop twisted like a work of art around a high-end graphics card and motherboard, tiny fans whirring in perfect sync.
The massive monitor glowed dimly in the dark, casting the whole cluttered room in soft blue light. High-end mechanical keyboard. Tower rig pulsing gently with RGB lights. Like, custom-built kind of stuff.
Peter’s inner tech nerd did a full double take.
Okay… respect.
Above the desk, shelves sagged under the weight of empty coffee cups, bits of tech, half-built gadgets, and books with titles like Advanced Cryptography and Network Security Infrastructure. A couple of old gaming consoles sat stacked under the monitor, their wires tangled but functional.
He could practically hear Mr. Stark in his head: Don’t touch anything, kid, unless you’re ready to upgrade your entire rig for the next five years.
Well, sorry Tony. This wasn’t touching. It was appreciating.
But before he could properly admire the cable management (which was... meh), his enhanced hearing picked something else up.
Breathing. Slow. Rhythmic.
Snoring.
Peter’s eyes flicked toward the bed which was across from the command center of Nerdvana.
Tucked into the corner of the room, half-hidden behind a fortress of tossed hoodies and a suspiciously leaning laundry hamper, was a bed buried in blankets. Like, truly buried. Whoever was under there had clearly lost the war with exhaustion and burrowed in like a hibernating bear.
Peter squinted.
He couldn’t see who it was. Just the vague lump of someone curled under layers of blankets and probably a decade’s worth of procrastination.
Great, Peter thought. Sleeping dragon guarding the hoard. Perfect.
The snores were steady though. Deep. Unbothered.
So, Peter stayed still—silent in the vent. Calculating. Weighing his options.
If he was lucky, this mystery person wasn’t a morning type.
Or a light sleeper.
Or, you know… evil and trained like everyone else seemed to be in this house.
The vent gave way with a soft pop, and Peter eased it open just enough to slide through. He landed in a crouch, as quiet as he could manage, tensed and ready to bolt.
His heart gave a hopeful jolt when he spotted the window tucked between two massive shelves stacked with books and what looked like a half-disassembled drone.
There. His golden ticket. His escape hatch. Freedom, air, maybe even a clue about what the hell is going on.
He moved fast, but quiet—classic tiptoe ninja mode. His feet made no sound against the cluttered floor as he weaved around a pile of hoodies and an old pizza box. The guy in the bed kept snoring, a low, rhythmic sound that might’ve been comforting if Peter weren’t on the verge of a total meltdown.
The window creaked as he unlatched it, cool air immediately slipping into the room. He slid it up a few inches—
—and that’s when it happened.
BEEP-BEEP-BEEP.
A shrill, piercing alarm screamed to life, like the house had just been told Spider-Man himself was sneaking out the guest room window.
“Shit,” Peter whispered, eyes wide.
The person in the bed jolted upright with an undignified snort, flailing momentarily in the blankets like a sea creature being dragged from its warm cave.
“What the hell—?” came a groggy, confused voice from under a mass of black hair.
Peter didn’t wait. He threw the window open wider and started to climb through, half-crawling, half-launching himself out with one leg already swinging onto the roof below.
He launched himself out the window with all the grace of a half-panicked spider. He hit the angled rooftop, skidded for a second, then rebounded into a landing that would’ve made any gymnastics coach proud—if not for the wild look in his eyes and the adrenaline punching through his chest.
As he scrambled to his feet, he heard the window creak behind him and glanced back.
A teenager was leaning halfway out, blinking in disbelief. The guy looked like he'd barely woken up—rumpled black hair sticking out in every direction, sleep still crusted at the corners of his eyes. His hoodie was twisted around his shoulders like a cape, and his expression was that perfect blend of what is happening and do I even care enough yet to stop this?
Peter waved with exactly zero sincerity. “Bye bye!”
He bolted.
His feet pounded across the shingles, and he launched off the edge of the roof just as a voice rang out, sharp and commanding:
“Stop!”
Peter turned his head mid-air—because of course he did—and saw Dick sprinting full force across the lawn below. That guy ran like it was personal.
But Peter was faster.
And he didn’t stop running.
Branches slapped at his arms. Gravel crunched beneath his feet. The wind tore through his hair, hot and dry and unfamiliar. He didn’t know where he was going, but he knew he couldn’t stop. Not yet. Not when they were right behind him.
The streets were weirdly empty. Too quiet. The rows of houses all looked like they belonged on a postcard—perfect little lawns, trimmed bushes, cars that hadn’t moved in days. Where the hell am I?
He ran past another row of hedges, lungs burning, legs starting to ache, and that’s when he saw it.
A bike.
Just laying there in the grass at the edge of someone’s driveway. Way too small for him, with bright red handles and cartoon flame stickers peeling off the sides. Probably a kid’s. But right now?
It was freedom on wheels.
Peter skidded to a stop, glancing back once—nothing yet. He didn’t hear Dick anymore, but that didn’t mean he was gone.
“Sorry!” he shouted, whether to the kid who owned the bike or the universe in general, he wasn’t sure.
He grabbed the handlebars, yanked the bike upright, and kicked off. It was awkward—his knees nearly hit the handlebars—but it was moving. Fast.
And that’s all he needed.
He must’ve looked ridiculous.
A teenager in a half-shredded metal suit, legs crammed onto a way-too-small bike, frantically pedaling down a leafy suburban street like he was late for third period P.E. The wind stung his face, and every bounce of the tires sent a fresh jolt of pain through the bruises blooming along his ribs.
But Peter Parker had only one goal: escape.
And right now? That meant biking like his life depended on it. Because it kind of did.
He didn’t know where he was, but up ahead, past the trees and cookie-cutter houses, was the hazy outline of a city skyline. Covered in a thick layer of smog and heat shimmer. Ugly. Crowded. Perfect.
Yep. I can lose them there.
He leaned harder into the pedals, dodging trash cans and mailboxes, swerving past a suspiciously angry cat, and letting himself believe—just a little—that he might actually make it.
Then the roar hit him.
Loud. Low. Mechanical and hungry. The sound ripped through the quiet suburb like thunder splitting the earth in two.
Peter’s entire body jerked mid-pedal, heart stuttering. The bike wobbled beneath him as the roar grew louder, closer, sharper. He risked a glance over his shoulder—and instantly wished he hadn’t.
His stomach dropped like an elevator with the cables cut.
Behind him, emerging from the horizon like a nightmare, was a car. Or... something that had maybe once been a car before someone grafted a jet engine to a stealth bomber and dipped it in matte black aggression. It glided and growled in the same breath, moving like it was alive. And it was coming fast.
Way too fast.
The sleek, predatory frame shredded the illusion of peace the neighborhood had. This wasn’t a vehicle—it was a warning.
“Oh hell no,” Peter muttered. “WHAT the hell is that—NOPE!”
Full panic ignited in his chest. He skidded the bike to a near-cartoonish stop, shoes squealing against the pavement. No time to be graceful. No time to think. He grabbed the handlebars and, powered by pure adrenaline and just a bit too much upper body strength, hoisted the whole bike over his head and hurled it with everything he had.
It shot like a missile across someone’s yard, cleared a perfectly manicured hedge, and clanged violently against some unseen surface far off in the distance.
Peter stared at where it disappeared. “Right. Super strength. Forgot about that.”
A guttural snarl of the engine reminded him time was not on his side.
He bolted.
Feet pounding the pavement, lungs burning, he darted off the main road and down a narrow side street that curved sharply. The suburban sprawl started to thin out, the neat rows of houses giving way to cracked sidewalks and older, weather-beaten buildings. The further he ran, the less polished everything became—until it was all peeling paint, graffiti-tagged mailboxes, and telephone poles leaning just a little too far.
Still the engine pursued him. Closer now. Louder.
He took another turn. Then another.
His muscles screamed. His knees ached. His lungs were trying to claw out of his chest. But he couldn’t stop. Not yet.
And then—salvation.
Or something like it.
Wedged between two taller buildings like it had been forgotten by time itself was a structure that barely counted as standing. The bricks were faded to a sickly brown, windows smashed or boarded up, the roof slumped like it had exhaled one last time and never bothered to inhale again.
There was a sign above the rusted-out doorframe, but Peter couldn’t read it. Half the letters had fallen off, and the other half were buried in ivy and rot.
Didn’t matter.
It was shelter.
It was escape.
Without hesitation, Peter veered toward the building, boots skidding across gravel and broken glass. He reached the side entrance—what used to be a door but now was more like a gaping wound—and slipped through it just as the monstrous car turned onto the block.
Inside, the darkness swallowed him instantly.
Dust clung to the air like cobwebs. The smell hit him immediately—old wood, wet concrete, rusted metal, and time. The kind of smell that wrapped around your lungs and wouldn’t let go.
He leaned back against the wall just inside, chest heaving, pulse hammering in his ears louder than the engine had been. Every inch of his body buzzed with leftover terror.
But the noise was muted now. The tank-car—or whatever it was—roared past the building without stopping.
Peter didn’t move for several seconds. Just stood there. Eyes wide. Breathing like he’d sprinted through a war zone.
Then, finally, he whispered, “Okay… okay, that sucked.”
And started moving deeper into the shadows. Every step he took sent tiny clouds swirling around his feet.
The building was… dead.
Not abandoned recently, not just forgotten. This place had been hollowed out by time. The floor beneath his shoes creaked in slow protest as he moved, the wood warped and cracked in uneven panels. Faint graffiti curled along the base of the walls—faded shapes and colors, half-eaten by peeling paint and water stains.
Old papers littered the floor like fallen leaves, brittle and yellowed. A toppled chair lay near the wall, its back broken, tangled in a mess of cobwebs so dense it looked like the remnants of a ghost. The ceiling above sagged slightly, and up ahead, a shaft of soft light filtered through a broken window, illuminating floating dust motes like stars in a quiet galaxy.
Peter moved carefully, avoiding any loud steps, ears still ringing faintly from the sound of that car engine—the thing that had chased him like some kind of demon. But here, it was quiet. No city noise. No voices. Just the sound of his own breathing, a little too fast, and the soft thud of his feet.
He spotted a stairwell, the kind built before anyone cared about comfort or safety. The metal railing was rusted and bent, and several of the concrete steps had crumbled away entirely. He hesitated—then started climbing.
One flight. Then another.
By the third, the building’s decay worsened. He had to leap to cross gaps where the stairs had fallen through. Rusted nails poked from splintered boards. His shoulder brushed against mold-covered walls, and he held his breath.
The fourth floor reeked of mildew. A half-smashed vending machine stood like a monument to better days, long empty and defaced with marker scribbles.
Still, he kept going.
The climb to the fifth floor was barely a climb at all—more like a puzzle. The stairs were gone completely, so he had to brace himself on exposed pipes, launching up with quick bursts of strength and using his hands to cling to the walls.
When he finally pulled himself onto the fifth floor landing, his limbs ached.
The hallway here was narrower, the ceiling lower. Broken glass crunched underfoot as he made his way to the end, where a door hung slightly ajar. Beyond it was the rooftop.
Peter pushed it open, just enough to slip through, and was met by the cold breath of the wind.
The city stretched out in front of him—gray and endless under a pale sky, smog curling over skyscrapers like fog on a lake. It was quiet up here. High. Detached.
Peter exhaled slowly and sat down on the roof’s edge, legs dangling into the void. He didn't know where he was. He didn’t know how he'd gotten here. But for the first time since waking up in that weird domestic sitcom of a life, he wasn’t being questioned or chased or stared at like a ghost.
Just the wind. The city. And the buzz in his skull that never quite went away.
Peter sat there on the edge of the rooftop, his fingers curled tightly around the rusted metal lip as he took in the view—and what a view it was.
Gotham.
It wasn’t like New York. Not even close.
New York was alive in a loud, bustling, chaotic kind of way—honking cars, blaring sirens, constant motion, light that never died. It was a city that shouted at all hours, full of people who'd bump shoulders with you and keep walking, maybe curse you out, maybe not.
But Gotham? She breathed differently.
The city stretched out before him like a living thing—ancient and vast, the skyline jagged with dark spires and pointed rooftops, gargoyles perched like sentinels atop old cathedrals and government buildings. The streets below were narrow veins, winding and looping in ways that felt more labyrinth than grid. From this high up, everything looked grayer, less polished. The air hung thick with smog, like it was trying to bury the city in shadow. Even the clouds overhead seemed heavy, pressing down instead of drifting past.
The architecture was the first thing that struck him. Towering, ornate, dramatic—buildings carved from stone and steel, with long-forgotten craftsmanship etched into their bones. Arched windows glinted dully under the weak sun. Bridges connected buildings mid-air like arteries between stone giants. Cracked gargoyles stared down from their corners, mouths curled in eternal snarls.
This place didn’t glitter like Manhattan.
It loomed.
Peter could see people moving like ants far below—figures wrapped tight in coats despite the season, heads down, walking fast. There was an edge to their steps, a sharpness. The kind of body language that screamed “don’t look at me, don’t follow me.” Even from a distance, Gotham’s pedestrians seemed carved from the same weather-worn stone as their city.
No one was smiling.
No one looked up.
A single siren howled in the distance—not the usual chorus of a dozen in New York, just one, slow and lonely, cutting through the haze. Somewhere, a neon sign flickered and died, buzzing faintly in the silence that followed.
Peter exhaled, the breath fogging in front of him. He couldn’t tell if it was the air or the city itself that made him feel so… small.
This place didn’t just feel dangerous.
It felt like it had claws.
And teeth.
And it was watching him back.
For the first time since it all began—since he blinked and woke up on another planet, since the panicked sprint from the mansion, since the alarms, the vent, the chase—Peter Parker was finally alone.
Truly, completely alone.
He sat at the very edge of the rooftop, legs drawn up, arms wrapped tightly around his knees. The cracked concrete beneath him was cold, seeping through the fabric of his suit like it was trying to root itself into his bones. The wind blew harder now, sharp and dry, tugging at his curls, biting at his skin. But it was quiet here. For once.
No shouting.
No questions.
No strange new faces demanding answers he didn’t have.
And for a moment—just a single, precious moment—Peter let himself breathe.
Not the shallow, frantic gulps he’d been surviving on since this whole thing started. No, this was different. This was the kind of breath that hurt on the way in and out, the kind that felt like it was scraping the inside of his lungs raw. The kind that made you feel just how much space there was inside your own chest.
It was overwhelming.
His heartbeat slowed—just barely—but it was enough for the weight to hit him all at once.
No Mr. Stark.
No Aunt May.
No Ned.
No MJ.
No Avengers.
Nobody.
It was like the silence finally caught up to him, and the realization hit harder than any punch he’d ever taken. He had nothing. No familiar voices, no safety net, no suit tech with emergency contacts. Not even a damn phone.
They were all gone.
Peter blinked hard against the burning in his eyes, dragging his sleeve roughly across his face like that could somehow erase the ache.
This wasn’t like when Uncle Ben died. That grief had been enormous, consuming, but he’d had people then. May. His friends.
This? This was different.
This wasn’t loss.
This was abandonment by the universe.
He didn’t even know what had happened. One moment he’d been fading—dust in the wind—and then he was here. Somewhere else. In someone else's story, maybe. A place where nobody knew him, and worse—where he didn’t exist at all. No trace of Peter Parker. No mention of Spider-Man.
Peter sniffed hard, pulling his hoodie tighter around himself.
He had to figure it out. Everything. What happened, where he was, who those people in the mansion were. They looked like they were sometype of important figures, but that didn’t mean they were trustworthy. That didn’t mean they were on his side. He didn’t even know if they were from this Earth—or if he was.
And beyond that…
He glanced down at his suit. Torn in a few places. Scuffed and dirty. He had nothing on him. No wallet. No communicator. No AI voice to walk him through things. Just himself, his web-shooters, and whatever instincts he had left.
He was going to have to figure out how to survive here.
Where to eat.
Where to sleep.
How to stay hidden.
Who to trust—if anyone.
He sighed, letting his head drop back against the wall behind him, staring up at the bleak Gotham sky.
This city felt older than the stars. And right now, it felt like it was swallowing him whole.
But Peter Parker was still breathing.
Still thinking.
Still here.
And he was going to figure this out. Because there was no one else who could.