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Chapter Text

The sterile smell of Oscorp labs didn't bother Peter Parker anymore. It layered ethanol and disinfectant over warm circuitry and the faint mineral bite of distilled water. Beneath it ran the constant hum of ventilation and refrigeration, a frequency most people filtered out. Peter didn't have that luxury.

The overhead lights were bright enough to make someone with normal eyes squint. Stainless steel benches threw the glare back in sharp strips, glassware fracturing it into jagged reflections. Even the fluorescent micro-flicker registered against his retina—that sixty-cycle hum that vibrated in his back teeth if he let it. Every footstep, every equipment cycle, every subtle shift in air pressure pressed at his awareness.

He moved through it with efficient familiarity, steps measured, posture straight. As a spider-modified omega, adaptation had stopped being optional at fourteen. Without it, the brightness alone would have set off spikes behind his eyes, the cacophony of overlapping scents would have drowned him. Now his senses filtered input automatically, dampening what didn't require attention. Most of the time.

His fingers flew over the digital interface embedded in the lab bench. The glass pulsed faintly under his touch. Data columns shifted at his command, enzyme activity curves stabilizing into predictable arcs. He adjusted a threshold value without looking down. Graphs realigned. Pipettes auto-calibrated. A chemical balance beeped soft confirmation.

His focus, though, was on the intern two tables away. Peter had been watching them for just under an hour. Not hovering. Observing.

The intern's movements were slightly uneven. Grip pressure inconsistent. Their breathing had shifted from steady to shallow in the last ten minutes—the kind of shallow that preceded mistakes. The angle at which they held the beaker was wrong by half a degree, enough for the stir bar to wobble subtly against the glass rather than spin cleanly. Peter noted it without thinking, the way some people notice a shadow falling across a room.

Then the baseline shifted.

A faint metallic tang threaded through the ethanol-heavy air. Wrong. Not the sharp bite of proper solvent—something sweeter, almost imperceptibly off.

The liquid in the intern's beaker caught the light at a weird angle. Surface tension was fractionally too tight, curving upward instead of lying flat. The magnetic stir bar rotated half a beat off rhythm, vibrating outside tolerance. A pipette tip scraped the glass with a sharper frequency than it should. Each signal was minor alone, but together they sang like alarms.

Peter leaned forward slightly, closing the distance without crowding. His pulse ticked up a fraction. Not panic. Panic was jagged and unpredictable. This was predictable—a system approaching failure, and he could feel the pattern forming before his brain caught up.

He inhaled slowly, parsing the scent from chemical noise.

Methanol.

The ethanol stock had been swapped. Even a small percentage would denature the enzyme, collapse the protein folding, turn hours of work into gray sludge at the bottom of a beaker. Someone had restocked the wrong bottle, and the intern, nervous and rushing, had grabbed without checking.

"Stop," he said, calm and firm.

The intern froze mid-pipette.

"You used methanol instead of ethanol. Unless we're testing how quickly six hours of work can turn into sludge for science, I'd fix that."

The intern paled, the tremor in their hand worsening. "I—I'm sorry, Mr. Parker."

Peter stepped in with precision. No wasted motion. He adjusted the ratio, recalibrated the buffer, and added a micro-drop of stabilizer. During the whole process, he didn't touch the intern. Contact was unnecessary.

He didn't do contact anymore. Not with interns. Not with coworkers. Not even with May. Something in their relationship had shifted years ago, subtle and permanent, like a door closing slowly over months until one day you realized it was shut. He never figured out why. Or maybe he had, once. He didn't ask.

The intern blinked at him, waiting for approval. Peter gave a short nod and returned to the console. No thanks were needed. Problem noticed. Problem fixed. That was the expectation. That was his role.

His instincts were exactly why he ran the lab so well at twenty-six, younger than most full-time staff. He saw patterns earlier, and reacted before damage compounded. He had the lowest lab accident rate not only at Oscorp, but in the country—including Stark Industries, including every government facility that had ever tried to recruit him. When the quarterly reports came in, people assumed he was lucky. Peter knew better.

He couldn't switch it off. His senses ran continuously—tracking airflow, micro-expressions, the scrape of a chair three rooms over, the faint overheating whine of a power supply in the ceiling. Most people moved through the day cushioned by selective ignorance, their brains kindly discarding ninety-nine percent of available information so they could function. Peter had lost that luxury at fourteen, when the spider's gift and curse had rewired him down to the cellular level.

A therapist might have called it hypervigilance. Peter preferred to call it effective. For reasons he'd stopped examining, it had never fully turned off since his presentation—only quieting when his adrenaline spiked high enough to demand singular focus, or when he was swinging so fast that the world blurred into something he could outrun.   

A soft ping cut through the layered hum of the lab. The comm console flashed a very familiar number: Ned.

Peter accepted the call without breaking his line of concentration. "Yeah?"

"Hey, dude." Ned's voice carried that particular blend of teasing and serious that meant he'd been holding this thought for at least an hour. "Still alive, or are you busy scaring interns again?"

Peter's mouth twitched. "Alive. The intern may need minor emotional recalibration, but the protein's stable. And don't worry, I only mildly traumatized them."

Ned snorted. "Mildly. Peter, you say that like it's nothing. The last time you scared someone like that, MJ wouldn't stop laughing. Which was terrifying, in case you'd forgotten."

Peter rolled his eyes, the familiar rhythm of their banter settling something in his chest. "That's my professional opinion, Ned. Fear may be a by-product, but competence is mandatory in my lab. Once they get past it, I'm still the one people go to when they have a question or problem."

Across the room, the intern—Julian, he should really learn Interns name’s faster—double-checked every label before touching it. Their grip was steadier now, their movements slower, more deliberate. Acceptable. Peter had already scanned the shelves and confirmed the methanol was isolated for proper disposal, cross-contaminated now and useless for anything else.

The intern was showing promise. Capable of the job, just nervous. It wouldn't be the first time Peter had moved someone to a different department because they couldn't handle the lab's precision requirements or had lied on their credentials. 

He hated the paperwork involved with moving someone, the endless forms and justification letters. He was glad this was just simple nerves.

Peter shifted his focus back to the console.

Then the tingle along his neck returned, stronger this time. Muscles tightened automatically. Shoulders rolled back. Weight shifted to the balls of his feet. Breathing slowed without thinking. Preparation layering over awareness.

Something was coming. He just didn't know what yet.

Blinking sharply, he forced himself to recalibrate. The lab lights seemed fractionally brighter. The hum slightly louder. Or maybe that was him.

Ned's voice droned on in the comm speaker, teasing and nervous. "...and then I was like, okay, maybe it's nothing, but you know how these things are—I didn't want to freak you out, but... well, anyway..."

Peter's senses swept the lab. The centrifuge had finished its cycle. The incubator ticked precisely. Airflow shifted slightly near the vents. He caught the faint metallic tang again—still there, still wrong. Every detail, every micro-change, all cataloged, analyzed, accounted for. The danger wasn't in the lab.

"...so yeah." Ned's voice sharpened, pulling Peter back. "...Westcott's back in town."

Peter froze for a fraction of a second. His pulse picked up—not panic, never panic, but something adjacent. Something that lived in the same neighborhood.

With barely a glance at Julian, Peter stepped out of the lab and redirected the call from his earpiece to his phone. The hallway was empty, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, the faint chemical tang of cleaning solution lingering from the overnight crew.

Despite the tingle along his neck and the low hum under his skin, his voice came out calm. Years of talking down frightened civilians as Spider-Man had taught him that tone well—the one that said I'm in control here, you can breathe now.

"You saw him? When? And why?"

Ned hesitated. A long pause that made Peter want to drum his fingers against something, release the tension building in his forearms. When Ned spoke again, he sounded like he was debating whether to tell the truth or stall.

Finally, he exhaled audibly. "I saw him... near your place."

Peter's shoulders tensed for a split second, then released slightly. Relief and irritation warred in equal measure. Ned hurried on, as if sensing the pause. "Not your aunt's. Your new place. The one you moved into last month."

Peter let out a short, measured sigh. That was both good and bad. Good because it meant Westcott probably didn't know where May lived. Bad because his new place was in a private neighborhood, address buried behind layers of digital misdirection and carefully crafted paper trails. This wasn't random. This was stalking.

Peter ran a hand over his face, pressing his thumb against the bridge of his nose. Every instinct screamed caution, but he couldn't shut off the logical side either. "How long has he been there? How do you even know?" His voice was lower now, more clipped.

Ned let out a sheepish laugh. "Okay, so. Remember when you told me about him in high school? Well... I may or may not have tinkered with a completely legal tracking thing. Facial recognition, alerts if he popped up on your usual locations or frequencies. I don't even know why I had it—it was leftover from a hackathon—but it saved me time. That's how I saw him. He's been there. Or around. Close-ish."

Peter pinched the bridge of his nose, forcing a slow breath. "Okay, Ned. Slow down. I'm not mad about the software. Just... tell me clearly what's going on."

Ned exhaled shakily, then rushed on. "Right. Right, sorry. So, he's back in town. Not near your aunt's, don't worry. Your new place. That's why I freaked out a bit, but I set up alerts so I could tell you right away. I wasn't sure if it was worth calling or..."

Peter let him finish, eyes scanning the empty hallway, muscles coiled lightly as the tingle at the back of his neck whispered that his senses were already picking up more than Ned realized. "Got it. Thanks, Ned. Keep your alerts running, but seriously, breathe next time."

That's why he was tense. Last time he'd seen Skip, he was four, and Skip was in cuffs, being led away from the apartment where Peter had lived before his parents died. But that didn't explain his current edge; he wasn't near his apartment. He was at work.

Keeping his tone light in case he was wrong, Peter asked, "Hey, is he still near my apartment, or... gone?"

Ned let out a low, confused noise, and Peter felt his chest tighten. He knew that if he was there with him, Ned's scent would shift to that sharp, burning-plastic edge over his usual soft sandalwood-and-new-plastic mix.

"Yeah, he's still there," Ned said slowly. "But now he seems to be staring at the camera. Like he knows I'm watching him."

Peter felt his hackles rise further, the urge to protect his best friend flaring hot behind his sternum. He couldn't leave, not yet. He had to keep an eye on Julian, and realistically, Skip couldn't actually do anything to him anymore. Even if he was an alpha. Even if the thought of him made something in Peter's hindbrain want to curl inward and protect.

Peter took a deep breath, letting it out slowly as he ran through a quick game plan. "Okay. As long as he isn't doing anything, leave him be. It's not like the police would do anything—there's no restraining order. because, well, you know, my parents are dead and May doesn’t know."

He realized he'd left Julian alone for about ten minutes. "Hey, I need to get back to the lab, but text me if anything changes, okay?"

He flexed his knuckles before adding, "And Ned?" He waited for a hum. "Thanks for looking out for me. I don't know what I'd do without you."

"Of course, dude. I know you'd do the same for me. And hey." Ned's tone firmed, almost daring him to argue. "If it makes you feel safer, you can always crash at mine or MJ's place. You know that."

Peter could have tried to argue, listing all the reasons it was a bad idea. But he was too wound up, keyed into the edge of his own senses, to do more than respond with the words Ned needed to hear. "Of course. Love you, man." He meant it in that careful, contained way he reserved for Ned. He didn't know why he'd become so emotionally stunted in his twenties, but he had—and he had learned to adapt to what others needed from him.

He also knew he wouldn't take the offer. It was too risky to put his friends in danger, and he needed the freedom to patrol, to keep moving, to stay one step ahead of everything that hunted him.

Ned let out a quiet laugh, warm and grounding, and said goodbye. Peter hung up and turned back toward the lab, the familiar weight of vigilance settling over him again.

The rest of the workday ran smoothly. Julian had done well after the initial mistake, his movements growing more confident as the hours passed. By the time the lab started to quiet down, Peter felt a small sense of accomplishment. Another day done, another system stable.

He was in the middle of wiping down his station and packing up when his phone buzzed. Ned's name lit the screen.

Peter read the message quickly: Skip had left his property but had been spotted entering an apartment building just ten minutes away from Peter's place.

The spike of adrenaline that had rattled him earlier returned faintly, but his senses, which had begun to settle after the lab day, stayed on a low hum. The tingle along the back of his neck had faded, and his pulse was back to normal, which meant the immediate threat had moved out of his vicinity. Still, the edge of unease remained.

Peter leaned back for a moment, mapping the area around his apartment. Skip being that close, even if not on his property, meant he couldn't let his guard down once he left Oscorp, nearly a thirty-minute drive from home. He flexed his fingers, letting himself run through logistics: routes, exits, vantage points, likely blind spots someone watching might exploit.

He sent a brief acknowledgment to Ned: Thanks for the heads-up. I've got it under control. Then, after one last scan of the lab and confirmation that everything was stable and Julian's station was orderly, he slung his bag over his shoulder and stepped toward the exit.

The city outside was already dimming into evening, the streets busy with cars and people. He considered swinging through the streets himself—faster, cleaner, more direct—but after the adrenaline spike earlier, navigating traffic didn't seem worth it. Pulling out his phone, he requested a taxi, letting the driver handle the road while he focused on easing his senses back toward normal.

Settling into the back seat, he watched the city lights blur past the window, neon and brake lights smearing into streaks of red and gold against the glass. His posture was still tense, shoulders drawn high, fingers twitching against his knees—but with every block they passed, it eased by degrees. Home wasn't far. Four turns. Two lights. A straight shot down his street.

For tonight, that had to be enough.

It wasn't.

He knew it the second he stepped through the front doors.

The air felt wrong. His instincts didn't just stir—they spiked, a sharp jolt up his spine like a warning bite. The lobby was quiet, the lights steady, plumbing rattling somewhere in the walls. None of it explained the reaction.

But his body wasn't wrong.

Someone was here.

He kept walking, forcing his pace to stay measured. Casual. Unhurried. If anyone was watching, he couldn't tip them off. The elevator was too slow—too enclosed, too easy to trap—so he took the stairs, feet silent against concrete. Each landing sharpened the sensation rather than dulled it. By the time he reached his floor, his heartbeat had evened out. Not from calm. From focus.

The hallway was empty.

Still, the warning thrummed.

He approached his door without a sound, keys already palmed but unused. He didn't need to unlock anything to know.

There was someone inside his apartment.

He could hear them.

Not subtle shifting or careful movement. Not the cautious tread of someone trying not to be caught. Whoever it was moved with careless confidence—floorboards creaking under full weight, the dull thud of something set down too hard on the kitchen counter. A cabinet door opened. 

Closed.

Opened again.

They weren't trying to be quiet.

Which meant one of two things: they were cocky, or they didn't expect him home.

His jaw tightened.

Either Skip had slipped into the building without tripping the cameras, or he'd sent someone in his place. Ned's text echoed in his mind—ten minutes away by car. Close enough to watch. Close enough to act.

Stealth wouldn't have mattered much anyway. Even by normal standards, the intruder was loud. To Peter, it was practically a broadcast.

He drew in a slow breath and let it out carefully.

Shifting his weight beside the door, he filtered through the noise. One set of footsteps. Adult. Male, judging by cadence and weight. Moving between the living room and kitchen. No second heartbeat. No hushed conversation.

Alone.

Peter flexed his fingers once, small and deliberate. The tension that had simmered all day hardened into something colder. More precise.

Whoever had walked into his apartment had made a mistake.

He tested the doorknob.

It turned easily.

Of course it did.

No splintered frame. No warped hinges. The lock hadn't been forced. Either it had been picked cleanly, they had a key, or they'd come in another way and unlocked it from inside. The implication was intentional.

They weren't worried about him calling the police. They were counting on him not to.

Peter steadied himself in the quiet hallway, mapping the apartment through vibration and sound alone. Kitchen. Living room. Back again. Drawers sliding open. Metal scraping against wood. Glass touching countertop with unnecessary force.

Deliberate noise.

Deliberate presence.

This wasn't a random hire.

It was Skip.

The unlocked door. The careless pacing. Skip had proven earlier that he knew where cameras were—he'd avoided them easily. He would know; he'd done it every night during those six months, moving through the apartment’s shadows like he owned them.

If Skip wanted to stay hidden, Peter wouldn't have known he was here until it was far too late if he wasn’t enhanced.

But this wasn't about breaking in unseen. It was about being noticed. A message.

The kind that lingered. That whispered, I can reach you anywhere. The kind meant to erode certainty, to make walls feel thin and locks feel useless.

Peter's jaw set.

Skip had overlooked one critical detail.

The walls might muffle sound for anyone else—

—but not enough to hide a heartbeat.

Peter focused past the heavy footfalls and careless rummaging. There. Steady. Elevated, but controlled. Adrenaline humming just beneath the surface.

Not fear.

Anticipation.

The spider-sense pulsed again, sharper now—not warning of immediate impact, but of intent. Of escalation waiting to happen.

Peter rolled his shoulders once, then let his breathing fall into sync with the rhythm inside the apartment. Calm. Measured. Ready.

If this was meant to be a game, Skip had just put himself on Peter's board.

Peter didn't move right away.

He listened.

Inside, a drawer slid shut with a sharp knock. Footsteps crossed the living room—slow, unhurried—then angled back toward the kitchen. The faint scrape of a chair leg against tile. The subtle shift of weight as someone leaned against the counter.

Peter waited for the rhythm to change.

He needed Skip positioned where he'd have the least leverage—back turned, limited sightlines, fewer angles to lunge from. In the kitchen, the counters would box him in. The narrow entry would favor speed over brute force.

Another cabinet door opened.

Ceramic clinked softly.

There.

Peter felt the moment settle—the precise alignment of posture and space. Skip's heartbeat angled away from the door. His steps were stationary now, attention focused inward.

Control reduced.

Peter turned the handle fully.

Slowly.

The latch gave without a click. He eased the door open just enough to slip through, shoulders angled to minimize the gap. The hallway light didn't spill inside; he kept the opening narrow, deliberate.

He stepped in without a sound and guided the door shut behind him, letting it seal with a soft, controlled press instead of a snap.

The modest apartment felt smaller now.

Skip was still in the kitchen, back partially turned, unaware.

For the first time since entering the building, Peter allowed himself a thin, humorless breath.

Now the situation was his.

Peter didn't let that confidence make him careless.

He swept the apartment with more than just his eyes. Sound. Air displacement. The faintest disturbances in scent and dust. It was impossible to know how long Skip had been inside—five minutes, twenty—but he hadn't made full use of the time.

The air told on him.

The kitchen and living room carried the sharp tang of movement—circulated air, displaced dust, the faint chemical bite of whatever cologne Skip wore. But farther down the short hallway toward Peter's bedroom and bathroom, the space felt still. Settled. The thin layer of dust along the baseboards remained undisturbed. No scuff marks. No shifted airflow.

Skip hadn't explored.

He hadn't needed to.

This wasn't reconnaissance.

It was theater.

Peter stayed near the door for half a breath longer, confirming it—one heartbeat, steady and elevated, positioned by the kitchen counter.

Just Skip being casual and confident.

Peter moved forward at last, steps silent against the floor. He kept to the edge of the wall, minimizing his silhouette, letting the ambient city light from the windows work in his favor. Skip was angled toward the counter, one hand braced against it, head tilted slightly as if studying something Peter couldn't see from this angle.

Still unaware.

Peter's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. Skip had wanted to be felt.

Now he was about to be found.

Ensuring his steps stayed silent, Peter moved down the narrow stretch of hallway and stopped at the entrance to the kitchen. He didn't announce himself. Didn't shift the air more than necessary. He simply leaned one shoulder against the frame, arms loosely crossed in front of his chest, and waited.

If Skip wanted a reaction, he was going to have to earn it.

For a moment, nothing changed. Skip continued rifling through something on the counter—papers of some sort, either something he'd brought or found somewhere.

Then—

A hitch.

Subtle. Instinctive.

As if some buried part of him realized the room wasn't empty anymore.

Skip turned sharply, shoulders jerking before he could smooth it out. His back hit the counter as he pivoted, palms bracing behind him in what might have passed for casual if it weren't half a second too fast.

He tried to play it off.

It didn't work.

His expression settled into something loose and unimpressed, like he'd expected Peter all along. But his body betrayed him. His heartbeat spiked the instant their eyes met—fast, hard, scrambling before it gradually tried to level out.

Too late.

Peter heard it.

If he focused, he was sure he'd catch the shift in scent too—the faint sour edge bleeding through whatever cheap blockers Skip had layered on. Artificial spice and synthetic musk couldn't fully mask adrenaline.

Calm exterior.

Rattled interior.

Peter didn't straighten from the doorway. Didn't step further in. He just watched him, head tilted slightly, gaze steady and unreadable.

Skip had wanted to be felt.

Now he was seen.

But Peter wasn't going to give him anything to build on.

No anger. No shouting. No why are you here? Just silence—steady and deliberate.

If Skip wanted conversation, he could start it.

Peter stayed where he was, shoulder against the frame, expression neutral. Not tense. Not relaxed. Just present. Watching.

The quiet stretched.

At first, Skip held his composure. Chin tipped slightly up. Mouth curved like he was in on a private joke. But the longer Peter refused to fill the space, the more the cracks began to show.

His fingers tightened against the edge of the counter.

His weight shifted.

And when he finally spoke—"You're home early."—there was a faint tremor beneath the words. A subtle vibrato that hadn't been there before.

He hadn't expected this.

He'd expected yelling. Accusations. Maybe even fear.

Not silence. Not this measured, unnerving stillness.

Peter let the words hang between them, offering nothing back. Not even a raised brow.

Skip's heartbeat ticked up again, uneven now. Searching for footing.

It seemed to dawn on him, slowly, that the reaction he'd come here to provoke wasn't coming.

The silence settled again—thick, deliberate.

Peter let it stretch just long enough to become uncomfortable.

Then, almost lazily, he spoke.

"I'm not," he said evenly. "But that doesn't explain why you're here." His head tilted a fraction. "Is there something you wanted, Skip? Please be quick. Your blockers are pathetic, and you're starting to stink up my place."

The words were mild.

The delivery wasn't.

Skip's jaw tightened before he could stop it. The artificial scent hanging in the kitchen—cheap synthetic spice meant to mask pheromones—had already begun to sour. Peter didn't even need to focus hard to catch it now. The adrenaline underneath was sharper. Bitter.

Was Peter playing this safe?

Not particularly.

Did it matter?

Not really.

If Skip so much as looked in the direction of his friends, Peter had options. People who operated in shades far darker than red and blue. He was fairly certain Wade would consider it a personal hobby to remove the problem permanently—especially given Skip's... preferences in sexual partners.

Not that Peter would ever make that call.

Spider-Man didn't kill.

Everyone knew that.

Which meant Skip was still standing in his kitchen.

Still breathing.

Still under the very dangerous impression that he had control of this situation and Peter was a normal civilian.

Plus, if Skip were to suddenly disappear, Peter had no doubt there were contingency plans in place—carefully laid threads that would tug in his direction. Nothing airtight. Nothing that would stick. But enough to be inconvenient. Enough to waste time.

And time was not something Peter liked surrendering.

Before either of them could continue, his phone rang.

Sharp. Distinct.

Peter didn't need to check the screen to know who it was. Aunt May had her own ringtone—set deliberately, years ago, after too many near misses and too many close calls. It cut clean through every other notification.

They didn't talk often anymore.

Not unless something was wrong.

The sound didn't change his expression, but something inside him tightened.

Casually—pointedly—he reached into his back pocket to decline the call. He didn't break eye contact. Didn't shift his stance from the doorway.

The message was clear.

You are not the priority.

Skip reacted before he could stop himself.

He stepped forward abruptly, movement sharp and poorly contained, fists clenching at his sides. The frustration rolled off him in a spike—heartbeat jumping, breath shortening.

Being ignored bothered him more than the insult had.

Peter's gaze flicked briefly to the movement, then back to Skip's face, unimpressed.

The phone continued to ring between them.

As he was about to hit decline, Skip spoke up, his voice sharper and more confident than his posture suggested. "Pick up the call from your aunt. She has something she wants to tell you."

For the first time since this encounter, Peter's brow furrowed in skepticism. "And why would you know that?" His tone was tight.

Skip's voice practically vibrated with excitement. "Just trust me—pick it up. You really want to hear this."

Peter's gaze narrowed. Whatever was coming, Skip clearly thought it mattered—or at least that it would get under his skin. He didn't like the sound of it.

He had no choice. If Skip knew it was his aunt calling, then that meant he'd likely already interacted with her—or at least learned something about her.

Peter could handle the physical threat Skip posed, but he couldn't predict the moves Skip had already set in motion. Psychopaths with a flair for planning didn't follow logic unless it served their motives—and outside of getting to Peter, Skip's motives were unpredictable.

He could have endangered May, or set something up perfectly timed with his arrival. A glance at the clock confirmed it: ten minutes past the time he normally got home, even with traffic accounted for.

The faint hum of the apartment's ventilation seemed louder all of a sudden, accentuating the small creaks of the floorboards beneath Skip's feet. The pale glow of streetlights through the blinds cast long, jagged shadows across the living room, highlighting the scattered furniture and the faint glint of utensils in the kitchen. Even the dull tick of the wall clock seemed amplified. Every minor sound threaded itself into Peter's awareness.

With a slow, controlled inhale, Peter swiped his thumb from decline to accept and pressed the phone to his ear. Skip's eyes flicked to him, and for the first time since this encounter, his posture shifted. He widened his stance, planting his feet firmly on the linoleum, and crossed his arms over his chest. A smirk curved his lips as he leaned slightly back, as if the shadows and clutter around him now belonged to him. He clearly liked that Peter had followed his direction.

Peter's jaw tightened. Skip didn't get to eavesdrop—no matter how much he tried to orchestrate the situation. The faint scent of his own coffee from earlier still lingered in the kitchen, mingling with the sharper metallic tang of recently cleaned countertops, but Peter barely registered it. His senses were tuned entirely to Skip, to the space between them, to the subtle shift of energy that told him this wasn't just about a scare—this was Skip staking ground, showing he could manipulate not only space but time.

That Peter was predictable to him despite only recently getting out of prison.

When the call connected, Peter could tell that May was fine, if not a bit drunk off the wine she liked if the slight slur of her words was anything to go by. "Peter! You'll never guess who I met today!"

Peter could feel the dread pooling low in his stomach, spreading outward in slow, suffocating waves. It took effort—real effort—to force brightness into his voice.

"Oh? Who?" he asked lightly, as if this were casual. As if Skip wasn't standing ten feet away, arms crossed, watching him like this was the payoff.

On the other end, May let out a shrill little giggle. He could hear the television in the background—some sitcom laugh track swelling at the wrong moment, dishes clinking faintly like she'd set something down on the coffee table.

"Skip Westcott!" she chirped. "Your old babysitter, apparently! I had the day off today, so I went shopping, and he was such a lovely gentleman—helped me grab something from the top shelf."

Peter's throat felt dry.

He kept his eyes on Skip.

Skip's smirk deepened.

Peter forced a tired huff, something between amusement and disbelief. "Oh. And how did you find out he was my old babysitter? We lost contact after..." He trailed off deliberately, brow furrowing as though searching his memory instead of carefully choosing words that wouldn't escalate the man in his kitchen. "After he moved?"

May hummed thoughtfully. "Yes! But he mentioned he'd heard you were living nearby and wanted to reconnect since he's moving back for a job opportunity. Isn't that sweet?"

Sweet.

Peter's free hand curled into his shirt at his side, knuckles whitening against the fabric.

"Right," he said carefully. "And you gave him my address, I assume?"

There was a sheepish pause, followed by a soft laugh. "Well... yes. But he promised he'd only come by after work! And he asked if I could call you beforehand so you wouldn't be startled. He didn't want to accidentally scare you, especially with your recent rise in the science community. He said you might have people showing up unexpectedly these days."

Peter's jaw tightened.

Of course he'd framed it that way.

May's tone shifted, teasing now. "Plus," she added, lowering her voice like she was sharing a secret, "he's an alpha, you're an omega, and you already know each other. He even had the cutest nickname for you mister ‘Einstein’."

The world narrowed.

The nickname hit like ice water down his spine.

He hadn't heard it in years. He avoided it. Avoided the name entirely, even while studying the very theories attached to it. Hearing it now—casual, fond—felt wrong. Intimate in a way that scraped at old scars.

His breath hitched before he could stop it.

And then—

Movement.

Peter's focus snapped back just as Skip closed the distance between them. Too fast. Too confident.

Before Peter could react without exposing too much, Skip's hand slid smoothly over his, fingers brushing his wrist as he took the phone and toggled the speaker on.

The small click was deafening in the quiet apartment.

"Hello again, May," Skip said easily, voice warm and polished. "He just let me in. So sorry to intrude. Peter put you on speaker, by the way."

His eyes flicked to Peter, smirk darkening—daring him to contradict it.

Peter held his stare.

There was a delighted gasp from the other end. "Oh! Well, hello again, dear. I hope I didn't interrupt anything."

"Not at all," Skip replied smoothly. "I just got here. If anything, I'm interrupting you."

Peter stepped closer, slow and deliberate, until he was within arm's reach again. He didn't look at the phone—he looked at Skip.

"May," Peter cut in evenly, reclaiming the space without touching the device. "Is it okay if we talk later? I want to help Skip settle in while we..." He paused, grimacing. "Catch up."

A beat of silence.

Then May laughed softly. "Of course, honey. I'm glad I could reconnect you two. Be nice to each other."

"I always am," Skip murmured.

Peter didn't blink.

"I'll call you later," Peter said firmly.

"Alright. Love you."

"Love you too."

The call ended. The apartment fell quiet again. Skip lowered the phone slowly, smirk still in place, holding it like a trophy.

Peter didn't move. He stayed pressed against the archway connecting the kitchen to the living room, every muscle coiled but relaxed enough to pivot. He felt the slight give of the hardwood beneath his feet, the faint hum of the ventilation, and every micro-vibration Skip made as he lingered near the counter.

Skip's posture was casual, but Peter's senses detected the tension beneath it: subtle weight shifts, a quickening pulse, the faint sour edge in his artificial scent. He wasn't trying to hide; he was baiting.

"Relax, Peter," Skip drawled, voice smooth, just loud enough to slice through the silence. "I didn't come here to ruin your day. I just wanted to... reconnect."

Peter's jaw tightened. "Reconnect," he echoed evenly, letting the word hang. "By breaking into my apartment?"

Skip chuckled softly, brushing his fingers over the countertop, making the metal clink. "You wound me. I'd say I'm hurt, but it's more fun this way. Seeing you tense, all…” he flicked his eyes up and down Peter, assessing him, “frustrated."

Peter didn't respond. His eyes swept the room, mapping every corner, every angle, every shadow. Skip's gaze flicked to the archway, back to Peter, lingering with a smirk that didn't quite reach his eyes.

"You know," Skip continued, stepping slightly closer, "you always were a clever one. Smart little Peter Parker. Mr. Einstein. Still hiding behind your books, I see."

Peter's free hand curled into his side, knuckles pressing against his shirt. He didn't flinch. Didn't answer. He just let Skip reveal himself, let him lay bare the arrogance he knew so well.

"Funny thing," Skip said, tilting his head, "I always liked that you thought you were untouchable. Science whiz, hyper-aware, a scrawny boy who thinks he can outpace everyone. I've waited a long time to see if you still were."

Peter's hyper-aware senses flared: the subtle scrape of Skip's sneaker on the tile, the micro-shift in posture as he moved closer, the faint metallic tang in the air that wasn't there before. Every second measured, every vibration cataloged.

"And now?" Skip took another step, smirking. "Now you're home early, all alone... with me." He let the pause linger, letting the threat hang between them like a drawn bowstring. "You're supposed to be scared. But I don't see it. Not really."

Peter's eyes narrowed, the faintest twitch at the corner of his jaw. "I'm not," he said again, his tone the same as he said it the first time. "But that doesn't explain why you're here."

Skip leaned against the counter, smirk widening. "Oh, I think it's obvious. Curiosity. A little old... nostalgia. Or maybe I just enjoy watching you squirm. Your body isn't the only thing I know how to manipulate."

The smirk was a dare. The tension thickened. Peter felt the subtle shift in Skip's center of gravity; the preparation for a move, for an attack. He didn't move yet. He let Skip take that next step, calculating the exact moment.

Peter shifted so his back was leaning against the door, an air of casualness present. Like Skip wasn't a threat in his territory.

Skip's grin faltered slightly when Peter didn't cower from his implied threat. "Not going to make it easy for me, huh?" he said, voice tight with the first real hint of irritation.

Peter's gaze flicked toward the fire escape in the living room, mentally mapping the path, calculating the angles, the counters, the narrow walkway. Then back to Skip. "No," he said quietly. "You'll have to work for it yourself."

Skip's eyes sharpened, and for a heartbeat the apartment seemed suspended in anticipation. Then he lunged, throwing the phone like it could be a weapon. Peter didn't panic—he simply sidestepped, letting Skip's momentum carry him slightly past the door into the living room. The scrape of sneakers against tile vibrated faintly under Peter's heightened awareness.

"You've gotten slow, Peter," Skip taunted, recovering mid-step, his grin sharp and predatory. "All that time in your little lab—how's it feel to be outmatched?"

Peter's eyes narrowed, catching the subtle shift in Skip's weight as he prepared to strike again. "Outmatched?" he said evenly, almost conversational. "I wouldn't bet on it. I mean, you lunged first and weren't even close to touching me." Peter smirked darkly. "And I haven't even moved from the door frame."

Skip growled and swung, elbowing toward Peter's ribs. Peter pivoted against the doorframe, twisting his torso to absorb the strike without letting it land fully. The thud of impact reverberated through his bones, a small sting, but nothing that slowed him.

"You still think hiding behind witty remarks makes you tough," Skip sneered, launching a feint toward Peter's shoulder. Peter caught the movement mid-air, letting his enhanced reflexes slide Skip's wrist aside. Skip's hand smacked onto the wall as he stumbled back into the kitchen, regaining footing.

Peter's senses cataloged everything: Skip's heartbeat spiking, the sour stench of his pheromones now openly circulating the air, the way his weight shifted with every overconfident step. The kitchen was tight, perfect for controlling movement—but the living room opened toward the fire escape. That was Skip's entrance strategy. Now it was going to be his exit too.

"I like seeing you tense," Skip said, breath quickening, voice low. "You always were easy to read. A little bit of fear, a little bit of... frustration," Skip leered, "if you know what I mean."

Peter let his gaze flick to the fire escape, then back, letting a slow smirk curve his lips. "You’ve said that already and I'm not scared," he said, voice calm, deliberate. "But I am done with you."

He pushed off the doorframe, closing the space between them in a heartbeat. Skip raised a fist, swinging wildly. Peter ducked, the punch grazing the air above him. In a single motion, he twisted behind Skip, pressing his shoulder against the small of his back and forcing him further into the counter. Skip grunted, elbowing back reflexively. Peter's enhanced senses caught the faint shift in momentum before it fully landed, letting him absorb it without strain.

"You're predictable," Skip hissed, pushing back with a kick. Peter sidestepped, letting the force carry Skip off balance. The man staggered toward the archway, eyes flicking to Peter, a brief glimmer of doubt crossing his features.

Peter didn't hesitate. He stepped in, using a quick, precise shove to send Skip stumbling through the open doorway into the living room. Skip tried to pivot, but Peter's control of the small space left him no room. He pressed forward, keeping the fight contained, driving Skip toward the fire escape.

"You really think you can stop me? You're an omega—the bottom of the pack." Skip growled, twisting sharply to swing at Peter but missing.

A final push sent Skip teetering against the window. Skip froze a fraction too long, smirk fading as he realized Peter had mapped the entire fight.

"Get out, I won’t say it again." Peter said quietly, voice low and steady.

Skip cursed under his breath, yanking the window open. The window groaned faintly under his weight as he balanced on the narrow sill.

He waved mockingly. "Tell Ned and MJ I said hello," he called. Then he dropped onto the fire escape, disappearing into the night.

Peter exhaled slowly, muscles still coiled, senses humming. The apartment was quiet again.

He scanned the room once more, still alert. Skip had left—but now Peter knew the man's capabilities, his style, his audacity.

He also knew that he would be back.

Peter sucked in a calming breath before immediately doubling over and coughing at the nauseating stench of Skip's cheap cologne, blocker, and rancid scent.

Peter needed to get out of here and let his apartment air out.

The thought landed with quiet certainty as he stood in the silence Skip left behind. The space already felt different—contaminated in ways that went beyond the lingering sour of adrenaline and cheap cologne. Skip had breathed here. Touched things. Stood in his kitchen like he belonged there.

Mechanically, Peter's fingers found the lock without looking, thumb pressing until it clicked home. The sound was small but final. A seal reestablished.

Then he moved to his bedroom.

The contrast hit him the way it always did—a quiet exhale after noise. His childhood room had been chaos contained: textbooks stacked in leaning towers, half-finished gadgets spilling across every surface, clothes pushed into corners because closets required effort he hadn't had. May used to stand in his doorway with that particular expression—fondness fighting exasperation—and ask if he was running a laboratory or a disaster zone.

This room was neither.

The shelves over his desk held Legos he'd actually finished. The Millennium Falcon. The Daily Bugle building. A custom build of the Stark Industries tower that he'd modified before he stopped letting himself think about why that felt important. Each one sat exactly where he'd placed it, undisturbed for months, dusted weekly whether they needed it or not.

His bed was in the corner—pushed against two walls like an anchor point, dark sheets pulled tight enough to pass a military inspection. No wrinkles. No pillow indent. No evidence anyone actually slept there.

The posters broke up the neutral walls at measured intervals. Captain America's shield, pre-Winter Soldier revelations. An Iron Man schematic from an early suit model. A Doctor Strange poster from when he first joined the Avengers. A black and white shot of the original six, back when that meant something simpler. Retro. Almost academic. Like artifacts from someone else's life.

Peter stood in the center and took inventory.

Everything was in its place.

Everything was clean.

Everything was quiet.

Peter had learned, somewhere in the years between fourteen and now, that if you made yourself and your space look like they belonged to someone who had their life together, people stopped asking questions. May stopped hovering. Coworkers stopped checking in. The world saw neat shelves and tight sheets and moved on.

He ran a hand over the edge of his desk, feeling the grain catch against his palm. The Legos didn't shift. The posters didn't flutter. The room absorbed his presence and gave nothing back.

Somewhere in the back of his skull, his senses still hummed—lower now, settling toward baseline, but not quiet. Never fully quiet. They'd cataloged Skip's heartbeat, his scent, the precise weight of his footsteps across the kitchen tile. Filed it away for future reference. Added it to the permanent archive of threats that existed in the margins of Peter's awareness.

He should change the locks.

He should call Ned back and let him know what happened.

The thought surfaced and submerged in the same breath. Later. He'd call later, when he had words that wouldn't make Ned panic, when he could frame it as under control instead of I walked into my apartment and found him waiting.

Instead, he stood in his neat, quiet room and let himself breathe for exactly three seconds. Chest expanding. Diaphragm releasing. The slow, deliberate rhythm of someone who'd learned that panic was a luxury he couldn't afford.

Then he moved.

The closet door slid open on silent tracks. His bag was where it always was—tucked behind his winter coat, within reach but out of sight. He pulled it out, unzipped it without looking, and his fingers found the suit before his brain caught up.

Spider-Man stared back at him from the folds of dark fabric. The lenses. The pattern. The weight of it between his hands.

Peter changed quickly, efficiently, the way he'd done a thousand times before. The suit settled against his skin like a second layer of awareness—lighter than it should be, warmer than the room, familiar in ways that transcended memory. His original clothes went back on over top, hiding everything, returning him to the shape of an ordinary man leaving his apartment at night.

Skip would try again.

The certainty settled into his chest alongside his heartbeat. Skip was the kind of threat that didn't know when to stop. That was the point. Men like Skip didn't take hints or read rooms or understand that no was a complete sentence. They circled back. They found new angles. They waited.

Which meant Peter couldn't stop either. Couldn't slow down. Couldn't let the neat room and the dark sheets fool him into thinking he was safe.

He zipped the bag—nearly empty now, just the mask pressing against the fabric from inside—and slung it over his shoulder. One last look at the room he'd built to convince everyone he was fine.

The room stared back at him. Empty and orderly and utterly unconvincing.

Peter turned off the light and left.

He needed to patrol. Not because Skip was still out there—though he probably was—but because Skip wasn't the only threat in a city this size. Men like him never were. They multiplied. They found each other. They built networks of harm that spiderwebbed across neighborhoods, and somewhere tonight, some kid was lying awake hoping no one opened their bedroom door.

Peter couldn't stop all of them.

But he could make them work for it.

The kitchen was dark when he passed through, but he didn't need light to find what he needed. Protein bars lived in the second drawer to the left of the sink, stacked in neat rows because organization was another form of control. He grabbed one, unwrapped it as he moved, finished it in three bites that registered as fuel rather than food.

Then the door. The lock. The solid click of deadbolt engaging behind him.

The hallway was empty. The stairwell was empty. The street was full of people who didn't look twice at a man in a hoodie walking toward an alley.

Peter slipped into the shadows between buildings, let the bag fall from his shoulder, and pulled the mask over his face.

The city opened around him.

Sounds sharpened. Scents separated. The weight of gravity became more suggestion than law.

Peter flexed his fingers against the night air and felt the familiar hum settle behind his sternum—that low, electric awareness that had lived inside him ever since the bite. It wasn't adrenaline. It wasn't fear. It was something steadier. Something constant.

Home.

He shot a web toward the nearest fire escape and let the city pull him upward.

The line caught with a sharp thwip, tension snapping through his arm, and then he was airborne—body arcing, shoulder rotating smoothly as momentum carried him forward. The first swing was always the adjustment: recalibrating to wind speed, calculating distance, mapping rooftops without consciously meaning to.

Ever since the spider bite—and later, the careful engineering of his web-slingers—Peter had found swinging therapeutic in a way nothing else quite matched. Maybe it was the rhythm of it. The rocking motion. The controlled pendulum through open air.

Or maybe it was simpler than that.

Up here, he was in control.

In his civilian life, control was an illusion—schedules, expectations, hidden truths stacked like fragile glass. But in the air? Every angle, every anchor point, every landing was his decision. Physics bent around him like something cooperative instead of restrictive.

He thrived on that.

With his senses spread wide, Queens unfolded in layers beneath him. Car engines idling three blocks over. The metallic tang of subway brakes somewhere underground. The distant sweetness of street vendor sugar drifting faintly on cooler air. Footsteps, laughter, a dog barking from an open window.

Nothing sharp. Nothing urgent.

No gunpowder.

No shattering glass.

No rising heart rates in panicked clusters.

It was going to be a quiet night.

Peter adjusted mid-swing, flipping cleanly over a rooftop edge before launching himself again. The motion settled into something automatic, almost meditative. Casual patrol. Small rescues. Helping someone locked out. Retrieving a dropped wallet from a gutter. Redirecting a drunk college kid away from a bad decision.

He would be lying if he said he wasn't grateful for the break.

Two hours passed like that—measured in arcs and rooftops and steady breathing—when the comm embedded near his collarbone crackled violently to life.

The sound was wrong.

Too sudden. Too loud. Too familiar.

Peter's entire body reacted before his brain did. His next webline angled slightly off as muscle memory compensated for the jolt.

The comm hadn't activated in two years.

Static hissed in his ear.

Then—

"Spider-Man."

The voice was filtered, professional, unmistakably controlled.

Tony Stark.

One of the very few alphas capable of sending Peter's senses into overdrive simply by stepping into the same room.

"We need you at Roosevelt Island. Immediately."

The night shifted.

Peter didn't slow, but the city felt different now. The quiet no longer read as peaceful. It felt suspended. Like the air itself was holding its breath.

His jaw tightened beneath the mask.

"Define 'need,'" he replied, voice level despite the sharp spike in his pulse.

A pause answered him—brief, but weighted. The kind that meant multiple people were listening. Measuring his tone. Measuring him.

"It's not optional."

The hum behind his sternum sharpened into something thinner. Tighter.

Roosevelt Island.

Isolated. Controlled access. Long, open sightlines along the waterfront.

Not a civilian emergency.

He'd passed over the southern tip less than five minutes ago. No adrenaline spikes. No clustering distress. No chemical bloom of fear thickening the air.

His senses were rarely wrong.

This wasn't about the public.

This was about him.

A meeting. Or an intervention.

Peter released one webline early and fired another higher, adjusting his arc toward the East River. Wind shear coming off the water was colder tonight, cutting sideways instead of clean across. He compensated automatically, shaving seconds off his route without conscious thought.

His senses stretched wider now, probing the skyline ahead. Searching for unfamiliar metal signatures. Tracking heartbeats that ran too steady to belong to civilians.

The easy rhythm was gone.

Swinging no longer felt like a pendulum. It felt like a countdown.

Gravity pressed heavier against his limbs, no longer a suggestion but a reminder.

And for the first time that night, Peter couldn't tell if he was heading toward a conversation—

—or walking straight into a confrontation he'd known was coming.

Afterall, S.H.I.E.L.D., whether it was officially active or not, had never been subtle when they were watching someone. Subtlety implied courtesy. S.H.I.E.L.D. preferred leverage.

And Peter had given them very little of it.

He'd never signed the Accords. Not the original version. Not the revisions. Not the polished, "less invasive" drafts that came later.

He preferred his anatomy intact.

The first iteration would have required full biological disclosure—genetic mapping, medical scans, invasive documentation of enhancements. Oversight framed as safety. Compliance framed as patriotism.

Peter had read the fine print.

He'd also built half the tech they would've needed to track him.

After that, he'd made sure being hard to find wasn't just a precaution—it was policy.

Two years without comm activation hadn't been an accident.

If they were calling him now, if Tony was using that tone, it meant one of two things:

They'd finally decided to stop pretending he didn't exist.

Or something had forced their hand.

Peter swung lower over the East River, the water below reflecting fractured streaks of city light. Roosevelt Island rose ahead, dark and narrow against the current.

His pulse remained steady.

But the hum beneath his sternum wasn't calm anymore.

It was bracing.

And because of that, Peter didn't take the obvious route in.

He'd worked alongside the Avengers long enough to understand how they handled larger threats—perimeter control, predictable entry points, containment strategy. Roosevelt Island had only so many clean approaches, and the promenade would be the first place they secured.

So he chose none of them.

He cut wide over the river, dropped altitude early, and anchored to a maintenance structure on the darker western edge of the island—an access point most civilians didn't know existed and most teams wouldn't prioritize.

His senses widened to the furthest edge of what he could tolerate.

Heartbeats separated into layers. Metal densities outlined themselves in his awareness. Wind currents mapped pressure shifts along his skin.

It bordered on overload.

He welcomed it.

Peter refused to be caught off guard by the same people who had made his life infinitely more complicated simply because they couldn't agree with one another.

If this was a conversation, fine.

If it wasn't—

He would not be the one unprepared.

Peter didn't land immediately.

He crouched in shadow instead, clinging to the underside of a maintenance overhang near the western edge of the island. Concrete cool beneath his palms. River wind cutting sharp across his suit.

He closed his eyes.

And listened.

Six.

Not scattered.

Placed.

Heartbeats first—because heartbeats never lied.

One steady and restrained, slightly elevated but disciplined.

One slower, measured, almost meditative.

One sharp, hawk-quick but controlled.

One heavier, mechanical interference threading through it.

One familiar and tightly contained.

And one—

Strange.

Not a heartbeat pattern so much as a distortion. A quiet wrongness in the air itself, like space had decided to fold politely around a single point.

Peter opened his eyes.

They'd formed a wide semicircle along the southern promenade.

Deliberate spacing. Ten to fifteen feet between each of them. Enough distance to prevent him from webbing them together. Close enough to collapse inward if necessary.

Tony stood slightly forward of the others—not by much, but enough to signal center authority. The arc reactor bled faint light through the night, reflected in the river behind him. Even from this distance, Peter could feel the low mechanical hum embedded in the suit. Controlled. Ready.

To Tony's right: Steve.

Feet planted shoulder-width apart. Hands loose at his sides. Not aggressive. Not relaxed. The posture of someone prepared to either talk someone down or step in.

He also looked distinctly uncomfortable standing beside Tony.

Sam hovered a few feet off the ground behind the line, wings partially extended but not fully deployed. Air superiority. Overwatch.

Clint and Natasha weren't directly centered.

They flanked.

Clint had taken higher ground—perched on a lighting structure further back, bow not drawn but visible. Natasha stood angled slightly inward, weight distributed for movement, not confrontation. If Peter bolted, they were the interceptors.

And Strange—

Strange stood just outside the main formation, hands loosely clasped behind his back, cloak rippling softly despite the minimal wind. Not aggressive. But observant. Watching Peter's approach point without looking like he was looking.

Containment without escalation.

It was smart.

It was also insulting.

Peter cataloged angles automatically. Three seconds to reach Tony. Two to disarm Clint if he dropped low first. Sam would be the fastest to respond. Strange was the variable. No one had drawn a weapon. Yet.

He exhaled slowly and dropped from the overhang, landing lightly atop one of the promenade light posts instead of the ground. Let them adjust to him. Let them feel observed.

His mask lenses narrowed slightly as he looked over the formation.

"You said it wasn't optional," he called evenly. "So here I am."

The river wind tugged at fabric and metal alike. No one moved first.

When Peter realized they were waiting for him—to escalate, to submit, to make the first mistake—he beat them to it.

"If this is about the Accords," he said evenly, "you can forget it. I'm not signing away my autonomy because a panel of bureaucrats can't stand not being the smartest people in the room."

A flicker crossed Tony's expression—there and gone, but Peter caught it. The others shifted subtly, but no one made a move. They didn't know who he was beneath the mask—and that made him untouchable in a way they weren't used to.

It wasn't the real reason. But they didn't need the real one.

The truth was quieter. Uglier.

The Accords had outlined enhanced individuals in meticulous, invasive detail—powers cataloged, biology documented, compliance monitored. They'd never once clarified where omegas fit into that structure. Enhanced or not. Human or asset.

After all, omegas were rarely treated as either.

Peter perched lightly atop the light post, mask lenses unreadable, letting them argue with the version of him they could see.

Perhaps impatient, or maybe just trying to be sympathetic, Steve spoke up. "Spider-Man, I understand that, but every individual who uses their abilities in ways that affect the public is required to be registered. S.H.I.E.L.D. is enforcing it."

Peter let his eyes narrow behind the mask, the lenses reflecting his scrutiny. "I see you're still in Fury's pocket, Brooklyn. Does it ever get tiring, or do you still think that man cares about anything but control over others?"

Steve's jaw tightened. Not at the words—at the tone. At being called Brooklyn like they were equals, like Steve hadn't been doing this since before Peter was born. His weight shifted forward half an inch before he caught himself.

Tony's voice crackled from the edge of the plaza, sharp and clipped. "We don't need a lecture on bureaucracy, Spidy. S.H.I.E.L.D. wants answers. And we follow orders."

Peter snorted, the sound sharp in the cold night air. "Huh. So they're still operating after the whole mole situation." He pivoted mid-perch atop the light post, letting his gaze settle on Natasha with deliberate weight. "How's that working out for you, Romanov?"

Natasha didn't rise to it verbally. Her expression stayed neutral, but one shoulder angled forward almost imperceptibly, balance shifting over the balls of her feet. It was a stance built for acceleration, not defense. Clint caught the adjustment immediately; his bow lifted a fraction higher, not drawn yet, but ready. The string gave a faint, anticipatory creak.

Tony did not appreciate the jab.

"Cute," he said flatly. The arc reactor brightened beneath red and gold plating, a contained star pushing harder against its casing. "You done talking yet?"

The river wind cut sideways across the promenade, dragging scent and sound through unpredictable currents between concrete benches and metal railings. Peter felt the shift ripple through the formation before anyone consciously moved. Plaza lights hummed overhead, pale halos reflecting off cobblestone and black water beyond.

Only three alphas.

It should have thinned the pressure.

It didn't.

Tony's armor bled heat and ozone into the night, metallic and electric, irritation sharpening the air around him. Steve's presence pressed steadier and heavier—iron and cedar layered with restraint so controlled it felt engineered. Strange stood physically apart, but the space around him carried its own gravity; there was no scent at all, only magic threading the air in faint golden motes that prickled at the edges of Peter's awareness like static before a storm.

Natasha, Clint, and Sam didn't add to the dominance weight. But they did move within it, using it to their advantage, making themselves less noticeable. The density came from the center—three distinct pressures stacking and folding until they felt less separate and more cumulative.

Layered together, the signals scraped along Peter's instincts in conflicting directions—authority, challenge, assessment, containment. His pulse ticked higher despite his effort to steady it.

Tony's repulsor brightened another shade.

"Enough," he said, patience thinning. "Spider-Man. Step down and comply."

Peter dropped lightly from the post, boots touching stone without a sound.

The formation reacted as one organism.

Clint's arrow slid fully onto the string. Sam dipped lower, wings widening to choke off vertical escape. Natasha shifted three steps left, cutting the clearer path north along the walkway. Steve stepped forward half a pace—not aggressive, but undeniably closing distance. Tony angled his body, repulsor aligning with center mass.

Not chaos. Structure.

Peter moved sideways instead of retreating, just enough to disturb the symmetry. Clint tracked him smoothly but adjusted twice before settling. Natasha mirrored the motion and corrected when she overshot by inches. Sam compensated overhead. Tony's suit hummed as targeting recalibrated with a faint mechanical whine.

He'd trained with them. He knew this choreography.

Containment wasn't improvised. It was built.

The fracture between Tony and Steve lived in the half-beat delay before either committed fully. Natasha compensated for it automatically. Clint watched everyone, not just Peter. Sam guarded space instead of pressing advantage. Strange remained almost perfectly still, hands loosely clasped behind his back, magic weaving between his fingers like patient thread reinforcing invisible lines.

"Cute formation," Peter said lightly as he began to circle. "Very symmetrical. Almost convincing."

Steve's jaw tightened. "Spider-Man. We're not here to fight you."

"Really?" Peter tilted his head. "Because this looks a lot like a containment grid."

"You're surrounded," Sam said evenly from above. Not hostile. Not friendly. Just fact.

The longer Peter stayed inside their arc, the more the sensory layering began to blur. Steve's steadiness anchored the air like gravity. Tony's energy crackled against it, impatient and volatile. Strange's magic threaded through both, subtle but invasive, mapping trajectories and reaction times.

Three points of pressure.

Three languages of control.

The semicircle tightened by inches. Geometry refined itself around him.

His spider-sense flared—not at a single threat, but at accumulation. Golden arcs etched faint trajectories across his awareness as Strange's fingers flexed. Tony shifted weight. Steve closed distance by another careful half-step. Individually, none of it was aggressive.

Together, it was a vice turning.

Heartbeats separated and multiplied in his awareness. Tony's accelerating with irritation. Steve's steady but climbing. Sam's quick from sustained hover. Natasha's sharp and efficient. Clint's breath measured to the draw length of his bow.

Strange had no heartbeat Peter could catch—only distortion. A wrongness where rhythm should exist.

The combined alpha presence surged closer, territorial signals compressing until distinction blurred into raw proximity. The river wind caught it and drove it back at him in a suffocating wave of cedar, heat, ozone, and something older that didn't belong to biology at all.

His lungs tightened.

The plaza lights felt harsher. The hum of Tony's reactor climbed in pitch. Sam's wings beat once, a sharp burst of air across Peter's face. Clint's bowstring creaked as tension increased. The scrape of Steve's boot on stone sounded amplified.

Breathe.

He couldn't.

"You're shaking," Steve said quietly.

Peter's head snapped toward him. "I'm not—"

Strange's magic pulsed again.

Not an attack. A tightening. The invisible lines threading the space drew inward half an inch.

The geometry locked.

Tony saw it shift.

"Oh," he said softly, something changing in his tone. "Kid..."

Tony's voice dropped, the sharp edge gone, replaced by something Peter couldn't name. His repulsor didn't lower, but the angle shifted—less targeting, more measuring. Like he was seeing Peter for the first time, not as a variable in a containment problem, but as something that required a different kind of attention.

Steve caught it too. His weight settled back half a step, not retreating but reassessing. His head tilted slightly, gaze sharpening behind the shield.

"Wait," Steve said quietly. Not to Peter. To the others.

Sam's wings faltered mid-beat, the rhythm breaking. He looked between Tony and Steve, uncertainty flickering across his face. "What? What is it?"

Natasha's eyes narrowed. She didn't speak, but her stance shifted—less predator, more observer. Cataloging. Filing.

Clint lowered his bow an inch. Just an inch. But it was enough.

Something moved in Strange's expression. A flicker of recognition. His fingers stilled.

Tony took half a step forward. Not aggressive. Not containing. Approaching. "Spidy, I need you to—"

The spider-sense didn't flare.

It detonated and Peter didn't dodge. 

He welcomed it.

Two web lines snapped outward in opposite directions, not at them but at the structure holding them together. One ripped a light fixture sideways into Sam's projected dive path, forcing him to veer sharply upward with a sharp curse. The second caught Clint's bow at the upper limb, jerking the release angle wide so the arrow screamed sparks across stone instead of center mass.

Tony fired.

The repulsor blast tore through the space Peter had occupied half a heartbeat earlier, but Peter was already moving—not retreating, but cutting through the weakest seam. He drove between Steve and Natasha at the exact moment their overlapping pressures misaligned, boots skimming stone as he twisted past Natasha's intercept and rebounded off the railing in one fluid motion.

The semicircle shattered.

"Jesus—" Sam banked hard, wings catching air wrong as he fought to reorient.

Clint grabbed for his bow, the webline still attached, yanking it off-target as he tried to draw again. "He's fast—"

"No shit," Natasha snapped, already pivoting, but Peter was through, through, gone—

Sam tried to re-collapse the vertical gap, but Peter was already inverted over the water, a third webline anchoring to the maintenance structure beneath the promenade. He let gravity take him for half a second—long enough to pull them out of formation—then snapped the line taut.

The slingshot yanked him sideways under the promenade and into shadow, concrete and steel swallowing open air.

Behind him, the structure tried to reform.

"Don't pursue!" Steve barked.

Sam ignored it for half a second and dove anyway, but without the unified geometry, without Strange's lines fully set, it was reaction instead of design. He pulled up at the last second, wings catching air with a frustrated snap.

"Let him go," Strange's voice carried across the water, calm but firm. His hands dropped to his sides. The golden motes faded.

Tony hovered at the railing, repulsor still glowing, but he didn't fire again. His gaze tracked the shadow under the promenade, then lifted to where Peter had vanished into the city skyline.

"What the hell was that?" Sam demanded, landing hard on the promenade. His wings folded with a sharp mechanical click. "He bolted. We had him—"

"No," Natasha said quietly. "We didn't."

Clint finally freed his bow, the webline dissolving as he ripped it free. He stared at the residue on his fingers. "He could've hit any of us. He aimed at equipment. At angles." He looked up, something shifting in his expression. "That's not panic, he was predicting us."

Steve turned to Tony. "What did you see?"

Tony didn't answer immediately. His faceplate was up, but his expression was unreadable—something caught between recognition and unease.

"The way he moved," Tony said slowly. "The way he reacted. That wasn't combat training. That was..." He trailed off, searching for the word.

"Instinct," Strange finished.

They all looked at him.

Strange stood apart, cloak settling around his shoulders, his expression unusually serious. "He wasn't running from a fight. He was running from pressure. From us." His gaze moved across them, lingering on Tony, then Steve. "From what we represent, whether we meant to or not."

Tony's jaw tightened. "We were following protocol."

"Protocol doesn't care about physiology," Strange said quietly. "Neither do alpha signals. And that Omega just spent ten minutes inside a containment field generated by three of the most dominant presences on the planet."

The silence that followed was heavier than any of the words.

Steve ran a hand over his face. "We need to find him. Not for containment. For—" He stopped, uncertain how to finish.

Tony's gaze remained fixed on the skyline where Peter had disappeared. The arc reactor pulsed steadily beneath his armor.

"Yeah," he said quietly. "We do."

Distance should have helped. It didn't.

The river wind tugged at Peter's suit, carried city exhaust across the warehouses, and tried to wash away the pressure he could still feel, but it wasn't the air. It wasn't the lights or the hum of distant traffic. It was them.

Always them.

His body had reacted like this every time since he turned twenty-three. Not consciously, not like he could reason it away, but chemically, physiologically. The moment he got close enough to Tony, Steve, or Strange, the receptors he didn't even know existed flared awake—hyper-alert, overloaded, demanding information he couldn't give them. Heart rate spiking. Muscles tightening. Senses screaming.

And every time, even as he moved away, even when the physical space widened, it didn't stop.

It was like his system had been waiting six years for the exact combination of cues only they carried. Tony's heat, Steve's grounded presence, Strange's unnatural pressure—they layered into a stimulus his body couldn't parse, couldn't ignore. The moment he'd broken their semicircle, the surge hadn't stopped. His muscles still coiled, his lungs still pulled too sharply, the spider-sense still buzzing.

He didn't know why. Couldn't map it, couldn't anticipate it.

He just knew it happened.

And now, even swinging through empty air above the warehouses and maintenance yards, the echoes lingered. The metallic tang of Tony's armor, the cedar weight of Steve, the subtle distortion of Strange's magic—they were gone. Only the memory of their presence remained, and his body didn't care. It still reacted. Still overcompensated, still strained for pressure that wasn't there.

Peter landed hard on brick, boots scuffing concrete, hands braced. The city sprawled beneath him, quiet. No scents. No currents. No calculated alpha dominance.

Just the absence.

And yet, every fiber of his system screamed. Every neuron, every hormone, every receptor that had survived suppression was still awake. Alert. Ready.

He hadn't just escaped their containment. He had shattered the equilibrium his body relied on. And for the first time in years, he felt just how raw that system really was—how easily it could be pushed, triggered, broken.

He didn't know why it happened. He only knew it would happen again, every time they came close.

And that was enough to keep him moving, to keep him running instead of facing them. 

Chapter Text

It had been weeks since their first attempt to contain Spider-Man, and they were no closer than the day they started.

This especially annoyed (read: worried) Tony Stark. Not because the kid was making an ass of them, though that didn't help. No, it was because there was an Omega running around behind that mask, alone, and Tony couldn't figure out why that bothered him as much as it did.

What surprised him more was that they hadn't noticed it before. Back when they'd worked together, back before everything fell apart. But maybe that made sense. High-stress situations blurred details. And Spider-Man wasn't like the Avengers. He looked out for the little guy, operated on his own terms. Easy to miss what you weren't looking for.

Or maybe they just hadn't wanted to see it. Easier to focus on the team fracturing than focusing on someone else's problem.

The Accords hadn't helped, but they weren't the real reason the team disbanded. That honor belonged to the constant dominance battle between him and Steve—the kind that made rooms feel hotter and tempers shorter. At least, that's what Tony told himself. It was a clean explanation. A neat one.

It just didn't explain why the fighting had started so suddenly. Why one day they were fine, and the next they couldn't be in the same room without grinding against each other like mismatched gears.

He didn't think anyone on the team knew why either, though he wasn't about to ask. Team Captain would just yell at him for trying to cause problems.

Currently, Tony was hunched over his tablet at the kitchen island. The penthouse was quiet—overhead lights dimmed to a soft glow, the city sprawled beyond the wall of windows in a wash of amber and deep blue. Somewhere between ten and eleven, judging by the traffic below. Late enough that most people were settling in, early enough that the night still had potential.

He worked better in the lab, surrounded by tools and half-finished projects, but the lab was three floors down and required walking past the communal areas where Steve had taken to lurking. The penthouse was a fortress—no one got in without permission, and Steve's access had been restricted to the tower's lower floors when they'd been pardoned two years ago. Tony had drawn the line at his personal space.

Tony was only sitting at the counter because he refused to do work in the living room and his island was the closest he was gonna get to a lab bench. Pepper should be proud—he was developing healthier habits. Designated workspaces. Boundaries.

No, he wasn’t going to talk about the fact he was only here because he was avoiding one of his problems. A problem that had a tendency to wear spandex.

Not that the isolation was much help, apparently. For some reason, outside of grainy YouTube videos and old Daily Bugle photos, it was as if his other spandex-clad problem, Spider-Man, didn't exist.

Which didn't make sense. The guy had been active for over a decade. He should be everywhere—surveillance stills, traffic cams, someone's ring doorbell footage. Instead, there was nothing. Just gaps where footage should be, moments that slipped through cracks Tony couldn't find.

He'd spent weeks chasing those gaps. They always led nowhere—dead ends, dummy servers, trails that folded in on themselves. It was clean work. Professional. The kind of architecture that suggested someone had been doing this a long time.

Whoever Spider-Man was, he was either paranoid or thorough. Maybe both, considering Tony had more footage of Nat—a literal assassin—in the past two years than he did of Spider-Man.

Twelve years. Tony did the math again just to be sure. The kid had been active since before the Avengers were a team. Before Iron Man went public. Before any of them knew what they were building toward.

And in all that time, he'd left almost nothing behind.

It was impressive, really.

Tony had been doing this for just over fifteen years himself. He'd become Iron Man at twenty-one—wealthy, privileged, backed by resources most people couldn't imagine. Now he was thirty-six, and that kid—at least five years younger—was giving him and all those resources a run for their money.

He was getting off-topic. Even if only mentally.

Tony looked back at his screen, scanning for anything that might give him a lead, or at least a workaround for the whole "I don't exist" problem. Unfortunately, it seemed like he was out of luck—

The elevator chimed.

Tony leaned back, relief flickering through him when he saw who stepped out. Just the Wizard. Not Pepper, not dragging him to a meeting he'd inevitably zone out to. You'd think handing someone the CEO title would make meetings not his problem. But no. If anything, it was worse now—if they needed him, it meant it was actually important.

Magic Man had ditched the mystic sorcerer robes for something more casual. His cape—Levi, because it followed him around like a loyal retriever—was still trailing behind him as always.

Tony turned his chair to face Stephen instead of the counter, tilting his head with a small smirk marring his face.

"What brings you to my humble abode, Strange?" He let the name hang just a beat too long. "Please don't break my heart and tell me Rogers sent you."

Stephen chuckled softly, the sound warm and dry all at once. "No, I'm not playing messenger for the Captain. I was just coming to see how the investigation of our runaway Spider was going."

He paused, one eyebrow climbing toward his hairline at the involuntary groan that escaped Tony's throat. A low laugh followed, rich with amusement. "I see. That well, then?" He stepped further into the penthouse, Levi drifting behind him like a particularly attentive shadow. "Is Spider-Man truly that evasive, or have you simply lost your touch?"

Tony slumped back in his chair, craning his neck to stare at the modern-styled ceiling like it held answers the rest of them couldn't see. "If it wasn't for the fact that everyone in New York and their mothers know he exists, you'd think he didn't. From the footage, anyway." He dragged a hand down his face, the scratch of stubble loud in the momentary quiet. "Twelve years, Stephen. The guy's been at this for twelve years, and I've got less on him than I do on Nat. Nat. Who trained in the Red Room and has been off-grid longer than some of SI's tech interns have been alive."

He let his head fall to the side, fixing Strange with a look that was half exhaustion, half genuine bewilderment. "It's like chasing a ghost. A ghost with really good aim and absolutely no respect for my time."

Stephen let out a low considering hum, crossing to where Tony sat. "Well, what if we change tactics? You said it yourself—we're chasing a ghost. So what if we force him to come to us?"

He closed the gap between them, coming to stand behind Tony's shoulder and looking down at the tablet still resting loosely in Tony's lap. Without waiting for permission, he reached down and tapped the screen, scrolling through the footage Tony had been combing for weeks.

Tony let him. If anyone could spot something he'd missed, it was the guy who'd spent years studying to be a neurosurgeon and later mystic patterns. Different kind of attention to detail.

For a long moment, Stephen simply scrolled. Then his fingers stilled.

"Wait. Go back."

Tony obliged, swiping back through the last few images. "What?"

Stephen leaned closer, brow furrowing. "This man. He's in the background of at least four separate clips this month."

Tony squinted at the grainy figure—medium build, unremarkable clothes, face half-turned from the camera. "Could be a coincidence. Guy lives in Queens, works near—"

"It's not just this month." Stephen's fingers moved across the screen, pulling up older files, older footage. "Look."

He laid out a timeline—images stretching back not weeks, but months. Same figure. Same posture. Same way of hovering at the edges, never quite in focus, always watching something just past where Spider-Man was fighting and he was out of frame.

"Eight months," Stephen said quietly. "He's been appearing in Spider-Man's orbit for at least eight months. Not every sighting. Not even most. But consistently. Like he's not trying to be near Spider-Man—he's trying to be near something else, and Spider-Man keeps intersecting with it."

Tony stared at the images. Eight months. This guy had been watching for eight months, and they hadn't noticed because they'd been looking at Spider-Man, not at the shadows around him.

Before he could respond, his phone buzzed. Steve's name lit up the screen.

Tony almost ignored it. Then Stephen gave him a look—not pushing, just there—and he grabbed it.

"What."

"There's a man in the background of these clips." Steve's voice was tight, focused. "Same guy. Keeps appearing. FRIDAY—"

"—pulled a timeline," Tony finished. "Yeah, we're looking at it now. Eight months of cameos from our new friend."

"Eight months of him being in the wrong place at the right time." Steve paused. "Or the right place at the wrong time, depending on your perspective."

Tony's jaw tightened. "You got something else?"

"I had FRIDAY map his appearances against the locations. Where he's standing, what he's facing, what's in the frame that isn't Spider-Man." A beat of silence. "Tony, these aren't random. He's positioning himself near specific buildings. Residential buildings. A handful of blocks in Queens, concentrated around the same area every time."

Tony pulled up the map, overlaying Westcott's appearances. Steve was right. The dots clustered—not around crime scenes, not around major intersections, but around a small residential pocket.

"He's not following Spider-Man," Tony said slowly. "He's watching that neighborhood. Spider-Man just keeps showing up because—"

"Because Spider-Man patrols there," Steve finished. "Protects there. Probably lives there, or near enough that it's his ground."

The implication landed heavy.

Whoever Westcott was really watching, they lived in those buildings. Walked those streets. Had routines Westcott had been learning for eight months.

And Spider-Man kept intersecting with them because he was protecting someone who didn't even know they needed it.

Tony ran facial rec on the clearest image. The name came back in under a minute.

Skip Westcott.

Criminal record. Convicted over two decades ago— federal offenses involving a minor. Served time, released a few years back. Current status: no fixed address, no known employment.

A man with nothing but time and a very specific interest.

Tony's stomach turned. "He's got a record. Federal offenses, decades old—involving a child."

He paused, a genuine shudder lighting up along the nerves in his back. "The kid's name was Peter Parker. Currently he should be twenty-six, but that's all that's listed. Not even his address is in the file."

Silence on Steve's end. Then, quietly: "Might be a legal protection instated by the government."

He coughed, his voice hardening. "Either way, we now know what kind of predator we're dealing with."

Stephen's hand landed on Tony's shoulder, steadying. Tony hadn't realized he'd been gripping the tablet hard enough to make his knuckles white.

"We need to find him," Tony said. "Spider-Man. Before Westcott does what he's been planning for eight months."

"Agreed." Steve's voice was steady, the soldier coming through. "But we do this right. No containment. No cornering. We watch, we wait, and if Westcott makes a move—"

"We intervene." Tony closed his eyes. "Together."

A pause. Then, carefully: "Together."

Tony hung up before either of them could say something that made it weird.

The penthouse fell quiet. The kind of quiet that settled into corners and made the city beyond the windows feel impossibly distant. Tony sat motionless for a long moment, the tablet dark in his lap, his reflection staring back at him from the blank screen—tired lines, shadowed eyes, the faint glow of the arc reactor bleeding through his shirt.

Then a hand gripped his shoulder. Warm. Deliberate. Grounding in a way Tony hadn't realized he needed. The pressure lingered just long enough to pull him back from the edge of his own head before receding.

Tony sighed and looked up. Strange had moved while he wasn't paying attention, now leaning casually against the kitchen island like he'd been there all along. The low light from the penthouse caught the silver at his temples, softened the sharp lines of his face. Levi had draped himself over the back of a nearby stool, cape pooling like a contented cat.

Tony could barely muster a grimace before Strange said, "You did good."

The words sat in the air between them, simple and unexpected. Outside, the city hummed its usual nighttime rhythm—distant sirens, the rumble of traffic seventeen floors down, the occasional flicker of neon reflecting off adjacent buildings. Inside, the only sounds were the soft whir of the ventilation and the quiet rustle of Levi adjusting his position.

Tony let out a humorless chuckle, the sound swallowed by the spacious room. "You say that now." He scrubbed a hand over his face again. "Wait until the two of us are in a room. Something's bound to go wrong, and I'll be blamed for it somehow."

The penthouse felt too large suddenly, too quiet. The kind of quiet that made you hear your own heartbeat.

Stephen nodded concedingly, the movement slow and considered. The ice in his glass of water clinked softly as he shifted—Tony hadn't even noticed him pour one. "Maybe. But I have a feeling Steve's morals will help him hold his tongue long enough for us to get Spider-Man to come with us."

Tony turned back to his tablet, though he wasn't really seeing it anymore. The screen had gone dark, a mirror reflecting his own tired face back at him. "At least between the three of us alphas, you're the only one unaffected by whatever causes the rest of us to fight." He set the tablet down, the soft thud too loud in the stillness. "I think we would've killed each other otherwise."

Stephen raised an eyebrow, and when Tony glanced over, there was a mischievous grin sliding into place—the kind that meant he was about to say something Tony both dreaded and needed to hear.

"If I recall correctly, that already happened." Stephen's voice was dry, amused, but his eyes held something warmer. "And I was there for it."

The clink of ice again. The distant wail of a siren, fading. Levi rustled, resettling.

Tony stared at him for a beat, then let out a real laugh—short, surprised, dragged out of him against his will. "Yeah," he said quietly, shaking his head. "Yeah, I guess you were."

The silence that followed wasn't awkward, exactly, but it also wasn't comfortable. The kind of quiet that asked to be filled before it had time to settle.

Tony stretched his back out, tablet still in hand, then slapped his thighs and pushed himself up. He turned to face the Wizard fully, the city lights catching the edge of his profile through the windows.

"We better get going before they get impatient." The words came out half-joking, but there was truth underneath them. They both knew it.

Stephen set his glass down with a soft clink and pushed off the counter, Levi rising behind him like a shadow finally deciding to follow. "After you."

The walk to the elevator was short—the penthouse wasn't that large—but Tony felt every step of it. The soft give of the carpet beneath his bare feet. The way the lighting shifted as they passed under each recessed fixture. Stephen's presence beside him, steady and unhurried, Levi's faint rustle trailing behind like a second heartbeat.

Tony hit the call button. The elevator arrived with a soft chime, doors sliding open to reveal the familiar brushed steel interior.

He stepped inside. Stephen followed. Levi drifted in after them, cape settling against the wall like he owned the space.

The doors closed.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The elevator hummed as it began its descent, the numbers above the door ticking down slowly. Ninety-three. Ninety-two. Ninety-one.

Tony watched the numbers change, hands shoved in his pockets, shoulders tight. Beside him, Stephen stood with his usual impossible stillness, cloak faintly stirring even in the enclosed space.

"You know," Stephen said eventually, voice casual, "you could try breathing."

Tony shot him a look. "I'm breathing."

"Barely." Stephen didn't turn, but there was amusement in his voice. "You're tensed like you're about to walk into a war room. Which, I suppose, you are. But still."

Ninety. Eighty-nine. Eighty-eight.

"It's not a war room," Tony said. "It's a communal floor. Couches. A kitchen. Probably some of Clint's terrible coffee."

"And yet."

Tony didn't have an answer for that.

Eighty-seven. Eighty-six. Eighty-five.

"You'll be fine," Stephen said. Not a question. Not a reassurance, exactly. Just a statement, delivered with the same certainty he used for anything else he did.

Tony huffed out something that might have been a laugh if it had more air behind it. "You don't know that."

"No." Stephen's reflection in the brushed steel was calm, unbothered. "But I know you. And I know Rogers. Whatever's been going on between you—it's not going to matter tonight. Not with what's at stake. You both may have pride in your positions and capabilities, but you're not reckless when it truly matters."

Eighty-four. Eighty-three.

Tony wanted to argue. Wanted to point out that Stephen didn't know the half of it, didn't understand what it was like to be in a room with Steve these days, didn't feel the way the air itself seemed to go sour when they got too close.

The way he feared that Steve was going to ram his shield into his chest again.

But Stephen had been there for the fighting. Had seen it firsthand. Had watched them tear chunks out of each other over nothing, everything, things that shouldn't have mattered but somehow did.

And he was still here. Still standing beside Tony in an elevator, telling him he'd be fine.

Eighty-two. Eighty-one.

"Your cape is staring at me," Tony said instead.

Stephen glanced back at Levi, who had indeed angled himself toward Tony like a particularly attentive houseplant. "He does that."

"It's weird."

"Most things about me are."

Eighty.

The elevator chimed.

The doors slid open.

And there they were.

When FRIDAY quietly announced they'd reached the right floor, Tony felt the need to take a deep breath to prepare himself. It felt like walking into an ambush.

It didn't help that he hadn't stepped foot on the Avengers floors since their last fight. The one after the initial argument when the Accords were first announced. The one the public didn't know about. The one that fragmented them unofficially.

The phantom pain in his chest stung sharply—a reminder of what their last argument had caused.

Like he needed one.

Stephen stepped past him without comment, but paused just long enough to glance back. A single look. Nothing dramatic. Just I see you, and I'll be there.

Tony nodded. Small. Barely there. But Stephen caught it.

Instead of following his master, Levi waited. The cape settled into the space beside Tony, angled toward him like a bodyguard scanning for threats. Or a very attentive golden retriever who'd decided Tony needed watching. The faint rustle of fabric was oddly comforting—a presence that asked nothing, expected nothing, just was.

Tony let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

It made him feel better, being surrounded by people—or objects with a conscience—that wouldn't attack him for no reason.

Then he followed them both into the room.

Shoulders squared. Posture straight, but as open as he could manage. There was a reason he'd gotten the Accords as far as he had in a room full of people who hated him on principle. Tony knew how to work a room, even without aggression or dominance.

Now he just needed to see if Rogers would let him.

Tony scanned the space quickly—familiar faces, familiar tension, the same couches arranged slightly differently than he remembered. Natasha by the window, arms crossed, expression unreadable. Clint next to her, leaning against the wall, his posture too casual to be real. Sam was perched on the arm of a couch, watching him with something between suspicion and curiosity.

Stephen had already claimed a spot near the back wall, half in shadow, Levi settling beside him like a sentinel. The sorcerer's presence was different from the others—quieter, more observant. His eyes tracked the room with the patience of someone used to watching timelines branch.

And Steve. Standing near the center of the room like he'd been planted there. Arms loose at his sides. Jaw tight. Waiting.

The air changed when their eyes met.

Tony felt it before he understood it—that familiar prickle under his skin, the way his shoulders wanted to hike up and his spine wanted to lock. A chemical reaction he couldn't control and couldn't explain. His pulse ticked up, just slightly, the way it always did now when Steve was in the same space.

Steve's jaw tightened further. A fraction of an inch. But Tony caught it.

He feels it too.

Across the room, Sam shifted on the couch arm, unease flickering across his face. Clint's gaze darted between them, then away, like he was trying not to watch a car crash in slow motion. Even Natasha's stillness felt different—not calm, but waiting. Braced.

They couldn't feel what Tony felt—the chemical crawl under his skin, the wrongness of Steve's presence when it used to feel like home. But they could feel something. The tension in the room. The way the air itself seemed to go sour when two alphas who used to be pack got too close.

Stephen hadn't moved from his spot against the wall, but Tony caught the way his eyes tracked between them. Calculating. Assessing. The only other alpha in the room who seemed unaffected by whatever this was—or at least, the only one who'd learned to hide it.

They'd been feeling it for years now. Watching the team fracture. Watching Tony and Steve tear at each other over nothing, everything, things that shouldn't have mattered but somehow did.

Tony didn't let himself pause.

"Well. Seems like everyone's here." He kept his voice even, casual. "Has Spangles here updated you on what we figured out, or do we need to go over it?"

He meant it sincerely. They couldn't afford to waste time tonight on in-fighting. Not with what was at stake.

Natasha hummed, low and considering. "He did. But I feel like we should go over it again. Make sure we're all on the same page."

Clint threw an incredulous glance her way. Tony didn't blame him. Natasha didn't question Steve's information out loud. If she had concerns, she confirmed them through her own channels—quietly, efficiently, without making it a thing.

Was she trying to cause a fight?

Tony studied her for a beat, looking for the angle. She met his gaze evenly, giving nothing away.

From the corner, Stephen's voice cut through, dry and measured. "Perhaps she's simply being thorough. Not everything is a power play, Tony."

Tony shot him a look. Stephen's expression was unreadable, but Levi rustled softly, like the cape was laughing at him.

He coughed lightly, clearing his throat. "As I'm sure you know, Spider-Man covers his tracks well enough that he gives Nat—our resident assassin—a run for her money."

He paused, catching himself and the others off guard with the casual nickname. Natasha's lips twitched, barely a millimeter, but Tony caught it. Interesting.

"But over the past eight months, there's been an individual appearing in the background of the limited clips we do have. Same guy. Same posture. Same few blocks in Queens."

"How limited are we talking?" Sam cut in, arms crossed.

"Limited enough that eight months of footage and he's still managed to show up in four separate clips." Tony held up the tablet, displaying the timeline. "That many appearances isn't coincidence. He's not following Spider-Man—he's following something else. Someone else."

Clint frowned. "You're saying Spider-Man has a stalker?"

"Spider-Man's the one being stalked." Steve's voice was quiet but carried easily through the room. He hadn't moved from the center, but his focus was absolute. "FRIDAY helped me map the locations. Same few blocks in Queens, every time. Residential buildings. He's watching that neighborhood. Learning someone's routine."

He paused, jaw tightening almost imperceptibly.

"Westcott is almost always in the same area as Spider-Man—even when Spider-Man's out of frame. He's not tracking the hero. He's tracking the ground the hero covers."

"We ran facial rec." Tony pulled up the image, turning the tablet so everyone could see the grainy photo. "Skip Westcott. Federal offenses, over two decades ago. Involving a minor. Released a few years back. No fixed address. No known employment. Nothing tying him to Queens except eight months of showing up in the same few blocks."

The room went quiet. The kind of quiet that settled into bones.

Clint straightened off the wall. "So we've got a registered sex offender staking out a residential neighborhood, and Spider-Man keeps showing up in the same frames."

"Protecting that ground," Steve said quietly. "Protecting whoever lives there."

Sam leaned forward. "You think Spider-Man knows this person?"

"Don't know." Tony shook his head. "Could be coincidence. Could be Spider-Man just patrols that area because it's his turf. But Westcott's been at this for eight months. That's not random. That's targeted."

Natasha's voice cut through the silence, calm and precise. "And you think Westcott is going to escalate."

Tony met her eyes. "Don't you? Eight months of watching. A pattern this deliberate. Guys like this don't just stop. They wait until they think no one's looking, and then they move."

Another beat of silence. Tony could feel the weight of it pressing against his sternum, the same way Steve's presence always seemed to press now. Wrong. Heavy. Like something vital had been removed and no one knew where to put the grief.

Stephen's voice came from the corner, thoughtful. "The question isn't whether he'll escalate. It's when. And whether we'll be in time."

Tony nodded. "Tomorrow night. Westcott's pattern suggests he's most active between eleven and two. We'll be in position before he arrives."

Tony pulled up the map on the main display, letting the others gather around.

As Stephen drifted closer, Levi trailing behind him, something shifted in the room's chemistry. It was subtle at first—just a faint sharpening at the edges of Tony's awareness, the way the air felt before a storm.

Then his scent spiked. 

It happened before he could stop it—that involuntary alpha response, the one he couldn't control no matter how hard he tried. Sharp and hot and wrong, flooding the space between him and Steve like gasoline on embers.

Across from him, Steve's jaw went tight. His scent followed a heartbeat later—darker, heavier, rolling off him in waves that made Tony's hindbrain scream fight, fight, fight.

Neither of them moved. Neither of them spoke. But the room was suddenly drowning in it, two alphas locked in a chemical standstill that made Sam flinch back on the couch and Clint's hand twitch toward a weapon that wasn't there.

Natasha went utterly still. Her eyes tracked between them, cataloging, calculating—a spy caught in a war she couldn't see but could certainly feel.

The pressure built. Tony's pulse hammered in his ears. His hands wanted to curl into fists, wanted to do something, anything to break the suffocating weight of Steve's presence pressing against his chest like a physical thing.

And then Stephen stepped forward.

Tony caught it this time—the faintest shimmer at the edges of the sorcerer's form, like heat haze over pavement. Golden motes, barely visible, threading through the air around him. Not a spell cast, not really. Just a maintenance of something already in place.

He's been doing that the whole time, Tony realized. Keeping himself separate.

Stephen moved to stand at the edge of the invisible line stretched taut between them. His scent should have spiked like theirs—he was an alpha too, should have been caught in the same chemical undertow dragging Tony and Steve under. But there was nothing. Just that faint golden shimmer and a calm so steady it felt almost unnatural.

Because it was.

The shift was immediate. Not a release—Tony could still feel the tension humming under his skin—but a redistribution. Stephen's presence didn't cancel out the chemical war, but it interrupted it, gave the pressure somewhere else to go. His magic didn't suppress them—it just... held space. A pocket of calm in the middle of the storm.

Tony sucked in a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

Stephen's voice came from beside him, dry and measured. "Perhaps we should focus on the actual mission." A pause. "Unless you'd prefer to keep scent-marking the conference room like territorial house cats."

Levi rustled softly, like the cape was laughing.

Tony shot him a look. Stephen's expression was unreadable, but his eyes held something warmer underneath the dryness. An out. Always an out with him.

Tony took it.

He cleared his throat, forcing his shoulders to relax, forcing his scent back under something resembling control. Beside him, Steve was doing the same—Tony could feel it in the way the pressure eased, fraction by fraction.

"Right," Tony said, voice slightly rougher than he'd like. "As I said, tomorrow night. Westcott's most active between eleven and two. Clint, overwatch on these rooftops. Nat, ground level. Sam, mobile." He pointed to each location. "Stephen, you're backup—stay close enough to portal if things go sideways, far enough not to spook anyone with the magic."

Stephen inclined his head. "That’s probably for the best."

"Steve and I take primary near the residential buildings. Close enough to see, far enough not to crowd. If Westcott shows, we intervene quietly. If Spider-Man shows first—"

"We talk," Steve finished. "No containment. No cornering. Just... talk."

Clint raised an eyebrow. "You think that'll work?"

Tony thought about the omega who'd built walls so high no one noticed they were alone and then about the predator who'd been watching his victim for eight months.

"I don't know," he said honestly. "But we have to try."

The room settled into quiet agreement. Plans were made. Positions assigned. Tomorrow night, they'd be in Queens, waiting for a ghost and the man who hunted him.

The briefing wound down. Clint pushed off the wall with a muttered comment about checking his gear, the tension in his shoulders easing now that there was a plan. Sam clapped Steve on the shoulder as he passed—a small gesture, but Tony noticed the way Steve's posture eased just slightly at the contact. A beta's touch, grounding without triggering.

Natasha drifted toward the door without a word, her silence saying more than any farewell. She paused at the threshold, glancing back at Tony with an unreadable expression, then disappeared into the hall.

Stephen lingered near the exit, Levi trailing behind him like a shadow with opinions. He caught Tony's eye and held it for a long moment. No words passed between them, but something did—a quiet acknowledgment, maybe, or a promise.

I'll be there tomorrow.

Then he was gone too.

Tony stared at the display. At the blue and red dots overlapping. At Westcott's face in the corner of the file. Anywhere but at the man standing behind him, saying the things they'd both been avoiding for years.

He was so tired of this. Of the tension that lived in his chest like a second heartbeat. Of walking into rooms and feeling the air go sour. Of fighting with someone who used to feel like home.

Six years, he thought. Six years of this, and we're no closer to understanding why.

"I don't have it in me tonight," Tony said finally. His voice came out quiet. Worn. "To figure this out. To untangle whatever's been happening to us." He shook his head slowly, still not turning. "I'm just... tired, Steve. I'm really tired."

The silence that followed was different. Softer. Tony could feel Steve standing there, could feel the weight of those words landing in ways neither of them knew how to process.

"I know," Steve said quietly. "Me too."

Tony nodded. Just once. Small.

Another beat of silence. Not comfortable, not hostile—just there. The kind of silence that held years of history and no idea what to do with it.

Finally, Steve said, "I'll be there at twenty-one hundred."

Tony nodded again. Still didn't turn.

He heard Steve move toward the door. Heard him pause at the threshold. Felt the weight of everything unsaid pressing against the back of his neck—apologies neither of them knew how to make, forgiveness neither of them knew how to ask for.

Then the door slid shut, and Tony was alone.

He let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. The silence settled around him like a weight, heavy and familiar. His skin still prickled with the ghost of that chemical surge—the spike, the heat, the way his body had tried to drag him into a fight he didn't want.

He looked at the map again. At the blue and red dots overlapping. At the name at the bottom of Westcott's file—the one he'd shared with no one but Rogers and Stephen. To protect Peter Parker's privacy. Privacy that had already been violated in ways Tony was only beginning to understand.

Somewhere in those few blocks, a twenty-six-year-old was living their life. Unaware they'd been watched for eight months. Unaware that Spider-Man kept showing up in their neighborhood for a reason.

"Alright," Tony said to the empty room. "Tomorrow."

He shut down the display and walked out, leaving the room empty behind him.

He didn't sleep. He rarely did before a mission, and this one felt different. Heavier. Not because of the threat—Westcott was just a man, flesh and bone, no super-soldier serum, no magic, no alien tech. Tony had faced down gods and monsters. One predator with a record and a camera fixation shouldn't have made his skin crawl.

But it did.

He spent the night in his workshop, running diagnostics on his suit for the fourth time, pulling up the map of Queens on every available screen. The blue and red dots glowed back at him. Westcott's territory. Spider-Man's ground. Somewhere in between, a life Tony couldn't see.

At some point, FRIDAY's voice cut through the hum of machinery. "Boss, it's currently five AM. You haven't eaten in twelve hours."

"I'll eat tomorrow."

"That's today, technically."

Tony waved a hand dismissively. "Figure of speech."

FRIDAY didn't respond. She'd learned long ago which battles were worth fighting, even as an AI.

Eventually, the sun rose over New York the way it always did—slow at first, then all at once, light bleeding across the skyline in shades of orange and pink that Tony usually didn't stop to notice. He noticed today. Watched it from the window of his penthouse, coffee cooling in his hand, mind turning over the same questions he'd been asking all night.

Why was Skip Westcott acting so confident while stalking a seemingly normal person? Why did he know someone was watching him?

Against his better judgment, somewhere between two and three a.m., Tony had done something he told himself he wouldn't. A simple Google search on the name from Westcott's file. Public information only. Nothing invasive. Just... curiosity.

The search hadn't revealed much.

Peter Parker, twenty-six. Orphaned. A PhD in Chemistry from MIT—completed in three years, which was either genius-level or obsessive, probably both. A double major and minor in Physics, Chemistry, and Biochemistry as an undergraduate. Published papers Tony vaguely recognized from late-night reading sessions. No social media presence to speak of. No family listed beyond an aunt—May Parker, also of Queens.

Beta, according to the limited public records.

Tony frowned at that.

He pulled up Westcott's file again, side by side with the search results. The victim from two decades ago. The person Westcott most likely had been watching for eight months. A civilian with an impressive academic record and no apparent connection to anyone dangerous.

And yet Spider-Man kept showing up in that neighborhood. Kept positioning himself in a way that would make him a shield.

Coincidence? Tony's mind supplied. Spider-Man patrols that area. Doesn't have to mean anything.

Maybe.

But Tony had stopped believing in coincidences somewhere around the third alien invasion.

He set the coffee down. It had gone cold anyway.

Was this only about Peter Parker, or did Westcott have a vendetta against Spider-Man too? And how did Spider-Man know this kid—enough to guard his neighborhood for months, enough to position himself between Westcott and those apartments like that?

The last question bothered him most.

Twelve years of nothing on camera. Twelve years of walls Tony couldn't crack. Whoever was under that mask had been alone for a long time—long enough to build systems that made Natasha Romanoff look careless. Long enough to learn that no one was coming to help.

And tonight, they'd try to change that.

Tony looked out at the sunrise, at the city waking up below him, at the millions of lives he'd never touch.

Somewhere in Queens, a predator was waiting for nightfall.

And somewhere in that same neighborhood, a vigilante who'd been running for twelve years had no idea what was coming.

The hours between sunrise and twenty-one hundred passed in fragments. A shower. A call from Pepper he almost didn't answer. Pushing food around a plate without really eating it. Checking his gear twice. Three times. FRIDAY stopped counting.

Stephen appeared sometime in the late afternoon, letting himself in without announcement. He didn't say much—just settled into a chair in the corner of the penthouse with a book that looked older than the Tower itself. Levi draped himself over the back of the couch, cape pooling like he owned the place.

Tony didn't ask why he was there. He was grateful enough not to be alone.

At twenty-hundred, Tony started suiting up.

The familiar ritual helped—the layers, the seals, the soft hum of systems coming online. FRIDAY ran through diagnostics in his ear, her voice steady and calm. All systems green. Weapons armed. Comms active.

He caught his reflection in the polished steel of his helmet. Same face that had been staring back at him for thirty-six years. Same arc reactor glow bleeding through the suit. Same tired eyes.

"Tonight," he muttered to himself.

The helmet slid into place.

Stephen met him at the elevator, still in his civilian clothes but carrying something heavier in his expression. "The others are already moving into position."

"Clint?"

"On the rooftop you designated. He confirmed sightlines twenty minutes ago."

"Nat?"

"Blending in. Her words, not mine."

Tony almost smiled. Almost.

The elevator arrived. They stepped inside. The doors closed behind them.

Ninety-three floors down. Eighty. Seventy. Tony watched the numbers tick past, the same descent they'd made the night before. It felt different now. Less like walking into an ambush and more like walking toward something he couldn't name.

Stephen's reflection watched him from the brushed steel. "You ready?"

Tony thought about twelve years of nothing on camera. About a kid who'd built walls Tony couldn't crack. About a predator who'd been watching for eight months, learning the shape of a life.

"No," he said honestly. "But I'm going anyway."

The elevator chimed.

The doors slid open.

Queens waited.

And so did this mystery Omega.

The flight from the Tower was quiet. Strange had offered to teleport him to the meet-up location, but Tony had rejected it. He needed the air, the wind, the solitude of the arc reactors pushing him through the night sky. Needed to get his head straight before his feet hit the ground.

For whatever reason, he just couldn't shake this one.

It felt personal in a way it shouldn't. He didn't know Spider-Man outside of missions. Didn't know who was being stalked, didn't know why this particular case had dug its hooks into his chest and refused to let go.

But like everything else lately, logic didn't bend to reality.

The city blurred beneath him—lights and shadows, rooftops and fire escapes, miles of lives he'd never touch. Somewhere down there, in a cluster of old buildings near the water, a predator was waiting. Somewhere down there, a kid who'd spent twelve years leaving no trace was about to walk into his territory.

And Tony was going to be there.

Whether he should be or not.

Tony touched down on the rooftop two blocks from the target zone, the suit's repulsors cutting out with a soft hiss. He landed light and pressed himself into the shadow of a ventilation unit.

Below him, Queens spread out in a patchwork of old buildings and narrow streets. Residential. Quiet. The kind of neighborhood where people knew their neighbors' names and left their lights on overnight.

The kind of neighborhood a predator would study for eight months before moving.

"Eyes on?" Steve's voice crackled through the comm.

Tony scanned the streets below. "Nothing yet. You?"

"Clear on my end. Clint?"

"Rooftop's good," Clint's voice came through. "I've got sightlines on the primary buildings. No movement near the target zone."

Natasha's voice followed, smooth and calm. "Ground level's quiet. A few late-night walkers, nothing suspicious. No sign of Westcott."

Tony settled in to wait.

The city hummed below him—distant traffic, the rumble of a subway, the occasional burst of laughter. Normal sounds. Safe sounds.

Eight months. Somewhere in those buildings, someone had been living their life, unaware they were being watched. Unaware that a man with a record and a fixation had been learning their routines.

Tony's jaw tightened.

And Spider-Man knew. He's been patrolling this area for—

"Movement," Clint cut in. "Westcott, approaching from the east. Same pattern."

Tony found him. Small figure, unremarkable, hood up, head down. Moving with the kind of deliberate casualness that meant he knew exactly where he was going.

"Confirmed," Tony said quietly. "That's our guy."

They watched Westcott reach the edge of the residential block and stop. He found a spot near an alley entrance—partially hidden, but with clear sightlines to a specific building. Old brick. Warm light in a few windows. A fire escape zigzagging up the side.

Then he waited.

Tony's skin crawled.

"He's watching that building," Steve said quietly. "The one with the green awning. That's his focus."

"Which means whoever he's really after lives there." Tony zoomed in on the building, memorizing the details. Four floors. Six apartments. Any one of them could hold the person Westcott had been studying for eight months.

"Spider-Man?" Natasha asked.

"Not yet." Clint's voice was tense. "But if his pattern holds, he should be—"

A soft thwip in the distance.

"There," Tony breathed.

Spider-Man swung into view a moment later, a dark silhouette against the glowing skyline. Fast. Efficient. He didn't land near Westcott—didn't even seem to notice him. Instead, he swept low over the residential block, did a wide arc, and came to rest on a rooftop across the street from the building with the green awning.

Right where he could see it. Right where he could protect it.

Tony's stomach turned.

He knows. He knows exactly which building Westcott is watching.

"He's not here by accident," Tony muttered. "He's been guarding that building. That's his patrol route."

Steve's voice was quiet. "Which means he knows who lives there."

Below them, Westcott shifted position. Adjusted his sightlines. Settled back to wait.

And on the rooftop across the street, Spider-Man waited too.

Two predators. One prey.

Tony's hands curled into fists.

Twenty minutes passed. Then thirty. The street stayed quiet. Westcott didn't move. Spider-Man didn't move.

Tony's legs were starting to cramp.

"Nothing's happening," Sam murmured over the comm. "Are we sure tonight's the night?"

"Pattern says—" Clint started.

Then Westcott moved.

Not toward the building. Back. Away from his position, into the deeper shadows of the alley. For a moment, Tony thought he was leaving.

Then he saw the phone in Westcott's hand. The glow of a screen. The way he held it up, angled toward the building with the green awning.

"Tell me that's not—" Sam started.

"It is." Natasha's voice was ice. "He's filming. He's been here eight months and he's filming."

Tony was already rising, repulsors powering up. "I'm going—"

"Wait." Steve's voice cut through. "Look."

Spider-Man had moved. Not toward Westcott—toward the building. Dropping off his rooftop, swinging low, landing on the fire escape of the building with the green awning. He positioned himself there, half-hidden, but clearly visible from the street.

Visible to Westcott.

He's not stopping him, Tony realized. He's blocking him. Putting himself in frame.

Westcott's phone lowered. He stared at the fire escape, at the dark figure crouched there, at the clear message: I see you. I'm here. You don't get to do this.

For a long moment, neither of them moved.

Then Westcott smiled.

Even from two blocks away, Tony could see it was wrong.

"Well, well," Westcott called out, voice carrying in the quiet night. "There you are. I was wondering when you'd show up."

Spider-Man didn't respond. Didn't move. Just stayed there, a dark silhouette against the brick, watching.

"You know who lives here?" Westcott took a step closer, phone still in his hand. "Nice place. Quiet. Good neighborhood for..." He paused, letting the implication hang. "Well. You know."

Still nothing from the fire escape.

"Been watching this building for a while," Westcott continued, conversational now. "Got to know the routines. Who comes and goes. Who leaves their window open at night." He smiled again. "Who might be worth getting to know better."

Spider-Man's head tilted. Just slightly. But he didn't move.

"I'm not here for you," Westcott said. "Never was. You just keep getting in the way." He took another step closer. "So here's the thing. You can't be everywhere. You can't watch this building every night. And I've got nothing but time."

He raised the phone again. Pointed it at the building. At the windows. At the fire escape where Spider-Man crouched.

"So every time you're not here, I'll be watching. Every time you're somewhere else, I'll be learning something new. And one night, you won't make it in time." He lowered the phone, smile widening. "Just something to think about."

Tony didn't wait for permission.

He launched off the rooftop, repulsors flaring, and landed in the street between Westcott and the building. Armor gleaming, weapons visible but not raised.

"Evening," he said flatly. "You're under surveillance. Not by me—by the NYPD, the FBI, and about twelve different agencies who've been watching you for months." He tilted his head. "So here's the thing. You can't be everywhere either. And I've got nothing but time."

Westcott's smile faltered.

He couldn't know Tony was bluffing. Couldn't know this was a Hail Mary with no cards. But that was the thing about arrogant men—they assumed everyone else played the same game. Confidence meant certainty. A straight face meant a winning hand.

Pride was a sin for a reason.

Behind Tony, the soft thump of Steve landing. The whisper of Natasha sliding into position. The distant hum of Sam overhead.

Spider-Man still hadn't moved from the fire escape. Still watching. Still waiting. A dark sentinel against the brick.

Steve stepped forward, shield lowered but catching the light. "Mr. Westcott. You're going to come with us. Quietly. No scenes."

Unexpectedly, Westcott didn't try to fight them or resist immediately. He only smirked and put his arms out.

But not toward Tony or Steve. Toward Spider-Man.

Tony furrowed his eyebrows in confusion, scanning the area with FRIDAY to see if they were missing anything or if there was an ambush.

There wasn't. Or at least nothing that would leave a signature.

Spider-Man moved away from the shadow he'd been using to partially hide himself and stepped fully into the light. When he spoke, his voice was low—lower and more controlled than they were used to hearing from him. "Enough of your games, Westcott. I've paid enough attention to you. One of the Avengers will be arresting you. I'm done."

Just as he was about to swing away, Westcott spoke up—not desperate, not mocking. Something worse. Something intimate.

"You know," Westcott said, almost conversational, "I used to wonder what it would be like when they got older. The ones I... watched. Whether they'd remember. Whether they'd still taste the same." He smiled, slow and horrible. "Eight months watching that building, I found myself wondering about this one. All grown up now. Living their life. Thinking they're safe."

Spider-Man went still on the fire escape. Not the controlled stillness of waiting—something else. Something frozen.

Westcott tilted his head, eyes fixed on the dark figure above him. "I wonder if they can still feel it. When someone's watching. When someone's waiting. That prickle at the back of the neck. That feeling of being seen when no one's there." He took a step closer. "I wonder if they still dream about it. The ones like him always do. They never tell anyone, but I know. I can always tell."

Spider-Man's head turned. Just slightly. Those white lenses caught the light.

"You don't know anything," he said, but his voice was wrong. Tighter. Younger.

Westcott's smile widened. "Don't I? I've been at this a long time. I know the signs. The ones who were touched young—they carry it forever. In the way they hold themselves. In the way they never quite relax. In the way they react when someone like me gets too close." He took another step. "I saw it in him the moment I found him again. All these years later, and he still flinches the same way. Still goes quiet the same way. Still freezes the same way."

Spider-Man's breathing changed. Tony could hear it even from twenty feet away—sharp, shallow, wrong.

"You're lying," Spider-Man said, but it came out cracked.

Westcott laughed, soft and ugly. "Am I? You've been watching me watch him for eight months. You think I didn't notice? You think I don't know exactly who you're really here for?" He spread his hands, almost gentle. "It's okay. I understand. Some of us just... recognize each other. The watchers and the watched. We're not so different, you and I."

He paused, letting that land. Then, almost as an afterthought:

"Besides, I know things about him you don't. Things he'd never tell someone like you." Westcott's smile turned sly. "Like the fact that he's not a Beta. Never was. Little Peter Parker—he's an omega. Has been since he presented. But you probably already knew that, didn't you? Considering how you keep showing up to protect him."

The words hung in the air like poison.

Spider-Man went rigid. Every line of his body locked tight, breath stopping completely for one horrible second.

Tony's mind raced. Omega? But the file said—

Then Spider-Man moved.

Not toward Westcott. Not toward anything. Just—away. A wild, desperate swing into the night, faster than Tony had ever seen him go. No quips, no taunts, no controlled exit. Just flight.

Westcott watched him go, still smiling. Then he cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted into the darkness where Spider-Man had disappeared:

"His fire escape window doesn't lock properly, you know! Been using it for months! Right under your nose, and you never even noticed!"

The words echoed off the buildings.

Somewhere in the darkness, Spider-Man's trajectory faltered. Just for a second—a wobble in his swing, a break in rhythm—before he recovered and kept going.

Westcott laughed, loud and delighted. "That's right! I've been inside, right where you couldn't see! Sat on his couch! Touched his things! Breathed his air while you were out here playing hero!" He spread his arms wide, addressing the night itself. "All those months you've been watching this building, and I was already past you! Already in!"

The silence that followed was deafening.

Tony's blood had gone cold somewhere around "fire escape window" and hadn't warmed since.

Steve's face was pale beneath the cowl. Natasha, still in position nearby, had gone absolutely still. Even Clint's breathing over the comm had stopped.

Westcott lowered his hands, still smiling. "We had a lovely chat, him and I. Caught up on old times. He even let me say hello to his aunt through the phone." He tilted his head, savoring the moment. "Sat right there in his kitchen while he tried so hard to look calm. You should have seen his face. All those walls he's built, and I walked right through the front door. Or, well." A smirk. "The fire escape."

Tony was on him in an instant, repulsors flaring, armor humming with barely contained fury. "What did you do?"

Westcott looked at him, calm and untroubled. "Nothing he didn't let me do. He opened the window. Let me in. Sat there and listened while I talked about the old days." He tilted his head. "That's the thing about the ones like him. They freeze. They always freeze. Doesn't matter how strong they pretend to be."

Steve grabbed him, none too gently, and started walking him toward where Clint and Natasha were waiting. Westcott went willingly, still wearing that horrible smile.

Tony stood in the empty street, staring at the dark space where Spider-Man had been.

He's been inside. He's been in Peter Parker's home. Right under Spider-Man's nose while he was out here protecting the building.

And Spider-Man knew. Had known for weeks. Had been watching Westcott, tracking him, positioning himself on that fire escape night after night—and still, Westcott got past him. Still found a way in.

How does that feel? Tony wondered. To be that vigilant, that dedicated, and still fail?

Below them, Westcott's voice still echoed in Tony's memory. Sat on his couch. Touched his things. Breathed his air.

Spider-Man had been right there. Had been watching that building for months. Had positioned himself on that fire escape like a shield.

And Westcott had still found a way through.

Tony thought about twelve years of nothing on camera. About walls built so high no one noticed they were there. About a vigilante who'd been alone so long he'd probably forgotten what backup felt like.

And now he knew that someone had slipped past him. Had been inside the very place he was trying to protect.

No wonder he ran.

No wonder he fell.

"We need to find him," he said quietly. "Spider-Man. Not to contain—to talk to him. He knows more than he's telling us."

Steve nodded slowly. "Agreed."

Tony was already moving, repulsors lifting him off the ground. "Clint, you still got eyes?"

"Lost him after he dropped off the fire escape. He's fast." A pause. "Wait. I think—yeah, I've got something. Two blocks east of your position, near the alley by the old warehouse. He's on the ground."

Tony's stomach dropped.

"On the ground? Like, resting, or—"

"Like crumpled. He's not moving."

Tony didn't wait for the rest. He was airborne before the words finished, repulsors flaring as he shot toward Clint's coordinates. Steve was half a second behind him, the familiar growl of his motorcycle echoing off the buildings as he peeled into the street below.

The wind screamed past Tony's helmet, cold and sharp, eating the distance in seconds.

The alley came into view. Dark. Narrow. The kind of place people went to disappear.

Spider-Man was there. Curled against a dumpster, back pressed to the brick, legs splayed out in front of him like he didn't have the strength to pull them in. His head was tipped back, mask catching the faint glow of a distant streetlight, chest rising and falling in a rhythm that was wrong—too fast, too shallow, stuttering on every exhale.

Tony landed soft, twenty feet back, killing his repulsors before they could spook him. Steve parked beside him, shield lowered, body language carefully non-threatening.

"Hey," Tony called out, voice low and even. "Hey, it's us. The guys from before. We're not here to hurt you."

Spider-Man's head lifted. Those white lenses found them, and Tony saw it—the way his whole frame went tighter, bracing for a fight he didn't have the energy for.

"You're okay," Tony said quickly. "We're not coming any closer. Not unless you say so. We just—we saw you go down. Wanted to make sure you were alright."

The kid didn't respond. Didn't move. But he didn't run either.

Tony held up his hands, slow and deliberate. "I'm going to take a step closer. Just one. That okay?"

A long moment. Then, barely visible, a nod.

Tony took the step. Then another, because the kid hadn't said stop.

"You're crashing," Tony said quietly. "I've seen it before—adrenaline dump, system overload, whatever you've been running on finally giving out. It's not your fault. It's just biology." Another step. "But you need help. Medical help. The kind we can give you."

Spider-Man's breath hitched. His hand came up, pressed to his chest like he was trying to hold something in.

"I know you don't trust us," Tony continued, voice never rising, never wavering. "I know we haven't given you a reason to. But right now, I'm not asking you to trust us. I'm asking you to let us help. Just for tonight. Just until you can stand again."

The kid's head tilted. Those lenses fixed on Tony with an intensity that made his skin prickle.

Then, slowly, his hand dropped from his chest. Reached out. Not toward Tony—toward the ground beside him, like he needed something to hold onto.

Tony's heart clenched.

"Steve," he said quietly. "Give us a minute."

Steve nodded and stepped back, positioning himself at the mouth of the alley, a silent guard.

Tony moved closer. Slow. Careful. When he was close enough to touch, he stopped.

"I'm going to put my hand on your shoulder," he said. "Just to let you know I'm here. Is that okay?"

Another nod. Barely there.

Tony reached out. Let his hand rest light on the kid's shoulder.

The moment he touched him, Spider-Man crumbled.

Not dramatically. Not all at once. Just—his head dropped forward, his shoulders curled in, and a sound came out of him that was half breath, half sob. His whole frame shook with it, fine tremors running through the suit, through the muscle and bone underneath.

"Okay," Tony murmured. "Okay. I've got you."

He eased himself down to sit on the ground beside the kid, not caring about the dirt, not caring about anything except staying present, staying there. His hand never left the kid's shoulder.

"You're okay," he said. "You're safe. He's gone. Westcott's in custody. He's not coming back."

Spider-Man's breathing hitched again. His hand found Tony's arm, gripped it like a lifeline.

Tony held on.

They stayed like that for a long moment. Tony wasn't sure how long—seconds, minutes, time felt different in the dark of that alley. But eventually, the kid's breathing started to even out. Just slightly. Just enough.

"Okay," Tony said quietly. "Here's what's going to happen. We're going to get you to a medbay. Our medbay, in the Tower. It's safe, it's private, and no one's getting in or out without going through all of us." He paused. "You don't have to talk to anyone. You don't have to tell us anything. But you need fluids, you need rest, and you need someone to make sure whatever's going on inside doesn't get worse."

Spider-Man's grip on his arm tightened. Then, slowly, eased.

Tony took that as agreement.

"Steve," he called quietly. "We're going to need transport."

Steve was already on it, speaking low into his comm. A minute later, Strange stepped quietly into the alley, cloak rippling behind him. Without a word, he opened a portal—warm light spilling through, revealing the clean lines of the Tower medbay beyond.

Tony looked at the kid beside him. At the mask, the lenses, the way his whole body was still shaking.

"I'm going to help you up," he said. "And then we're going to walk through that portal, real slow. You lean on me as much as you need. Okay?"

A long moment. Then, barely visible, a nod.

Tony stood, keeping one hand on the kid's shoulder, and helped him rise. Spider-Man swayed, caught himself, and then they were moving—slow steps, uneven, toward the light.

Steve fell into step on the other side, close enough to catch if they fell, far enough not to crowd. Strange held the portal steady, expression unreadable but eyes sharp, watching.

They crossed through together.

The medbay erupted into controlled chaos the moment they emerged. Helen was there, already moving, already directing—gurney, monitors, IV stand materializing from somewhere. Tony helped lower the kid onto the bed, hands gentle, voice steady, even as his heart hammered against his ribs.

"Vitals are unstable," Helen said, clipped and professional. "Heart rate one forty and climbing. Blood pressure—someone get me—"

Tony stepped back. Then back again. The bed filled with people—nurses, equipment, Helen's sharp commands cutting through the noise. He found himself pressed against the wall, watching, useless.

The kid's mask stayed on. Those white lenses caught the overhead lights, reflecting the chaos back at him.

Then Helen was there, at his elbow, quieter now. "We've got him. He's stable—for now. But Tony." She met his eyes. "His systems are in overload. Whatever he's been running on, it's crashing hard."

Tony nodded. Didn't trust his voice.

Helen hesitated. "You should wait outside for this part. Give us room to work."

He wanted to argue. Wanted to stay. But the look on her face said it wasn't a suggestion.

So he waited.

In the observation room, with the glass between them, watching strangers save a kid who'd been alone for twelve years.

The medbay was quiet now. Sterile. The kind of quiet that made every beep of the heart monitor feel like a countdown.

There was always something—the soft hiss of ventilation pushing sterile air through ceiling vents, the distant thrum of the arc reactor core three floors below, the occasional flicker of a fluorescent bulb struggling to maintain its rhythm. Tonight, those sounds layered over each other like a blanket, muffled and constant, filling the space between heart monitor beeps with something that almost passed for quiet.

Tony had stopped noticing them hours ago.

The chair beside the bed had molded to his shape by now—or maybe he'd molded to it. Hard plastic with a thin cushion that had long since given up pretending to be comfortable. His back ached. His eyes burned. The coffee in the forgotten cup on the bedside table had developed a skin hours ago, and the smell of it had gone from inviting to acrid.

He didn't move.

Steve had tried to convince him to rest. Had appeared in the doorway around midnight with that particular expression—the one that said I'm Captain America and I'm telling you to take care of yourself. Tony had waved him off without looking up. An hour later, Natasha had drifted past, paused just long enough to raise an eyebrow, and continued on without a word. Her silence said more than Steve's concern ever could: you're being an idiot.

Tony ignored them both.

The kid was still trembling. Still too wired, even in collapse. The monitor beeped its steady rhythm—one hundred and twelve, one hundred and eight, one hundred and fourteen—numbers that should have been concerning on their own but were practically calm compared to what they'd been when they brought him in.

The mask was still on.

Those white lenses reflected the overhead lights in flat, unreadable panels. They'd been closed for hours now, but Tony couldn't shake the feeling that behind them, the kid was still watching. Still tracking. Still calculating threats even in unconsciousness.

Hypervigilance, Tony thought. Has to be. He can't turn it off.

A faint chemical tang hung in the air—antiseptic and cleaning solution, the universal language of medical spaces. Underneath it, something else. Something Tony couldn't quite name. Not unpleasant. Just... present. Like the faint static electricity before a storm.

The kid stirred.

Not dramatically—just a shift, a sharp inhale that cut through the ambient noise like a blade. Tony was on his feet before he consciously decided to move, the chair scraping against the floor with a harsh squeal that seemed too loud in the quiet room.

"Hey. Hey, you're okay." His voice came out rougher than he intended. "You're in a medbay. We've got you."

The white lenses found him. Held.

For a long moment, nothing happened. The monitor continued its steady rhythm. The kid's breathing evened out, just slightly. Those flat white panels reflected Tony's own tired face back at him, but underneath them, something was watching. Calculating. Waiting.

Then the kid's head turned. Tracking—not Tony, but the door. Where Steve had just appeared. Where Strange stood in the corner, cloak still.

The monitor ticked up. Just slightly. One eighteen. One twenty-two.

He's reacting to them, Tony realized. Not me. Them.

"Everyone out," he said quietly. "Now."

Steve hesitated. "Tony—"

"Out. Just for a minute."

Steve nodded and retreated, pulling Strange with him. The door clicked shut.

The monitor settled back down. One fourteen. One twelve. One ten.

Tony let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

"It's just me," he said, keeping his voice low. "Just me. They're gone."

The white lenses fixed on him again. Held.

Tony didn't move. Didn't push. Just stood there, hands visible, letting the kid's system recalibrate.

A long moment passed. Then another.

Finally, the kid's head dipped. Just slightly. A nod.

Twenty minutes later, Helen pulled Tony aside.

"He needs rest. Real rest—days of it, probably. But I can't do a full assessment with the mask on." She lowered her voice. "Tony, I need to see his face. Check for head trauma, signs of concussion. Every time I get close, his vitals spike."

Because he doesn't know you, Tony thought. Because he doesn't know any of us.

"I'll talk to him," Tony said.

He walked back to the bedside. Sat down in the chair he'd claimed hours ago. Didn't crowd, didn't push. Just... existed there, present.

"Hey," he said quietly. "I know you don't know us. I know you don't trust us. That's fair." He paused. "But Helen's right. We need to check you over properly. Make sure there's nothing wrong that we can't see through the suit."

The kid's head turned toward him. Those lenses unreadable.

"I'm not asking you to tell us who you are," Tony said. "I'm not asking for your real name or where you live or any of it. But the mask needs to come off for the exam. Just for the exam." He held up his hands. "I'll leave. Steve will leave. Anyone you don't want in here, they're gone. It'll just be Helen and whoever you say can stay."

A long silence.

Then, slowly, the kid's hand came up. Fumbled at the edge of his mask.

Tony held his breath.

The mask lifted.

And the world ended.

For Peter.

Tony was moving automatically, leaving, putting the reinforced glass between himself and the kid before the mask fully cleared his face.

He didn't know why he moved. Didn't consciously decide. His body just... acted. Put him on the other side of the glass with his hands pressed flat against the cool surface, watching.

Watching as the kid's eyes went wide—pupils blowing so fast it was visible even from here. Watching his breath stop, then start again too fast, too shallow, his chest heaving like he couldn't get enough air. Watching his hands come up, not to fight, just—up, fingers splayed, like he didn't know where to put them, like his body had forgotten how to exist inside its own skin.

The monitor screamed through the glass—muffled, distant, but unmistakable. Numbers climbing. One forty. One eighty. Two hundred.

Helen was there, moving, speaking, but Tony couldn't hear the words. Could only watch as the kid's whole body seized, muscles locking, spine arching off the bed. Watch as his head snapped toward the door—where Steve had just appeared in the observation room behind Tony, where Strange had followed—and screamed.

Not a word. Just sound. Tony couldn't hear it through the glass, but he felt it. Felt it in his chest, in his teeth, in the primal part of his brain that didn't know what to do with this much pain.

Steve grabbed Strange and hauled them both back from the window, out of the kid's line of sight. Tony stayed frozen, hands pressed to the glass, watching.

The kid kept shaking. But the monitor stopped climbing. Held at two thirty-two for one terrible heartbeat. Then, slowly, began to descend.

Two twenty.
Two ten.
One ninety.

Helen worked. The kid's body slowly uncurled. His eyes—bare, unprotected, young—drifted closed.

Tony stood on the other side of the glass and didn't move.

The observation room was small—just enough space for a chair and a bank of monitors displaying vitals from the bed below. The glass was reinforced, soundproofed, designed to let medical staff observe without disturbing patients who needed quiet.

Tony had never hated a room more.

Steve stood by the door, keeping his distance from the window. Strange had retreated to the corner, cloak still, expression unreadable. Neither of them spoke. The silence between them was its own kind of weight—familiar, heavy, the shape of years spent fighting side by side and years spent fighting each other.

Through the glass, Tony watched Helen work. Watched her check vitals, adjust fluids, run her scans. Watched her pause. Watched her reach for something on the bedside table—a bag, the kid's discarded bag, the one they'd found in the alley.

Watched her pull out a wallet.

Helen's expression didn't change. She opened it, glanced at the ID inside, and went still.

Just for a moment. Just long enough for Tony to notice.

Then she looked up—not at the kid, not at the monitors. At the observation window. At him.

Their eyes met through the glass.

Helen held up the ID.

Even from here, Tony could read it. The name. The face—younger, cleaner, but unmistakably the same person lying on the bed below.

Peter Parker. Age twenty-six. Queens.

The world didn't end this time.

It just... stopped.

Tony's hands were still pressed to the glass. His breath fogged the surface in slow, uneven clouds. Behind him, he heard Steve move closer—felt rather than saw him stop at the window, reading the same name, making the same connection.

"Tony," Steve said quietly. "That's—"

"I know." Tony's voice came out wrong. Scraped. "I know."

Peter Parker.

The name from the file. The victim from Westcott's file. The person Westcott had been watching for eight months. The person Spider-Man had been guarding like his life depended on it.

Because it was his life. His name. His building. His friends, his family, his everything in the crosshairs of a predator who'd been hunting him since he was four years old.

And Tony had been sitting next to him for hours. Had watched him seize and scream and break because of their presence. Had put his hands on him, made it worse, made him drown—

"His vitals are stabilizing," Strange said from the corner. Quiet. Measured. "Helen's bringing him down."

Tony didn't respond. Couldn't. Just stood there, hands on the glass, watching the rise and fall of a chest that belonged to a kid who'd been alone for twelve years.

Steve moved to stand beside him—not crowding, just there. His reflection joined Tony's in the glass, Captain America's steady presence layered over Iron Man's exhausted silhouette.

"We didn't know," Steve said quietly.

"That doesn't change anything."

"No." A pause. "But it might change what comes next."

Tony had no answer for that.

Twenty minutes passed. Then thirty.

Finally, Helen stepped out, sealing the door behind her. Her face was drawn, tired, but her eyes were sharp. She held the ID in her hand.

"You saw," she said. Not a question.

Tony nodded. Didn't turn from the window.

Helen studied him for a long moment. Then she nodded, her expression shifting into something more clinical. "That tracks with my assessment. The mask was filtering—blocking scent input, yes, but also dampening other environmental factors. Protecting him. When it came off, he got hit with everything at once. Multiple high-dominant alphas in close proximity." She pulled up her tablet, showing graphs and numbers that Tony's sleep-deprived brain could barely process. "His receptors have atrophied from lack of use. Flooding them now causes acute hyperstimulation. System shock."

Hormone levels. Receptor activity. A body that had been fighting alone for so long it had forgotten how to accept help.

"We need to reintroduce exposure gradually," Helen continued. "Hormone blockers to dial down the overload. Weeks. Maybe months. Let his system learn that alpha presence doesn't always mean threat."

Steve frowned. "And in the meantime?"

"In the meantime, we limit his exposure to high-dominant alphas." Helen's gaze moved between them—Tony, Steve, Strange. "All three of you, for starters. His system flagged you as the primary stressors. Until we can bring his baseline down, close proximity will trigger overload."

Tony nodded. It made sense. Clean, clinical sense.

The same clean, clinical sense that said a kid named Peter Parker, victim of a predator who'd been watching him for eight months, had no connection to any of them.

He filed that away for later.

Through the glass, Peter slept. Dark hair plastered to his forehead, a streak of grey at the temple that didn't belong there, dark circles under eyes that were still too aware even in unconsciousness. Young. Too young for the kind of mileage his body was showing.

Tony watched the monitor. One thirty-eight. One thirty-five. One thirty-two. Slowly stabilizing. Good.

He pulled up his tablet, started a new file. Subject: Peter Parker. Initial observations: System hyperreactive to alpha proximity. Probable cause: prolonged isolation. Recommended: gradual exposure protocol under controlled conditions.

"You're staying," Strange said. Not a question.

Tony didn't look up. "Someone needs to monitor the data."

"FRIDAY could do that."

"FRIDAY's not a doctor."

Strange's reflection in the glass raised an eyebrow. "Neither are you."

Tony ignored him.

Steve shifted, weight settling like he was preparing to argue. Then he exhaled, long and slow, and didn't. "I'll check in tomorrow. Get some rest if you can."

"I'll add it to my to-do list."

Steve's lips twitched—not quite a smile, but close. He glanced at Strange. "Coming?"

Strange hesitated, gaze lingering on the figure behind the glass. Then he nodded once, sharply, and followed Steve toward the door.

At the threshold, Steve paused. "Tony."

Tony didn't turn.

"Try not to solve everything tonight."

The door slid shut behind them.

The observation room fell quiet again. Just the hum of monitors, the soft hiss of ventilation, the distant thrum of the Tower settling into nighttime.

Tony stood at the glass for a long moment. Then, slowly, he pulled the single chair close to the window and sat down.

Below him, Peter's fingers twitched. His brow furrowed briefly, then smoothed.

Tony watched the monitor. One thirty-six. One thirty-three. One thirty.

Involuntary muscle movement consistent with REM sleep, he logged mentally. No apparent distress.

He pulled up his tablet, made another note. Pattern suggests continued hypervigilance even in sleep. Consistent with trauma history.

Then Peter stirred again—a sharp inhale, a spike on the monitor. One forty-five. One fifty-two. Tony's stylus paused.

Reactive to something, he logged. Unclear trigger. Possibly dream state.

The numbers settled back down.

Tony set the tablet aside. Rubbed his eyes. The observation room hummed around him, quiet and sterile and empty.

Through the glass, Peter slept on.

Tony kept watching anyway.