Chapter 4
The shadows of the alley danced beneath flickering neon lights as Spider-Woman landed with a soft thud on the edge of a rooftop, eyes trained on the chaos below. The sirens were still distant, but she knew who’d be here before they arrived.
“About time, muñeca. I was startin’ to think you weren't goin' to show.”
His voice sent a chill down her spine—not because she was scared, but because it always caught her off guard. That deep, smooth purr laced with something taunting. There he was, standing in the center of the mess like it was his stage, mask pulled halfway up to speak, metal gauntlets still glowing from his last hit.
“You again,” Gwen muttered, voice dry with annoyance. “Let me guess—another 'job' for the greater chaos of New York?”
The Prowler chuckled, tilting his head. “I like it better when you say my name. Makes me feel important.”
“I swear to God,” Gwen groaned, launching forward. He dodged, obviously, doing that stupid slick sidestep that always made it look like he was barely trying.
“You dream about me or something?” he teased, flipping onto a ledge mid-dodge. “Because I’ve been dreaming about you.”
Gwen’s foot slammed down where he’d just been. “Stop trying to get into my pants, creep.”
“No promises,” he smirked under his mask. “But if I did, would that make me a villain or just lucky?”
“You’re insufferable,” she huffed. “Literally my arch nemesis.”
The Prowler froze for a second before laughing, low and deep. “Arch nemesis? Damn, Spider-Woman, I’m honored. Never thought I’d earn that kind of title. You know, we should celebrate. Go out sometime. Maybe stop throwing punches, start throwing—”
“Do not finish that sentence.”
But she was already moving again. Their bodies blurred in motion—her graceful and spring-loaded, his heavy and aggressive like thunder and lightning colliding in a sky that never cleared. Gwen managed a kick to his side. He twisted and grabbed her ankle, throwing her across the rooftop. She caught herself with a web, swung back around.
He was laughing. “See, this is what I like about you. You fight. You don’t freeze up like the others. You’re not afraid of getting hit—or of hitting back.”
“Because I know you’re not gonna win,” she grunted, firing off two webs. One hit, anchoring to his wrist; she yanked him forward and went in for a punch—he blocked it with a gauntlet and used the momentum to spin her to the ground.
“You always this cocky?” she spat, breathless.
“Only around you, mami.”
She growled, shoving him off and springing up again. They paused, panting, staring each other down in the city heat, neon painting them in violent pink and gold.
He tilted his head again, voice softer now. “You keep callin’ me your enemy, but you’ve got this look in your eyes, like you don’t really hate me. Maybe we’re not so different.”
Her eyes narrowed. “I’m nothing like you.”
He smirked. “You keep tellin’ yourself that.”
And then he was gone—disappearing into the skyline like a phantom, leaving her staring at the spot where he’d just stood, fists clenched and heart pounding louder than the city below.
Gwen tugged her hood tighter as the early morning wind swept through the city. Beside her, Peter shuffled along, hands stuffed into his jacket pockets, yawning like he hadn’t slept all night.
“Late night?” she asked, nudging him with her elbow.
He shrugged, lips twitching into a half-smile. “Just… thinking.”
“That’s new.”
Peter snorted and bumped her back. “Wow. Brutal.”
Gwen laughed. They fell into a comfortable rhythm, footsteps echoing lightly down the cracked sidewalk. The school loomed in the distance—graffiti-tagged walls, students gathering out front. Just another morning in Earth-42.
“You ever think about being different?” Peter asked suddenly, gaze still forward.
She blinked. “Different how?”
“You know… not who everyone thinks you are. Or maybe just… more than that.”
Gwen tilted her head, frowning slightly. “That’s kind of deep for you. You good?”
He gave her a look, but there was a weird flicker behind it—nervous, maybe. “Yeah. Just been thinking about stuff lately. We live in a city where, like, anyone could be anything, you know?”
“I guess,” Gwen said slowly, eyeing him. “Is this about that sci-fi book you read? The one where everyone turns into cats?”
Peter laughed, a little too loud. “No! And that was a great book, for the record.”
She smiled but didn’t push further. They turned the corner, the school gates now in sight, and a group of students shouted greetings to Peter. He gave a small wave but didn’t slow down.
“You sure everything’s alright?” Gwen asked again, softer this time.
Peter hesitated, then grinned. “I’m fine. Really. I just… wanna do more, I guess.”
Gwen raised an eyebrow. “You’re already doing a lot. You’ve been there for me more than anyone else lately. You’ve got photography, school, your tech stuff—”
“Yeah, but that’s not what I mean.”
She looked at him, more curious now, but he shook his head quickly and changed the subject.
“What about you?” he asked, nudging her again. “You seem... brighter.”
Gwen blinked. “Brighter?”
“Yeah. Like… lighter on your feet. Happier. I’m not saying you’re, like, skipping through the streets or anything, but it’s noticeable.”
She paused, wondering if it was true. Maybe it was. Being Spider-Woman had started to feel… real. Like she wasn’t just faking it anymore. People smiled when they saw her. Crime rates had dropped. Even her dad had stopped double-checking the locks every night.
“I guess I’m getting used to it,” she said with a shrug. “The whole… double-life thing.”
Peter smiled at her, genuine and proud. “Good. You’re kinda awesome, Gwen.”
She rolled her eyes. “Don’t get mushy on me.”
“Too late.”
They reached the school steps, the crowd swallowing them up. Peter gave her one last glance before heading off to class, and Gwen watched him go, a strange knot forming in her chest. Something was off, but he wasn’t telling her what.
Still, it was Peter. He always came around when he was ready.
With a sigh, she turned and made her way to first period, brushing off the weird feeling in her stomach—completely unaware that the next time she’d see the Prowler, things would be far more chaotic than usual.
The studio mirrors were still fogged from sweat. Gwen slipped her hoodie over her leotard and pulled her hair up into a quick bun. Ballet always left her sore in the best way—sharp lines, rigid technique, and the quiet focus it demanded grounded her more than anything else. Well, almost anything.
“See you Thursday, Gwen!” her teacher called as she left the studio, gym bag slung over her shoulder.
“Later, Ms. Ana,” Gwen replied, already checking her phone. A message from Peter about finishing homework, a missed call from Liv asking if she was still coming to rehearsal—and then a flash notification that made her chest seize up.
ALERT: Suspected Prowler activity. Armed. Police en route.
Of course. Right when she thought she could have one normal evening.
She ducked into the alley behind the dance studio, yanked her suit from her bag, and pulled it on over her tights in record time. The mask settled over her face like a second skin. Her pulse thumped as she scaled the fire escape and launched into the city skyline.
The crime report had pinged near the edge of a shipping yard—same one as last time. Was he taunting her?
She landed lightly on the side of a warehouse, sticking to the shadows as flashing red and blue lights reflected off the steel. Cops already had the perimeter blocked. Someone shouted orders into a radio. And then—
“About time.”
He was standing on the edge of a rusted-out cargo container, arms crossed, glowing claws glinting in the floodlights. The Prowler.
“Missed me, didn’t you?” he asked, voice cool and lazy.
Spider-Woman landed a few feet from him, arms already tense. “No. I was hoping it was someone dangerous.”
He laughed—actually laughed—and Gwen swore every cop within earshot could hear it. “You wound me. And after all the dreams I’ve had about you.”
Her stomach dropped. “Seriously? In front of the police?”
“I like an audience.”
Several officers exchanged confused glances as Gwen groaned audibly. She stepped closer, flexing her fingers. “You done trying to get in my pants?”
“I won’t stop trying,” he said smoothly. “You called me your arch nemesis, remember? I’m honored.”
“Oh, I hate you,” she bit out. “So much.”
He tilted his head, stepping forward. “Then let’s make it a date, cariño.”
Gwen didn’t wait. She launched herself at him, webs crackling as they shot out in tandem with her movement. He dodged with ease, spinning, leaping, flipping like he was born for the chaos.
Every time she landed a near-hit, he threw a comment back her way.
“You’re thinking about me again.”
“You get this flustered with all your enemies?”
“Admit it, you like this dance.”
She wanted to punch him more with every word, but part of her was too caught up in the game. Cops were shouting in the background, but the noise blurred. All she could hear was his voice, and her own hammering heart.
“You want me to stop talking, cariño?” he whispered, catching her wrist mid-swing. “Then make me.”
Gwen’s grip faltered. Her momentum broke.
And that was all he needed to slip away again.
It had been nearly an hour.
The city lights blurred into one long, dizzying smear as Gwen swung between rooftops, chasing the sound of heavy metal boots and the fading trail of neon claws. The Prowler was fast—frustratingly fast—and every time she thought she had him cornered, he’d vanish again, like smoke in a windstorm.
She landed hard on a rooftop, breath coming out ragged, sweat sticking to her back under the suit. “You’re not funny anymore!” she shouted into the dark.
“You sure?” his voice came low, just behind her. She spun—too late. His gloved hand caught her shoulder and flipped her onto her back before she could react. She hit the ground with a thud that knocked the wind from her lungs.
“Because I thought I was hilarious,” he added, looming over her with his mask half-shadowed in moonlight. “You just have no sense of humor.”
Gwen gritted her teeth and launched herself upward, knee aimed for his gut. He caught it mid-air, twisting to toss her sideways like she weighed nothing. She skidded across the concrete, her elbow scraping painfully along the edge.
She groaned, pushing herself to her knees.
Her vision swam.
God, she was exhausted.
“You look tired, Spider-girl.” The Prowler walked toward her, calm, casual. “Did I wear you out? Sorry. I know I can be…a lot.”
“You talk…too much,” Gwen gasped, her hands trembling as she tried to stand.
He crouched in front of her, claws retracted now, head tilting just a little as he looked at her. “I don’t have to fight you. You know that, right?” His voice softened slightly. “You could just stop chasing me.”
She spat blood onto the ground. “Not a chance.”
His smile was crooked behind the mask. “Didn’t think so.”
Then, suddenly—he grabbed her by the collar and slammed her back down again, not harshly, not like he wanted to hurt her… but enough to knock her breath out for the second time. She lay there, gasping, blinking up at the dark sky. Her limbs wouldn’t move.
Prowler knelt beside her, silent.
He didn’t say anything snarky this time. He didn’t laugh. He didn’t tease. He just… stared.
Then—he let go.
He stood.
She waited for the kick, the knockout blow, the final taunt.
It didn’t come.
“Sleep it off,” he said finally, quiet. “Next time, don’t chase me if you can’t keep up.”
And with that—he turned and vanished into the city shadows.
Gwen lay there, staring at the sky, every inch of her body aching. Fury burned behind her eyes, but beneath that—humiliation. He could’ve ended her. And he didn’t.
He left her there. Spared her.
That hurt more than the fight.
The music echoed off the rusted walls of the old warehouse—deep bass and glitchy synth that vibrated through the soles of her feet. Gwen moved like a ghost through it, alone in the dark, surrounded by graffiti and broken glass, just dancing.
Her ballet shoes slapped the concrete floor, her limbs cutting through the air with fury and grace. She wasn't thinking, just feeling—rage, shame, exhaustion—all of it pouring out of her in pirouettes and sharp turns. Her chest heaved, throat raw, eyes burning with frustrated tears.
He’d beaten her.
And worse—he didn’t even finish the fight. He let her lose. Like she was some damsel. Like she wasn’t worth the final blow.
Gwen leapt into a high spin, landed hard, stumbled, and dropped to her knees with a growl.
“You always dance like you’re fighting demons?”
The voice startled her.
She whipped around.
Miles Morales stood in the doorway, backlit by the flickering neon sign just outside. His jacket hung open, one hand shoved in his pocket, the other holding a paint-splattered sketchbook. Just Miles.
“How long were you watching?” she asked, chest still rising and falling, cheeks flushed.
“Long enough to know you’re mad about something,” he said, walking in slow. “Didn’t peg you for the ‘angry ballet’ type.”
She sank back onto the cold floor, exhaling. “I didn’t come here to talk.”
“I didn’t come here to dance.” His smile was crooked as he dropped his sketchbook nearby and slid down the wall to sit. “But here we are.”
For a minute, they just sat in silence—music low now, like the warehouse itself knew they needed quiet.
“Rough night?” he asked finally, gaze still on her.
She nodded. “I lost a fight. Bad.”
Miles hummed. “You don’t seem like the type who loses often.”
“I’m not. That’s the problem.”
Another beat.
Then, softly added. “You look like you’re carrying the whole world.”
She blinked at him. Something in his voice—low, careful—cut through the walls she’d built up all day.
“I kind of am,” she admitted. “At least… it feels that way sometimes.”
Miles didn’t laugh. He didn’t tease. He didn’t offer advice.
He just scooted a little closer, resting his elbow on his knee, chin in his hand, and looked at her like she wasn’t some mystery to be solved—but something familiar. Like he understood the weight.
Like he saw her.
Not her mask. Not Spider-Woman.
Just Gwen.
And when he reached out—slowly, carefully—and placed a hand against her shoulder, it wasn’t flirtatious or fake. It was grounding.
She leaned into it.
Not because she meant to. Because her body was too tired to pretend anymore.
Their fingers brushed once—just once—and something electric passed between them. Not heat. Not spark.
Recognition.
Like he knew her pain. Like maybe he carried some of it too.
“I like it here,” he said softly. “No noise. Just truth.”
Gwen nodded.
So did she.