Name
That fucking name.
It feels like he can't escape it. It practically follows him wherever he goes. Merged with his shadow, the weight of it hangs from his shoulders, its claws grip onto them and won’t let go.
He sees it in his school, in the papers, on the news. Everywhere. Every mention of him brings it all back—the terror, the helplessness, the years of trying to bury it, only for the name to crawl its way back to the surface.
When he talks about that man, he can taste the acidity of his name. Its taste tainted beyond repair, the feel of bile in his throat, thick and sour. The very thought of him makes his skin crawl, the memories rushing in, uninvited, unwelcome.
No matter where he goes in New York, that man permeates the society he lives in and fights for. How can he protect the same city that houses that man? Not only houses him, loves him, sings his praises. They don't even see the monster behind the mask. They cheer for him, they celebrate him, and they would never understand the weight of it. They don’t know the truth.
How can he fight for justice when the very system he’s meant to protect upholds a man like him? How can he pretend to believe in a city that elevates him, that turns a blind eye to what lies beneath that false, polished exterior?
Who could he even talk to? Mr. Stark works with him, his mentor, but even Tony doesn't know the extent of his feelings about him. Aunt May doesn't even know he met him. The Captain would just tell him to go to the police, offer some stiff, textbook advice, and expect it to fix everything. There’s no justice for something like this. No punishment that can undo the damage. No law that can make him feel safe.