A City That Devours
Gotham didn’t stop for the broken.
Days passed after Elise’s attack. Peter stayed in the shadows. He watched from a rooftop across the street as the coffee shop opened, its usual flickering neon sign a dim beacon in the gray Gotham dawn. Elise was there. Bandaged. Moving slower than usual. But she was there.
She never looked toward the rooftop where he stood.
Peter wanted to go down, to say something—anything. But what could he say? Sorry I saved your life? Sorry I lost control? Sorry you saw what I really am? None of it mattered. Because she had been right to be afraid.
And so, he turned away.
The city pressed forward, unaware of Peter Parker’s turmoil. He tried to throw himself into his routine—fighting, training, surviving. But it wasn’t the same. The image of Elise flinching away from him lingered in his mind like a stain he couldn’t scrub out.
He was losing himself in Gotham.
And the city knew it.
Three nights later, the city reminded him just how brutal it could be.
Peter had been tracking a small-time smuggler ring operating near the East End docks. He had intercepted one of their shipments—a crate of stolen WayneTech components that someone, somewhere, had paid a lot of money to acquire.
He should’ve left it alone. Should’ve passed the information along to someone who actually had resources. But Peter wasn’t built for watching from the sidelines. He had spent his entire life diving headfirst into danger, believing he could handle it.
Believing he had to handle it.
So, he went after them alone.
And he got careless.
The fight started fine. Standard warehouse thugs, a little tougher than the usual street criminals, but nothing Peter couldn’t handle. He was fast, precise, dismantling them one by one.
Until the gunfire started.
Peter dodged the first bullet, then the second. The third caught his side, a grazing shot, but enough to make him stumble. That was all the opening they needed.
A bat slammed against his ribs, the impact rattling through his bones. He hit the ground hard, gasping for breath. His spider-sense screamed, but his body wasn’t fast enough to catch up.
Boots stomped down on his arm, pinning him. A fist crashed into his face. Then another.
The leader of the smugglers, a man with a jagged scar down his cheek, crouched beside him. “You made a mistake, kid.”
Peter spat blood onto the ground, his vision spinning. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”
Scarface chuckled. “See, we were just minding our business, making a deal, and you decided to play hero.” He gestured to his men. “Teach him what happens to heroes in Gotham.”
Pain followed. A barrage of kicks, punches, the crack of something—maybe a rib, maybe two. Peter had been beaten before, but this was different. This wasn’t a warning. This was an execution.He fought to stay conscious, fought to move, but his body wasn’t responding. His mind screamed for him to get up, to run, but his limbs were sluggish, heavy, drowning in agony.
Then he heard it.
A whisper of movement. The faintest shift in the air.
And then, darkness exploded into motion.
The first man went down with a sickening crunch, his body crumpling to the floor. The second barely had time to react before a gloved fist smashed into his jaw. The warehouse erupted into chaos as a new presence entered the fray, moving with practiced brutality.
Peter forced his head up just in time to see the last smuggler standing raise a gun—only for a batarang to lodge itself deep in his wrist. The man screamed, dropping the weapon as blood dripped onto the floor.
Nightwing stood above him, his expression unreadable.
For a moment, no one moved. The fight was over. The smugglers were unconscious, groaning, or too broken to get up. Nightwing’s gaze flicked down to Peter, who was struggling to sit up.
Peter wiped blood from his mouth and exhaled shakily. “Took you long enough.”
Nightwing tilted his head. “Didn’t know you had me on speed dial.”
Peter let out a weak chuckle before groaning as pain lanced through his ribs. “I had this under control.”
Nightwing crossed his arms, unimpressed. “Yeah, sure looked like it.”
Peter sighed, dropping his head back against the cold concrete. “Did Batman send you?”
“No.”
Peter frowned, trying to read Nightwing’s face through the haze of pain. “Then why are you here?”
Nightwing studied him for a long moment. Then, with a sigh, he crouched beside him. “I’ve been hearing rumors. About a guy who’s been cleaning up Gotham’s streets. Someone fast. Strong.
Someone who doesn’t fight like the Bat’s usual people.”
Peter shifted uncomfortably. “And?”
“And then I heard about a kid who keeps showing up half-dead in alleyways.” Nightwing’s voice softened slightly. “You’ve been making a lot of noise. The wrong kind.”
Peter clenched his jaw. “I don’t need a babysitter.”
“No, but you do need help.”
Peter scoffed. “I’m fine.”
Nightwing’s eyes darkened. “Fine doesn’t look like this.” He gestured to Peter’s battered form. “Fine doesn’t mean getting your ass handed to you by a bunch of smugglers in a warehouse.”
Peter looked away. He didn’t need this. Didn’t need someone swooping in, acting like they understood. He had survived this long. He didn’t need Gotham’s golden boy lecturing him about how to survive.
Nightwing sighed, standing up. “Look, I’m not here to drag you to the Batcave or recruit you or whatever else you’re afraid of. But you’re fighting a war in a city that doesn’t forgive mistakes.” He turned, walking toward the exit. “You wanna keep this up? Fine. But at least learn how to do it right.”
Peter frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Nightwing paused at the door, looking back over his shoulder. “It means you’re not the only one who’s ever been where you are. And if you ever want to stop losing, maybe—just maybe—you should start listening.”
With that, he was gone, leaving Peter alone in the wreckage of his latest failure.
---------------
It had been a rough week. Between Elise’s attack,the encounter with Nightwing on patrol, and the exhaustion that weighed down every step, Peter found himself wandering the city without much purpose. He hadn’t planned on stopping anywhere in particular, but as he passed a dimly lit bar tucked between two old buildings, something made him hesitate.
The neon sign flickered lazily—Napier’s—a name that meant nothing to him. The place looked old but well-maintained, the kind of bar where people went to be left alone. That suited Peter just fine.
He stepped inside, letting the warmth and dim lighting wash over him. It was quiet, only a handful of patrons scattered across the room. No rowdy criminals, no obvious threats. Just tired people nursing their drinks, lost in their own thoughts.
Peter slid onto a barstool, leaning against the counter. The bartender, a broad-shouldered man with graying hair, gave him a once-over before nodding. “What’ll it be?”
Peter hesitated. Normally, he wouldn’t even consider drinking—his healing factor made it pretty pointless anyway—but tonight? Tonight, he didn’t feel like himself. He felt like another tired soul in Gotham, and maybe that was all he needed to be.
“Whatever’s cheap,” he muttered.
The bartender smirked knowingly and poured a shot of something that smelled strong and burnt like regret. Peter took it without a second thought, grimacing as the alcohol burned its way down.
“Rough night?”
Peter blinked, looking to his left.
The man sitting next to him was pale, sharp-featured, with platinum blond hair that was just starting to grow out from something shorter. He was dressed in an old but well-fitted suit, the kind that had once been expensive but had seen better days. A cigarette rested between his fingers, though he hadn’t taken a drag in a while.
Peter shrugged. “You could say that.”
The man smirked. “Yeah, I know the look. The world’s weighing a little too heavy on your shoulders.”
Peter chuckled dryly. “Something like that.”
The man tapped his cigarette against the ashtray, watching him. “You don’t look like you belong in a place like this.”
Peter raised a brow. “And what kind of place is this?”
The man gestured vaguely. “The kind where people drink to forget. You look more like the kind of guy who drinks coffee to stay awake.”
Peter snorted. “You’re not wrong.”
The man studied him for a moment before digging into his pocket and sliding a cigarette across the counter toward him. “Here. Looks like you could use one.”
Peter hesitated. He didn’t smoke—never had—but there was something oddly human about the gesture. Something normal. And normal was something he hadn’t felt in a long time. So he took it, rolling it between his fingers before tucking it behind his ear. “Thanks.”
The man chuckled. “No problem. What’s your name, kid?”
Peter hesitated, then settled on, “Ben.”
The man tilted his head slightly, as if testing the name in his mind, then gave a small nod. “Nice to meet you, Ben. Name’s Jack.”
Jack. The name meant nothing to Peter, but something about the way he said it made it seem heavier than it should have been.
Jack took another drag from his cigarette, exhaling slowly. “Let me guess. You’re new in town.”
Peter tensed slightly. “What makes you say that?”
Jack grinned. “Because Gotham hasn’t chewed you up yet. You’ve still got that… hope. That little bit of light in your eyes.” He took a slow drag of his cigarette. “This city eats people like you for breakfast.”
Peter smirked. “Good thing I’m not on the menu.”
Jack chuckled, tapping his fingers against the counter. “We’ll see.”
There was a moment of silence between them, the kind that wasn’t entirely uncomfortable. Peter studied him out of the corner of his eye. There was something about him, something unpredictable. He had the look of a man who had seen too much and found it all endlessly amusing.
Peter took another sip of his drink. “You from around here?”
Jack exhaled slowly, watching the smoke curl toward the ceiling. “Oh, I’ve been here a long time. Gotham and I have a… complicated relationship.”
Peter chuckled. “Yeah, I get that.”
Jack tilted his head, studying him again. “You remind me of someone.”
Peter tensed slightly. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Jack smiled, something almost nostalgic in his expression. “Someone who used to believe he could fix things.”
Peter hesitated. There was something in the way he said it, something knowing. But before he could respond, Jack stood, tossing a few bills onto the counter.
“Well, Ben, it’s been fun.” He slipped on his coat, giving Peter one last glance. “Try not to let this city break you.”
Peter took a drag from the cigarette a s he watched him walk away, disappearing into the night. Something about him lingered, a question Peter couldn’t quite place.
The bartender wandered over, glancing after him. “You know who that was?”
Peter frowned. “Should I?”
The bartender smirked. “Jack Napier. Interesting guy. Some say he used to be a big deal. Others say he’s just another ghost in Gotham.”
Peter stared at the door, his mind racing.
Jack Napier.
There was something about him—something dangerous. But for now, he was just another stranger in Gotham.
And Peter had enough ghosts to deal with already.