Chapter 5
The soup kitchen was a tiny brick building wedged between two run-down shops, its neon sign flickering weakly against the gloomy morning light. The smell of food—actual, real food—wafted through the air, making Peter’s stomach clench in painful anticipation.
He hesitated at the door, adjusting his hoodie.
“Okay, just… go in, grab food, don’t draw attention,” he muttered to himself.
Taking a deep breath, he stepped inside, the warmth of the building instantly wrapping around him like a much-needed hug.
The place wasn’t crowded, but there were enough people inside to make Peter uneasy. He kept his head down, making his way toward the serving line. The woman behind the counter smiled at him as she handed him a tray.
“You new around here, kid?” she asked kindly.
Peter hesitated.
“Uh… something like that.”
Peter glanced around nervously, his fingers tightening around the tray as he shuffled forward. The soup kitchen wasn’t fancy—cracked tiles lined the floors, and the paint on the walls peeled in thin, curling strips—but it was warm, and it smelled like something edible. That was good enough.
He forced himself to relax as he moved down the line, picking up a bowl of soup, a slice of bread, and a small apple. The portions were small, but at this point, anything felt like a feast.
Taking a seat near the far corner, Peter hunched over his tray, eating quickly but not desperately. He had been in situations like this before—nights where Aunt May barely scraped by, times when he had to pretend he wasn’t as hungry as he really was. But this… this was different. This was alone.
His mind drifted as he took a sip of soup. It was lukewarm but not bad. He barely registered the voices around him—small conversations, clinking trays, the shuffle of tired feet—until someone sat across from him.
“Didn’t peg you for a local,” the voice said. It was rough, edged with suspicion but not outright hostile.
Peter swallowed, lifting his gaze. A man, maybe mid-thirties, watched him with tired eyes, his face worn and stubbled. His coat was too big for him, and his hands were rough, like someone who had done a lot of hard work but hadn’t seen a break in a long time.
Peter forced a small, awkward smile. “Yeah, uh… just passing through.”
The man huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “No one just ‘passes through’ Gotham, kid. You either belong here, or you got lost in the wrong part of town.”
Peter didn’t have an answer for that. He just focused on his soup.
As he ate, his senses tingled—a light buzz at the back of his skull. Not danger, but something was off. He subtly glanced to the side and spotted a guy moving through the crowd, hands brushing against coat pockets and bags. A pickpocket.
Peter’s stomach twisted.
His own pockets were empty, but the man’s latest target—a hunched old man near the front of the line—wasn’t as lucky. Peter saw the thief’s fingers dip into the guy’s coat, snatching a few crumpled bills.
Peter’s hand twitched. He could stop him.
But then what? He didn’t have a mask. No suit. No way to explain himself if things got messy. The last thing he needed was to attract attention.
His jaw clenched as he watched the thief move toward the exit.
Before he could think better of it, Peter stood, casually cutting across the room. As the pickpocket reached for another coat, Peter “accidentally” bumped into him—hard.
“Whoa, sorry, man,” Peter muttered, his fingers moving fast. The thief scowled, shoving past him without a second glance.
Peter kept walking, slipping the stolen cash into his hoodie pocket. His stomach knotted with guilt, but it wasn’t like he was keeping it.
He made a quick detour, dropping the bills near the old man’s tray before hurrying back to his seat. The guy barely noticed, just blinking at the money in confusion before tucking it away.
Peter let out a slow breath.
the man across from him, raised an eyebrow. “Smooth,” he muttered. “But you look like you could use that more than him.”
Peter forced a small grin. “Guess I’m just bad at being selfish.”
The man let out a dry chuckle. “Yeah? Then you’re in the wrong city, kid.”
Peter didn’t argue.
As he finished his meal, an older woman wearing an apron behind the counter called out, “Anyone looking for work, we need help unloading a supply truck in the back! No pay, but you’ll get an extra meal.”
Peter perked up. An extra meal.
The man nudged his tray aside and stood. “Come on, kid. You look like you need it more than me.”
Peter hesitated, then stood too, shoving his hands into his pockets.
“So, how’d you end up here, kid?”
Peter set down the three boxes he was carrying, then looked up.
“Uh… long story? Kind of just… got lost.”
He gave an awkward grin, shoving his hands into his pockets.
The city was darkening—though honestly, it had never felt all that bright to begin with.
“Uh, how about you, Mr…?”
The man scoffed.
“Mitch,” he said, setting down his own crate with a grunt. “And I didn’t end up here. Born and raised. Gotham’s like that—you don’t really ‘arrive’ here. You just get used to it.”
Peter gave a short laugh, wiping his hands on his jeans. “Well, I’m definitely not used to it yet.”
“You will be,” Mitch said with a smirk. “Or it’ll chew you up. But hey, if you can carry three boxes like that without breaking a sweat, you’re already ahead of half the guys who come through here.”
Peter smiled—genuinely this time. It felt weird, like he had to dust it off after keeping it buried for so long.
“Thanks,” he said. “I guess I needed that.”
Mitch shrugged, grabbing another box. “Everyone needs a win now and then. Even if it’s just lifting canned beans and not falling over.”
They worked in silence for a few more minutes, the kind that wasn’t awkward. Just… comfortable. Peter felt his shoulders start to loosen, like maybe—for just a moment—he didn’t have to be on edge.
“So, you always help out here?” Peter asked, adjusting a crate on the shelf.
Mitch nodded. “Off and on. I’ve got some history with the folks who run this place. Good people. They don’t have much, but they share what they’ve got. That’s rare in this city.”
Peter nodded thoughtfully. “ We used to have this little corner place where Aunt May volunteered. Always full of people, always smelling like fresh bread.”
He trailed off, the memory bittersweet—but not painful.
Mitch caught the tone and gave him a small smile. “Sounds like she was a good person.”
“The best,” Peter said quietly.
After they finished unloading, Mitch leaned back against the wall, cracking his neck.
“You got a place to crash?” he asked.
Peter hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah… nothing fancy. Just a spot I found. It’s dry, mostly.”
Mitch studied him for a second, then reached into his coat and pulled out a crumpled paper coffee punch card. “Okay, not what you were expecting, but hear me out—this little cart a few blocks from here gives out free cups if you bring one of these.”
Peter took it with a raised brow. “You carry around emergency caffeine cards?”
“Hey,” Mitch said, dead serious, “in Gotham, caffeine is a survival tool.”
Peter laughed again, shaking his head as he tucked the card into his hoodie pocket. “I think I’m gonna like you, Mitch.”
Mitch shrugged with a smile. “Most people do. Just don’t tell anyone—I’ve got a reputation to maintain.”
The two shared a grin, and for the first time since Peter landed in Gotham, the city didn’t feel so crushing.