The Mask and the Man
Peter had spent so much time fighting that he almost forgot what it meant to just live.
Gotham was not kind to people like him—outsiders, nobodies. Without an identity, without a paper trail, he was nothing more than a ghost in a city full of shadows. It was easier when he was swinging through the night, fists colliding with criminals, his mind focused on survival. But when the fights ended, when the adrenaline faded, he was left with a stark, inescapable truth:
He had nowhere to go.
No true home. No money. No friends.
He was starting from nothing.
At first, he survived on instinct. He learned where the homeless gathered, where the shelters were. He never stayed in one place too long—too dangerous, too many questions. The clock tower was his main hideout, but he needed more than a place to rest. He needed food, clothes, a way to blend in. Stealing wasn’t an option anymore. He crossed that line a few times but he couldn't—wouldn't—do it anymore. It made him sick just thinking about stealing from poor people.
So he found other ways.
Peter picked up odd jobs where he could. Gotham’s underworld was built on desperation, and the city itself was filled with people willing to pay for a nameless worker. He hauled crates at the docks under an assumed name, swept floors in a dingy restaurant that paid under the table, helped repair broken signs in exchange for a meal. It wasn’t much, but it kept him going. At night, when he wasn’t fighting for his life, he was just another face in the crowd.
And for a while, that was enough.
Then, he met her.
She worked the counter at a rundown coffee shop in Old Gotham, a place Peter had started frequenting when he realized he needed somewhere warm to sit for a few hours without drawing attention. The first time he stepped in, she barely looked up from her book, just muttered, “You actually buying something, or are you just here to loiter?” He fumbled for the few crumpled bills he had left from a previous job and ordered the cheapest thing on the menu. It was terrible. Bitter, burned, and somehow both too hot and too cold. But it was something.
The second time, she smirked. “Back again, huh? You like torturing yourself with bad coffee?”
“Yeah,” Peter had deadpanned. “It builds character.”
The third time, she gave him an extra muffin. “On the house,” she had said, though he could tell from the look in her eyes that she saw through him. She knew he needed it.
Her name was Elise.
She was sharp, quick-witted, and entirely unimpressed by him, which was probably what drew him in the most. Unlike the criminals who feared him or the people who ignored him, she actually saw him. Not Spider-Man. Not a nameless drifter.
Just Peter.
And for the first time since he arrived in Gotham, he felt like he existed.
Their conversations started small. Banter. Snarky comments exchanged over a counter, her eyes flicking toward him between customers. But over time, they deepened. She talked about growing up in Gotham, about how she wanted to leave but never could, about the weight of a city that swallowed people whole. He listened, nodding at the right moments, keeping his own story vague.
“Why do you always look like you just crawled out of a fight?” she asked one evening, as he nursed a cup of tea instead of coffee. His lip was split, his knuckles bruised.
Peter hesitated. “Bad luck.”
She arched a brow. “Bad luck doesn’t give you that many scars.”
For a moment, he almost told her. Almost let it slip that he was the masked figure people whispered about in the alleyways. That he was fighting a war no one would thank him for.
But he didn’t.
Instead, he shrugged. “Guess Gotham and I don’t get along.”
She hummed, not quite believing him, but not pushing either. “Yeah. Join the club.”
Peter started visiting more often. It wasn’t just about the food or a warm place to sit—it was the sense of normalcy. The feeling of being just another guy here for the cup of cheap, bad coffee. He liked the quiet moments, when the shop emptied out and Elise leaned against the counter, flipping through a book while he sat in the corner, reading an old newspaper about all the bad things that happened that week. Sometimes, they talked. Other times, they just existed in the same space, two people sharing a brief escape from the weight of Gotham.
It was foolish, a fragile little thing he told himself he could afford. A distraction, but a welcome one.
For the first time in a long time, Peter felt like something more than a ghost.
But Gotham had a way of reminding him that ghosts were all he’d ever be.
It happened late one night, when Peter was walking back to the clock tower after a long patrol. The streets were quieter than usual, a rare moment of peace in a city that never slept. Then, he heard it—the sharp crack of a gunshot.
And his world shifted.
He moved before he could think, sprinting toward the source of the sound. His heart pounded against his ribs, panic clawing at his throat. He knew that sound. He knew what it meant.
When he rounded the corner, he saw her.
Elise was on the ground, clutching her shoulder, blood staining her coat. A man stood over her, gun still raised, a sneer on his face. A robbery gone wrong.
Peter didn’t hesitate.
He moved faster than he ever had before, his vision blurring as he struck. The man didn’t even see him coming. One punch, two—he didn’t stop, didn’t hold back, didn’t care about anything except making sure this bastard never hurt anyone again.
By the time Peter snapped out of it, the man was unconscious, barely breathing. His fists were slick with blood.
Elise was staring at him, wide-eyed, her breathing ragged.
“Peter?”
His stomach dropped. She had never said his name like that before. Not with fear.
He swallowed hard, stepping toward her, but she flinched. It was small, barely noticeable, but it cut through him like a blade.
“I—” He didn’t know what to say. What could he say?
Sirens wailed in the distance. He had to go. If the cops saw him, if they realized what he had done—
“Elise, I—”
“Go.”
Her voice was quiet, but firm. She wouldn’t look at him.
Peter hesitated, then turned and ran, disappearing into the night like the ghost he had always been.
Back in the clock tower, he sat in the dark, staring at his hands. They were still shaking.
He had saved her. He had done what he was supposed to do. And yet, all he could think about was the look in her eyes.
Fear.
For the first time in a long time, Peter didn’t feel like a hero.
He felt like a monster.
And maybe, just maybe, Gotham was finally winning.