Cold.
That was the first thing Peter noticed. Cold concrete against his cheek. His head throbbed, a dull percussion that matched his heartbeat.
What happened? The haze in his vision cleared.
He tried to move.
His hands were bound behind him. He felt the zip ties cutting into his wrists. His ankles were lashed to chair legs. Metal folding chair. The kind you'd find at a church basement or... a construction site.
Peter's eyes opened slowly. The world swam into focus. Unfinished walls. Exposed rebar. Plastic sheeting hanging from scaffolding. Dawn light filtered through gaps in the structure, painting everything in shades of grey and orange.
Where—?
Memory hit him like a fist.
The park. Following Poindexter. Waiting for his moment. The man had stopped to stretch by a fence, back turned. Peter had moved in, taser ready, finger on the trigger—
And then Poindexter had moved.
Faster than Peter could process. One moment the man's back was turned. The next, Peter's own taser was pressed against his ribs.
The world had gone white.
Now he was here.
Peter tried to speak. His jaw screamed in protest—wrong, wrong, broken—and all that came out was a choked gurgle. Blood in his mouth. Copper taste. He could feel his jaw sitting at an odd angle.
"Awake. Good."
The voice came from his left. Casual. Almost friendly.
Benjamin Poindexter stepped into view.
He looked different up close. Taller than Peter expected. Lean, but with the kind of muscle that came from discipline, not a gym. His face was unremarkable—the kind you'd forget in a crowd. Brown hair, clean-shaven, maybe mid-thirties. He wore running gear still. Grey athletic shirt. Black shorts. Running shoes.
The bullseye tattoo on his right hand seemed to pulse in Peter's vision.
"You've been out for about twenty minutes," Poindexter said. He crouched down to Peter's eye level, studying him like a specimen. "Gave you a love tap to the jaw when you went down. Sorry about that. Well. Not really."
Peter strained against the zip ties. They cut deeper.
"Easy, kid. Those are rated for two hundred and fifty pounds. You're what, one-sixty soaking wet?" Poindexter tilted his head. "You know, I almost admire the balls. Following me. Trying to play detective. The camera was a nice touch."
He held up Peter's Yachica Electro 35.
Then he dropped it.
The camera hit the concrete. The lens shattered with a sharp crack that made Peter flinch.
"Oops."
Poindexter walked in a slow circle around Peter's chair. His footsteps echoed in the empty construction site.
"So. Peter Parker. Sixteen years old. Orphan now, technically. Well, half-orphan. Your aunt's still breathing. For now." He paused behind Peter. "You want to know if I did it. If I pulled the trigger."
Peter tried to speak again. More gurgling. More blood.
"Oh right. The jaw. My bad. Tell you what—I'll do the talking. You just... listen."
Poindexter moved back into view. He leaned against a stack of concrete blocks, arms crossed. Relaxed. Like they were having coffee.
"Yeah. I shot them. Both of them. Six rounds. Center mass, mostly. Your uncle took three to the head. Had to make sure, you know? He was trying to shield your aunt. Sweet, really. Pointless, but sweet."
Peter's vision tunneled. Red at the edges.
"The old lady—May, right?—she took the other three. Shoulder, chest, gut. I was aiming for vitals but the angle was off. She twisted at the last second. Tough old bird." He smiled. "Shame she lived. Would've been cleaner."
Peter lunged forward. The chair didn't budge. The zip ties cut deeper into his wrists. He felt something warm—blood—start to drip from his hands.
"There it is. There's the fight." Poindexter laughed. Not cruel. Almost... appreciative. The psycho was enjoying this, Peter could see it in his eyes. "You know what's funny? I wanted you to see it."
What?
Poindexter held up his right hand, turning it so the bullseye caught the light. "The tattoo, I mean."
"I kept my hand out the window longer than I needed to. Made sure it was visible. I thought—maybe the kid's watching. Maybe he's smart enough to notice. Maybe this'll eat him alive."
Peter made a sound. No words. Just rage.
"And you did notice. You figured it out. Tracked me down. Very impressive. Very stupid." Poindexter pushed off the blocks and walked closer. "You know why I killed them? Your uncle and aunt?"
Peter stared at him. Breathing hard through his nose.
"They were witnesses. Wrong place, wrong time. Well—your aunt was the witness. Hospital. Saw something she shouldn't have. Your uncle?" Poindexter shrugged. "Collateral. Could've let him live, I guess. But loose ends are messy. And I don't do messy work."
He crouched again. Eye level.
"You want me to say a name, don't you? You want me to give you someone to blame. Someone higher up the chain." His smile widened. "But see, that's not how this works. I'm a professional, kid. I don't give up clients. Even when the client is... let's say generous with donations to Hell's Kitchen."
Wilson Fisk. He wasn't saying it. But he was saying it.
"Here's what's going to happen," Poindexter continued. "I'm going to call the cops. Tell them I caught some kid stalking me. Breaking and entering. Assault with a weapon—you brought a taser, that counts. They'll find you here, all tied up and pitiful. Broken jaw. Can't talk. Can't defend yourself."
He stood.
"And the best part? The cops already think you're unstable. You made a scene at the hospital, right? Attacked some other kids? They've got that on record." Poindexter pulled his phone out and typed something into it. He then turned the screen to Peter, holding it a breath away from his face.
"Don't you know? Your famous kid."
On the screen was the incident at the hospital, his pain remade into a meme—1.8 million views and counting—for the internet to feast on. Peter saw the title, ' Justice punch—jerk knocked out for insulting police Captains kid'. The scene where Harry knocked him down was on replay to the sound of some ridiculously catchy theme.
Poindexter chuckled. "Gotta love the internet, am I right?"
"So, now you know. When you try to tell them about me, about what I 'allegedly' did..." He made air quotes. "Well. You're just a traumatized kid with a vendetta. Making stuff up. No evidence. Just a tattoo and a conspiracy theory."
Peter struggled again. Harder. The chair scraped against concrete but didn't tip.
"Oh, and that recording device you had in your pocket?" Poindexter held up Peter's phone. The screen was cracked. "Shame. Must've broken in the scuffle."
He dropped it. Stomped on it. The phone crunched under his heel.
"There we go. All cleaned up."
Peter's breathing was ragged. Desperate. His jaw was on fire. His wrists were bleeding. And Poindexter was dialing.
"Yeah, hi. I'd like to report an assault. Some kid jumped me during my morning run. I managed to restrain him but he's pretty banged up. Construction site off Archer Street..."
Poindexter walked away, still talking into the phone. Giving details. Playing the victim.
Peter pulled against the zip ties until his wrists went numb. Nothing. They held.
Two weeks. Two weeks he'd spent planning this. Researching. Surveilling. Preparing.
And he'd failed.
Worse than failed.
He'd given Poindexter exactly what he wanted—a scared, broken kid to humiliate.
Poindexter ended the call. Walked back over.
"Cops'll be here in five, maybe ten. I'll stick around. Play the concerned citizen. Tell them you were rambling about conspiracies. They'll eat it up." He studied Peter for a moment. "You know what your problem is, kid? You thought you were smart. Thought you could play in the big leagues."
He leaned in close. Close enough that Peter could smell coffee on his breath.
"But you're not strong enough. Not fast enough. Not nearly ruthless enough." His voice dropped to a whisper. "Your uncle learned that too. Right before the third bullet."
Peter snapped.
He threw his weight forward, trying to headbutt Poindexter. Trying to bite. Trying anything.
Poindexter stepped back easily. Then his fist caught Peter in the temple.
The world tilted.
Peter felt the chair tip. Felt himself hit the concrete. Felt the cold seeping back in.
"Sleep tight, kid. When you wake up, you'll be in the back of a squad car. And I'll be jogging home."
Poindexter's footsteps faded.
Sirens. Distant but getting closer.
Peter's vision grayed at the edges. He tried to hold on. Tried to stay conscious.
But the dark was pulling him down.
His last thought before the black took him:
I'm not strong enough.
***
Flashing lights.
Voices.
A blur of motion.
Hands on him. Cutting the zip ties. Lifting him.
Peter's eyes cracked open. Blurry. Everything blurred.
He was moving. Being carried. Ambulance? No. Cop car. Back seat.
Through the window—there.
Poindexter. Standing by a police officer. Talking. Gesturing. Playing his part.
The man caught Peter's eye.
And smiled.
Then he waved.
A small, friendly wave. Like he was seeing off a friend.
The cop car pulled away.
Peter stared at that waving hand until it disappeared from view.
The bullseye tattoo was the last thing he saw before the construction site was gone.
Peter's jaw throbbed. His wrists bled. His head pounded.
But worse than any of that—worse than the pain—was the cold realization settling into his chest.
He'd lost.
Poindexter had won.
And there was nothing Peter could do about it.
Not yet.
Not like this.
I need to… to what? He had already lost. This didn't feel like victory. He got his answers, but what does that matter? There was nothing he could do about it.
I just need time. Another chance. Just one shot...
The thought wasn't entirely his own. It came from somewhere deeper. Colder.
The cop car drove on into the morning light.
Peter closed his eyes.
***
"I don't get it, Pete. Just help me understand this?" Anna Watson said from the driver's seat. She closed her eyes and leaned her temple against the steering wheel, a tired sigh escaped her lips.
Hours later, after questions he couldn't answer and a jaw they wouldn't set without ID, the cops called Anna. He was free to go since Poindexter wasn't pressing charges. The drive back was quiet until she pulled up the driveway and parked her car.
Peter had no answers for her. The teen decided to mumble a simple. "I can't," through his broken jaw.
Anna stared at him for a beat or two through the strands of her brunette hair, she then pushed herself up and let loose another exasperated sigh as if to collect herself,
"Jesus kid... How am I suppose to help you? Get out. Just go put some ice on that, will ya, and don't think just cause I'm letting this go—"
Peter swiftly made his way out of the car before she could finish.
He winced as he walked with his head down. With one hand cradling his jaw, he clicked the door open and walked into Anna's home, making a beeline for the kitchen fridge.
"What the fuck?"
Peter paused mid-step.
She wasn't supposed to be back until next week. Did they come back early?
Red, fiery hair filled his vision, and a pair of wide green eyes locked onto his.
Dressed in nothing but an oversized white NASA t-shirt that reached above her knees, Mary Jane Watson looked at him flabbergasted.
Chapter End