Forged in Shadows
The nights bled together in an endless cycle of pain, training, and survival. Gotham was a crucible, and Peter was learning to endure the fire.
His body had changed in ways he never noticed before. The soreness never really left, but it had become a dull, constant companion. His reflexes sharpened, his endurance expanded, and his strikes grew heavier, more precise. His old habits—the wild swinging, the reckless leaps—had been refined into something more deliberate, more dangerous. He didn’t just move anymore; he hunted.
But Gotham fought back.
It began with small strikes—single-man operations that wouldn’t attract too much attention. A weapons deal in the Bowery, a smuggling ring running through the docks. Peter stalked them from the shadows, waiting until they were isolated before striking. The first time he tried it, he messed up. He moved too soon, letting one of the gunmen get a shot off before webbing him to a light post. It nearly cost him his life when a second man rushed him with a crowbar.
The bruise on his ribs lasted for days.
He learned to be patient. To wait for the right moment. He started using his environment more, setting traps, using Gotham’s alleys, abandoned buildings, and rooftops to his advantage. He had no backup, no tech support. Just himself and the city. It was hard, grueling work, and it never seemed to end. But each time he took a gang off the street, each time he disrupted a shipment, he knew he was making an impact.
And people noticed.
“You hear about that guy in the red and blue?”
“Yeah, the one that swings around like some kinda freak?”
“He ain't with anyone.”
“Yeah, but he’s bad news.”
Peter overheard these conversations in the dark corners of Gotham, whispered warnings passed between criminals who were growing more and more uneasy. They didn’t know his name, didn’t know what he was, but they knew one thing—he wasn’t like the others.
He didn’t play by Gotham’s rules.
And then, after leaving him alone for a while, they came back.
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Peter was perched on a rooftop, his mask pulled halfway up as he chewed on a protein bar—his only real meal that night. His body ached, but it was the good kind, the kind that told him he was improving. Below, the city moved like a living thing, neon and streetlights blinking against the suffocating darkness. It was cold, but he had learned to ignore that too.
Then he felt it—his spider-sense flaring, sharp and sudden.
He flipped backward just as a blade whizzed past his face, lodging itself into the concrete where he had been sitting. Peter landed in a crouch, snapping his mask back into place as he turned to face his attacker.
A man stood at the edge of the rooftop, clad in sleek, tactical armor, a mask covering the lower half of his face. His stance was steady, controlled. This wasn’t some street thug. This was a professional.
An assassin.
“Cute trick,” Peter quipped, even as his muscles tensed, ready for a fight. “But next time, maybe say hello first?”
The man didn’t respond. Instead, he moved—fast. Peter barely had time to dodge the second strike, twisting mid-air as the assassin’s fist passed inches from his ribs. The moment he landed, he fired a web, but his opponent was already gone, sliding beneath the shot and closing the distance again.
Peter barely blocked the next attack. The force of it sent him skidding backward, his feet scraping against the gravel-covered rooftop. His opponent wasn’t just strong—he was trained, disciplined. Every strike was calculated, aimed at his weaknesses. He almost forgot how it felt fighting against someone like that, but that’s not something you forget so easily.
Peter gritted his teeth. He had fought assassins before. He could win this.
He adjusted his stance, shifting his weight, waiting. The assassin lunged, and this time, Peter was ready. He twisted out of the way, letting the momentum carry his opponent forward before slamming a knee into his ribs. The man stumbled, just for a second, but it was enough. Peter webbed his wrist, yanking him off balance before delivering a brutal punch to the jaw.
The assassin hit the ground, hard.
Peter stood over him, breathing heavily. “Okay,” he panted. “Now, we talk. Who sent you?”He didn’t expect a response, none of them ever gave him one.
He didn’t answer. Instead, he reached into his belt, pressing something—a small switch.
Peter barely had time to register the explosion.
A flash of light, a deafening bang, and suddenly, his world was spinning. His body was flung backward, crashing into a metal vent. His ears rang, his vision swam. By the time he scrambled to his feet, the rooftop was empty.
The assassin was gone.
Peter staggered forward, looking down at the street below. There was no trace of his attacker, no clues left behind. Just the echo of the fight and the realization sinking into his gut.
Someone had put a hit on him, maybe it was the same person, maybe it wasn’t. He didn’t know.
But what he did know was that they weren’t sending amateurs anymore.
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That night, Peter didn’t sleep.
He sat in the clock tower, tending to his wounds, replaying the fight in his mind. The assassin had been precise, methodical. Not just some hired gun—someone who had studied him, who knew how he moved, how he fought. Someone who had expected to kill him.
He clenched his fists. This was different. He wasn’t just another masked vigilante in Gotham’s chaos anymore.
He was a target.
And that meant he was doing something right.
Peter exhaled slowly, forcing himself to focus. He wasn’t going to stop. Whoever sent that assassin would send more. Stronger ones. Smarter ones. He had to be ready. He had to be better.
For the first time in a long time, Peter wasn’t just trying to survive.
He was preparing for war.
Over the next few days, he pushed himself harder. If his enemies were trained killers, he had to be something they couldn’t predict. He needed to be faster, more ruthless. He studied new techniques, incorporating moves from various martial arts styles he had never bothered with before. He drilled them into his muscles, over and over, until they were instinct.
His patrols changed. No more reckless fights. He started setting traps, using Gotham’s labyrinthine streets to his advantage. He ambushed, he misled, he turned their own tactics against them.
And the assassins kept coming.
Each one stronger than the last. Some came alone, others in pairs. One had nearly slit his throat before Peter slammed his head into a steel beam. Another had almost crushed his ribs with a strike so strong, he swore he felt his organs shift.
But each time, he won. Each time, he walked away stronger.
And with every victory, he sent a message.
He wasn’t going anywhere.
One night, after taking down a particularly brutal opponent, Peter stood over his unconscious body, breathing heavily. The man’s mask had fallen off, revealing a scarred face, his jaw clenched even in unconsciousness.
Peter crouched down, gripping the man’s collar. “Who sent you?”
The assassin stirred, barely opening one eye. A weak, pained chuckle escaped his lips. “You already know.”
Peter’s stomach twisted. He had a suspicion, but hearing it confirmed made his blood run cold.
The League of Shadows.
They had found him.
And if they were involved… this was far from over.