Shadows of Crime Alley
---
Peter’s footsteps echoed faintly as he made his way through the labyrinthine streets of Gotham, each turn drawing him closer to the heart of one of the city's most notorious neighborhoods: Crime Alley. The air here felt different. It was heavy with the stench of decay, both literal and figurative. The buildings leaned toward each other as though conspiring, their cracked facades whispering stories of despair, corruption, and long-forgotten lives.
This part of Gotham was unlike any other he had seen. Even in the roughest corners of New York, there had been a sense of hope—of something better. But here? It was as if Gotham’s soul had been ripped out and left to rot.
Peter walked with his hood up, keeping his head down. He wasn’t wearing the suit tonight. He needed to keep his head low. Blending in as another lost soul was easier here than most places. No one asked questions in Crime Alley. No one cared.
His destination loomed ahead—an old, decrepit tenement building that had long since fallen off the radar of Gotham’s authorities. The windows were boarded up, and the graffiti-covered walls spoke of years without maintenance. This place was a ghost in a city of the damned, forgotten even by those who used to live there.
It suited Peter just fine.
He pushed open the broken door, which hung loosely on its hinges, and stepped into the dimly lit hallway. The faint flicker of a dying fluorescent light overhead buzzed in sync with the eerie quiet that filled the space. Peter’s eyes adjusted quickly, though his spider-sense had already painted the interior for him: it was empty. For now.
There were moments when Peter wondered if he’d fallen so far that even his spider-sense barely bothered to react in a place like this. In New York, every corner had pulsed with life and danger. Here, in Gotham’s most infamous neighborhood, the danger was constant—so much so that his senses seemed to settle into a baseline hum of dread.
He climbed the stairs, each one creaking under his weight. The stairwell smelled like mildew and stale cigarette smoke. Somewhere in the distance, a couple argued in hushed tones. A baby cried. Life continued, even in places like this.
When he reached the third floor, Peter made his way to the end of the hallway. He stopped in front of an apartment door with a spray-painted “5C” on it. The lock was long broken, but Peter had rigged something that would hold for now. Not that it mattered. Crime Alley didn’t see the kind of criminals who cared about stealing from someone who had nothing.
He pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The apartment was as grim as the rest of the building. A single bare bulb hung from the ceiling, casting a sickly yellow glow over the room. The walls were cracked and peeling, the floor was covered in dust, and there was an old mattress pushed against one wall—the only piece of furniture in the entire space.
Peter let out a breath and walked over to the mattress, dropping his backpack beside it. The bag had everything he owned in Gotham. A couple of changes of clothes, a toothbrush, and his mask. The suit was stashed under a loose floorboard near the window, hidden in case anyone ever decided to break in.
Not that anyone would. The people here didn’t care enough.
Peter sat on the edge of the mattress and rubbed his hands over his face. He had been in Gotham for weeks now, and Crime Alley had been his only refuge. It wasn’t much, but it was somewhere he could disappear. Somewhere no one would think to look for him.
He wasn’t sure why he had ended up here, of all places. Maybe it was the guilt—the weight of what had happened in New York, of everyone he had lost. Maybe it was because he didn’t feel like a hero anymore. He was just a kid running from a life that had crumbled beneath him.
He stared at the cracked ceiling, feeling the oppressive silence close in on him.
---
Later that night, as darkness fully enveloped the city, Peter lay on the mattress, staring at the ceiling. Gotham's air felt heavier in Crime Alley, almost like it was pressing down on him. The temperature had dropped, and the cold seeped through the cracked windows, biting at his skin.
Peter’s mind wandered to the offer Bruce had made just days ago. A home. A way out of this. A family—if that’s what it was. But Peter couldn’t shake the feeling that Bruce was only offering because he saw something broken in Peter that he could fix. Maybe Bruce was looking for redemption, but Peter didn’t know if he could be that for anyone.
And then there was Richard. Peter’s father.
He still hadn’t processed the fact that *Nightwing*—a vigilante Peter had never even heard of back in his own universe—was his biological father. The idea seemed impossible. The world Peter came from didn’t have Nightwing, or Batman, or any of the others. Gotham was just a name on a map—a city with its own problems, but not like this. Not like here.
Yet here he was, discovering not only the existence of this dark, violent city, but also that his father was one of its most famous heroes. The irony wasn’t lost on him. The hero world seemed smaller than ever, no matter which universe you landed in.
He felt a wave of frustration rise up. *How the hell was I supposed to know?* Peter thought. He hadn’t even known about Richard Grayson, let alone that he was some kind of legendary crimefighter. It was like the universe had decided to play some sick joke on him.
Peter sighed and turned over on the mattress, closing his eyes. Maybe tomorrow would bring some clarity. Or at the very least, some answers.
---
The following morning, sunlight barely filtered through the grime-coated windows. Peter sat up, groggy and stiff from another restless night. His phone buzzed beside him—one of the few things he had left from New York. He glanced at the screen, half-expecting it to be nothing, but his eyes widened slightly when he saw the name.
**Alfred Pennyworth.**
Peter hesitated before opening the message.
*Master Parker, I trust you are well. Master Wayne requested I remind you that the offer of assistance remains open, should you choose to accept it. There is no rush, of course. But I would strongly advise you not to linger in your current location for too long. Crime Alley is not the safest place, as you’re no doubt aware.*
Peter stared at the message for a long moment. He had no idea how Alfred even knew where he was, but then again, this was Gotham. If anyone could track someone down, it was probably Bruce’s loyal butler.
He sighed, typing a quick response.
*Thanks, Alfred. I’m fine for now, but I’ll keep it in mind.*
He sent the message, knowing full well that he didn’t plan to take up Bruce’s offer anytime soon. The idea of staying in Wayne Manor—even with all its luxuries—felt suffocating. He needed space to think, and staying here, in the shadows of Gotham, was the only place that allowed him to do that.
---
After getting dressed in a clean set of clothes from his backpack, Peter stepped outside, pulling his hood up against the chilly morning air. The streets were just as grim as they had been the night before. The alleyways were filled with graffiti, the buildings crumbling under the weight of years of neglect.
Peter walked with purpose, blending in with the early morning crowd of Crime Alley’s forgotten souls. His eyes darted around, taking in the familiar sights. Homeless people huddled in doorways, merchants selling questionable goods from the trunks of rundown cars, and drug deals happening in broad daylight.
This was Gotham at its worst, and yet it didn’t feel foreign to Peter anymore.
As he walked, Peter couldn’t help but think of Damian. The kid had gotten under his skin in a way no one else had. There was something about Damian’s raw intensity, his quiet loneliness, that resonated with Peter. Damian had been born into darkness—into a world of assassins and vigilantes—but he seemed to accept it. Own it.
Peter wasn’t sure he could do the same.
His spider-sense tingled, pulling him from his thoughts. He froze, glancing around, trying to pinpoint the source of the danger. A shadow moved in a nearby alley, and Peter tensed.
Suddenly, a man lunged out from the alleyway, a knife gleaming in his hand. His face was gaunt, his eyes wild with desperation. Peter stepped back instinctively, ready to defend himself.
But before he could act, a shadow dropped from the fire escape above. In a blur of movement, the attacker was disarmed and knocked to the ground, groaning in pain.
Peter blinked in surprise as the figure stepped into the dim light.
Damian Wayne.
“I told you this area wasn’t safe,” Damian said, his voice laced with annoyance. He stood over the groaning man, his expression cold and calm, as if taking down muggers was just another part of his day.
Peter shook his head, a small smirk tugging at his lips. “You’re stalking me now?”
Damian crossed his arms, glaring at Peter. “I don’t stalk. I observe. And you, Parker, are a walking disaster waiting to happen.”
Peter shrugged,
leaning against the alley wall. “I get that a lot.”
Damian glanced around at the decaying surroundings of Crime Alley, his expression darkening. “Why are you staying here? You could’ve accepted Father’s offer. But instead, you choose this.”
Peter sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Maybe I don’t want a handout. Maybe I’m just trying to figure things out.”
Damian’s gaze softened slightly, though his expression remained guarded. “You’re an idiot. But... I understand.” He paused, almost hesitating before he spoke again. “This place... it doesn’t deserve you.”
Peter was taken aback by the words, the sincerity in Damian’s voice. He wasn’t used to people caring about him.
Peter was taken aback by Damian’s words, by the sincerity in his voice. He wasn’t used to people caring about him—at least, not anymore. Not since... New York. Not since the world forgot who Peter Parker was.
He pushed off the wall and shrugged. “It’s not about what I deserve. This is where I ended up. Maybe it’s where I belong.”
Damian stepped closer, his eyes narrowing. “That’s ridiculous.” His tone was sharp, but there was a flicker of something deeper beneath his usual bravado. “You don’t belong in the gutter with the rest of Gotham’s trash.”
Peter let out a dry laugh. “Tell that to everyone who’s ever walked away from me.”
Damian’s expression faltered for just a second, as if something about Peter’s words struck a chord. It was only for a moment, but Peter caught it. There was something in Damian’s eyes—an understanding.
For all his bravado, Damian knew what it was like to be alone. To feel abandoned.
“You don’t get it,” Peter continued, his voice softer now. “I’m not some lost cause. I just... I don’t know where I’m supposed to fit anymore. I don’t even belong in this universe.”
Damian’s jaw clenched. “That doesn’t matter. What matters is what you do next. You can either keep wallowing here, hiding in the shadows, or you can step up. But staying in Crime Alley isn’t going to fix anything.”
Peter studied Damian for a moment, trying to get a read on him. The kid was serious, and there was something fierce about the way he was pushing Peter to make a change. It reminded him of... someone. Maybe himself, back when he still believed he could fix everything.
He sighed. “And what would you suggest I do, huh? Move into Wayne Manor and pretend everything’s fine? Just act like I belong in your world now?”
Damian’s eyes flickered, but his voice was steady. “I don’t care if you want to live at the Manor or not. But if you stay here, you’ll just fade away. Gotham has a way of swallowing people like you whole.”
Peter raised an eyebrow. “And people like you?”
Damian smirked slightly. “I fight back.”
A tense silence followed, broken only by the distant sounds of the city. Somewhere, tires screeched. A siren wailed. Crime Alley never truly slept.
Peter rubbed the back of his neck. “Look, I appreciate the pep talk, but... I’m not like you guys. I’ve never been trained to be a vigilante. I’m just trying to survive.”
Damian stepped closer, his expression hardening again. “You think I didn’t have to survive? That I wasn’t thrown into the deep end from the moment I was born?” His voice was low, filled with the weight of his own dark past. “We all have our scars. We all have to fight for something. The question is, what are you fighting for, Parker?”
Peter didn’t have an answer to that. Not one he could articulate. The truth was, he didn’t know what he was fighting for anymore. He had lost so much—Aunt May, his friends, even his identity—and now, he was just... lost.
Damian’s gaze softened slightly as if he could sense the turmoil raging inside Peter. “You don’t have to have all the answers right now. But you can’t stay here. Not forever.”
Peter glanced around at the crumbling buildings, the dirty streets, the broken people who wandered aimlessly through the wreckage of their lives. He had chosen Crime Alley because it was forgotten, because it allowed him to disappear. But Damian was right. If he stayed here too long, he would fade into the shadows, just another casualty of Gotham.
“I’ll think about it,” Peter muttered, finally meeting Damian’s gaze.
Damian gave a curt nod. “Good. Because if you stay here, I’ll drag you out myself.”
Peter couldn’t help but smirk at that. “Yeah? I’d like to see you try, kid.”
Damian’s eyes sparkled with a challenge, and for a moment, the tension lifted. “You wouldn’t stand a chance.”
“Careful,” Peter shot back with a teasing grin. “I’ve fought worse.”
Damian rolled his eyes, but there was a faint smirk on his lips. “We’ll see.”
Without another word, Damian turned on his heel and disappeared back into the shadows, leaving Peter standing alone in the dim alleyway.
---
Back in the quiet of his dingy apartment, Peter sat on the edge of the old mattress, staring at the broken window. Damian’s words echoed in his mind. The kid was arrogant, sure, but he wasn’t wrong. Staying in Crime Alley wasn’t the solution. It was just a way for Peter to avoid facing the truth.
He pulled out his phone, scrolling through the messages again. Bruce’s offer. Alfred’s gentle reminder. And now, Damian’s brutal honesty.
They were all telling him the same thing.
Peter closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Maybe it was time to stop running. Maybe it was time to figure out what came next.
But for tonight, he was too tired to make any decisions. Tomorrow. Tomorrow he’d think about it.
As he lay back on the mattress, pulling the thin blanket over himself, Peter wondered if this was what starting over felt like. If maybe, in the shadows of Gotham, he could learn to be something more. Something new.
Sleep came slowly, but as it did, for the first time in weeks, Peter didn’t dream of his past. Instead, he dreamed of what might lie ahead.