Shadows and Strangers
The clock tower had become Peter’s sanctuary—a cold, crumbling refuge high above Gotham’s streets. But even here, the ghosts followed him.
Elise’s face haunted him. The shock, the pain, the fear. He hadn’t gone back to the coffee shop since that night. He told himself it was to protect her, to keep her safe from the violence that followed him like a shadow. But deep down, he knew the truth: he couldn’t face her fear.
He couldn't face what it said about him.
The city didn't care about his guilt. Gotham moved forward, unyielding and merciless. So Peter did the same. Nights were spent patrolling, chasing down thugs and gangsters, trying to bleed out the guilt through bruised knuckles and aching ribs. Days blurred together in a haze of exhaustion and silence.
The mask was becoming easier to wear than his own face.
It was past midnight when Peter found himself perched atop a crumbling gargoyle overlooking Crime Alley. A gang war was brewing, small-time players clashing over territory. He didn't care about the politics—just the violence. It was predictable, solvable. Something he could fight.
A group of men gathered below, passing crates from a truck into a nondescript building. Guns, by the shape of the packages. Peter tensed. Time to work.
He dropped from the ledge, landing with a silent crouch. Two web lines shot out, yanking rifles from startled hands. The moment of surprise lasted two heartbeats. Then came the shouting.
"What the hell—"
"It’s him!"
"Shoot!"
Peter moved through them like smoke. He ducked low, swept a man’s legs, and slammed another into the wall with a flick of his wrist. Gunfire barked in the alley, echoing like thunder. A stray bullet grazed his shoulder. The pain was distant, background noise to the rhythm of the fight.
He didn’t hear the new arrival until it was too late.
A shadow dropped behind him. Peter's senses flared, but not fast enough. A boot slammed into his ribs, knocking him sideways into a pile of crates. He rolled to his feet, gasping, and saw the figure standing in the dim light.
A red helmet. Black tactical gear. Guns strapped to his thighs.
The man tilted his head. "You're new."
Peter staggered upright. "Yeah. And you hit like a truck."
"You're lucky I held back." The man—Red Hood—(right, this was Red Hood, not the cheerful second Robin or Jason Todd) gestured toward the unconscious thugs. "These yours?"
"Mine?" Peter flexed his aching ribs. "No. I just... borrowed them."
Red Hood snorted. "Funny. Who are you supposed to be? Gotham's discount Spider-Man?"
"I'm not from Gotham," Peter said.
"No kidding." Hood's eyes—or the white lenses that passed for them—narrowed. "You're too reckless for this city."
"I’m managing," Peter bit out.
"Sure. Until someone dies."
The words landed harder than the kick. Peter’s fists clenched. "I'm not a killer."
"Maybe not yet," Hood said. "But you're running around Gotham without backup, without rules. This city breaks people like you."
"I'm not breaking," Peter said through gritted teeth.
Red Hood's posture shifted, less confrontational, more curious. "You’re stubborn. I get it. But stubborn gets you killed here."
"Thanks for the advice," Peter snapped. "Now if you're done with the lecture, I've got cleanup to do."
"Suit yourself." Hood stepped back. "But if you keep this up, Batman's gonna notice. And he doesn't play nice with wild cards."
Peter hesitated. "Let him notice."
Hood chuckled, low and dark. "Kid, you really have no idea what you're saying." He does. He really does.
He fired a grappling line and vanished into the night.
Peter stood there, heart racing, the weight of the encounter settling over him.
Someone had noticed him. And now he was on the radar of Gotham’s deadliest family.
---------------
The clock tower felt colder than usual that night. Peter sat cross-legged on the dusty floor, mask crumpled beside him, cradling his aching ribs. His mind replayed the fight. The efficiency of Hood's movements. The ease with which he spotted Peter’s weaknesses.
He was right. Peter was reckless. He fought like he was still in New York, even tho he thought it changed (it did, he made himself into a version that he thought was better for Gotham), he still sometimes fought like he was facing criminals who broke easily beneath Spider-Man’s webbing. Gotham wasn't like that. He knew. Its criminals were harder, meaner.
He needed to be the Gotham “not-so-friendly-neighbor-Spider-man” version all of the time, not just most of it.
Peter stood and peeled off his torn hoodie, wincing at the bruises mottling his torso. His body would heal; his pride wouldn’t.
So he started training differently.
The next weeks passed in a brutal blur. Peter studied Gotham’s fighters when he encountered them. He analyzed their techniques, their patterns. Hood fought with military precision, using fear and brute force. Batman, when Peter caught glimpses of him, moved like a phantom—precise, silent, efficient.
Peter adopted pieces of both styles. His acrobatics gave him an edge, but he added new elements: tighter strikes, different footwork, more patience. He practiced disarming opponents, using their own force against them.
By day, he scoured the abandoned library for old manuals on self-defense and boxing. By night, he tested what he learned on the streets.
The bruises multiplied. But slowly, the fights got easier.
One night, while trailing a group of arms dealers through the docks, Peter sensed a familiar presence.
"Following me, Hood?" he said without turning.
A low chuckle echoed from the shadows. "You learn fast."
"I have to."
Red Hood stepped into the dim light. "You're still reckless. But less than before."
"Thanks. I think."
Hood crossed his arms. "Why are you doing this?"
Peter hesitated. "Because someone has to."
"That's a Batman answer."
"I'm not Batman."
"No," Hood agreed. "You're not. And if you want to survive here, you'll need more than training. You’ll need allies."
"Is that what you are?" Peter asked.
Hood was silent for a long moment. "Depends."
"On what?"
"On whether you end up like me."
Peter met his gaze. "I won’t."
Hood's lips twitched behind the helmet. "We'll see."
He disappeared into the night again, but this time, Peter didn’t feel entirely alone.
The next morning, Peter returned to the coffee shop. He didn’t go inside. He stood across the street, hidden in the shadows, and watched Elise through the window as she served customers. Her arm was in a sling, but she smiled as she spoke to an old man at the counter.
She looked happy.
Peter turned away.
Gotham hadn't broken him yet. But the cracks were spreading.