Crime, as it turns out, never takes nights off.
I'm three hours into what was supposed to be a simple patrol—one of those late-night swings meant to clear my head, get some distance from the weird team dynamics and the clipboard I keep losing and the nagging feeling that something's off with Constrictor that I can't quite name.
Just me, the city, and the rhythmic *thwip-thwip* of web-slinging that's become as natural as breathing.
New York looks different from up here. Cleaner, somehow. The dirt and grime and decay that clings to street level gets washed out by distance and perspective. Up here, it's just lights and movement and the hum of eight million people doing eight million different things, most of them not asking me for help.
It's peaceful.
Which is exactly when I hear the shouting.
Of course.
I angle downward, swinging low between buildings, following the sound to a narrow alley off Houston Street. The scene crystallizes as I descend: two guys in hoodies, one terrified civilian backing against a dumpster, and—
Wait.
There's a fourth person.
Someone in a blue hoodie and what looks like a homemade mask—fabric stretched over their face, eye holes cut unevenly, the whole thing held in place with what might be a headband. They're standing between the muggers and the civilian, arms spread wide like they're trying to look bigger than they are.
"Back off!" the blue-hooded figure shouts, voice high and tight with adrenaline. "I'm warning you!"
One of the muggers laughs. "You're warning *us*? Kid, you better—"
Blue Hoodie launches forward.
Or tries to.
What actually happens is they misjudge the distance, stumble over their own feet, and nearly face-plant into the pavement. They catch themselves at the last second, regain balance, and keep charging with the kind of determination that would be inspiring if it wasn't so clearly about to get them killed.
My stomach drops.
Because I recognize this.
Not the person—I've never seen them before. But the energy. The improvised gear. The shaking hands and the unsteady stance and the desperate, reckless bravery of someone who has absolutely no idea what they're doing but refuses to stand by and do nothing.
I recognize it because I used to *be* it.
I drop into the alley, landing between Blue Hoodie and the muggers with enough force to crack the pavement. Both criminals freeze, eyes going wide.
"Evening, fellas," I say, brushing imaginary dust off my shoulder. "Beautiful night for a felony, huh? Really brings out the city's natural charm."
They run.
Or try to.
I web one guy's legs together before he makes it three steps. The other gets his hand stuck to the dumpster mid-reach for a weapon. Two seconds, done, no drama. I've done this dance a thousand times.
Behind me, I hear rapid, shallow breathing.
I turn.
Blue Hoodie is standing there, staring at me with wide eyes visible through those uneven mask holes. Up close, I can see more details: the hoodie is faded and worn, the mask is definitely hand-sewn, and there's a utility belt made from what looks like an old backpack strap with random pockets stitched on.
And their knuckles are bruised. Fresh bruises, purple and swollen.
"You okay?" I ask.
They nod. Then shake their head. Then nod again.
"I—yeah. Yes. I'm okay. That was—you're—" They take a breath, trying to compose themselves. "Thank you. I almost had it, though. I was just about to—"
"Trip over your own feet and get stabbed?" I suggest gently.
"I stumbled," they correct, defensive. "That's different."
The civilian they were defending takes the opportunity to bolt, muttering something about calling the police. Smart. That's what civilians should do.
I web-zip the two muggers to the dumpster for good measure, then turn my full attention to Blue Hoodie.
"So," I say, keeping my tone light. "You do this often? The whole vigilante thing?"
"I'm not a—I mean, I'm trying to help. Like you."
"Like me," I repeat. "Right. And how long have you been trying?"
They hesitate. "Three weeks."
Oh no.
"Three weeks. Okay. And in those three weeks, how many times have you almost gotten seriously hurt?"
Another hesitation. Longer this time.
"Tonight doesn't count," they say finally.
"Tonight absolutely counts." I gesture at their torn sleeve, the bruised knuckles, the crooked mask. "Where'd you get the gear?"
"Made it myself."
"And the training?"
"I've been watching videos. YouTube, mostly. And I've been practicing at home. I have a heavy bag."
Of course they do.
I want to laugh, but it's not funny. It's terrifying. Because this is exactly how bad decisions start—with good intentions and YouTube tutorials and a heavy bag in a garage somewhere.
"Why?" I ask. "Why are you doing this?"
Blue Hoodie straightens, and I can hear the conviction in their voice even through the fabric mask.
"Because of you."
The words hit harder than I expected.
"Because of me," I echo, suddenly wanting to be anywhere else.
"Yes. I've been watching you since you appearedon Avenger Tryouts Season 4. Saving people. Fighting for them. Making a difference. And I realized—someone has to try, right? Someone has to stand up. If not me, then who?"
I force a laugh, but it comes out wrong. Hollow.
"That's… a great sentiment. Really. But you realize I have actual powers, right? Super-strength, spider-sense, wall-crawling, the whole package. You just have—" I gesture vaguely at their homemade gear. "—enthusiasm."
"You started somewhere too," they counter. "You weren't always this good."
True. Painfully true.
"Yeah," I admit. "But I also made a lot of mistakes. Got hurt more times than I can count. And I had powers to fall back on. You don't."
"So I should just give up? Let people get hurt because I'm not good enough?"
"No. I'm saying—" I pause, trying to find the right words. The words I wish someone had said to me before Uncle Ben died. "I'm saying this is dangerous. Really dangerous. Training matters. Preparation matters. Luck runs out. And when it does, someone gets hurt. Usually you."
Blue Hoodie is quiet for a moment. Then, softly:
"If you hadn't tried, people would've died. Right? Back when you started?"
That one stings.
Because she's—they're—right. Of course they're right.
If I hadn't tried, if I hadn't put on the mask and swung out into the city despite having no idea what I was doing, how many people would've died? How many robberies would've gone unstopped? How many fires would've burned out of control?
But also: if I'd been smarter, more careful, more *trained*—would Uncle Ben still be alive?
Before I can respond, sirens wail in the distance, getting closer. And then—shouting. Different voices, panicked, coming from the street beyond the alley.
Blue Hoodie's head snaps toward the sound.
"Someone needs help," they say.
"Stay here," I order, already moving.
They don't stay.
Of course they don't.
I web-swing onto the main street and find another situation developing—minor, contained, just a drunk driver who clipped a fire hydrant and is now arguing with bystanders about whose fault it was while water geysers into the air.
Nothing dangerous. Just messy and loud.
Blue Hoodie lands beside me. Badly. They roll, come up limping slightly, but they're up.
"I said stay," I point out.
"You said someone needs help."
"I also said *stay*."
"You're not my dad."
"Thank God for that. Your dad would have a heart attack watching you do this."
Blue Hoodie hesitates, and I catch something in their posture. A wince. A flinch.
"My dad doesn't know," they say quietly.
Oh. Oh no.
I take a breath. The drunk driver is still arguing, but the police are pulling up now, lights flashing. The situation's under control. I turn to Blue Hoodie.
"Okay. Listen. You want to help? You want to make a difference? Here's what you do."
They straighten, attentive.
"See that guy?" I point at the drunk driver. "He's about to do something stupid. Probably try to run or start swinging. I need you to position yourself there—" I indicate a spot near the patrol car. "If he runs, you trip him. Not tackle. Not punch. Just trip. Can you do that?"
Blue Hoodie nods.
"Good. And if he doesn't run?"
"Then I don't do anything."
"Exactly. Sometimes the best help is just being ready."
They move into position. Awkwardly, but they move. And they do it quietly, without drawing attention, blending into the small crowd of onlookers.
The drunk driver sees the cops, makes his calculation, and bolts.
Right toward Blue Hoodie.
They don't panic. Don't freeze. Just stick out a foot at exactly the right moment and let momentum do the work. The guy goes down hard, and two officers are on him before he can get back up.
Blue Hoodie looks at me, eyes bright behind the crooked mask.
I give them a thumbs up.
---
Twenty minutes later, after the cops have left and the hydrant's been shut off and the crowd's dispersed, Blue Hoodie and I sit on the edge of a rooftop overlooking the street.
They're still buzzing with adrenaline, talking rapid-fire about the takedown, about how they "totally nailed the timing," about how they want to learn more.
I let them talk. It reminds me of myself at fifteen, high on success, convinced I was invincible.
Eventually, they wind down.
"You did good," I say. "Really. That was smart, controlled, effective. Everything vigilante work should be."
"But?"
"But you were also reckless getting here. Your gear is inadequate. Your training is non-existent. And you're going to get yourself killed if you keep doing this alone."
They deflate slightly. "So… you're saying I should stop."
"I'm saying you need to slow down. Learn. Train properly. Get real gear. Understand what you're actually getting into before you dive deeper."
"I can't afford real gear."
"Then you improvise better. Reinforce what you have. Learn to fall without breaking bones. Learn when *not* to engage." I pause. "You've got courage. That's rare. But courage without skill is just another word for lucky. And luck runs out."
Blue Hoodie is quiet for a long moment.
Then, tentative and hopeful:
"Could you… teach me?"
The question hangs in the air between us.
I don't answer immediately.
Because the truth is complicated. I'm barely holding my own team together. I'm dealing with trust issues and Elaine and the constant, grinding weight of responsibility I never asked for. I'm not qualified to train someone. I'm not even sure I'm qualified to lead.
But I also remember being fifteen and desperate and alone, trying to figure everything out through trial and error and blood.
I remember wishing someone had been there to guide me. To warn me. To tell me which mistakes were survivable and which ones weren't.
I never had that voice.
Maybe I could be it for someone else.
"I'll think about it," I say finally. "But if—and that's a big if—I agree, you follow my rules. No improvising. No solo patrols. No unnecessary risks. Understood?"
"Understood." They practically vibrate with excitement.
"And you tell your dad."
That kills the excitement. "What? No. He'll—"
"He'll worry. Which he should. Because this is dangerous. And if you're going to do it, the people who care about you deserve to know."
"He'll try to stop me."
"Maybe. Or maybe he'll surprise you." I stand, stretching. "Either way, that's the deal. You want my help? That's the price."
Blue Hoodie stands too, slower, processing.
"Okay," they say finally. "I'll tell him."
"Good. Now go home. Get some sleep. And for the love of God, ice those knuckles."
They nod, then pause at the roof's edge.
"Thank you," they say. "For not just… sending me away."
"Yeah, well. Someone should've done it for me. Maybe things would've turned out different."
They don't ask what I mean. Just nod, wave awkwardly, and then—somehow—manage a clumsy but functional grappling hook descent to the street below.
I watch them disappear into the night, hood pulled up, mask probably shoved in a pocket.
Safe. For now.
I sit back down, legs dangling over the edge, staring at the city that never sleeps and never stops needing someone to save it.
"Someone inspired me once," I murmur to the empty air. "I never got a warning. Never got training. Never got told that the cost would be this high."
A police siren wails somewhere distant. An ambulance answers. The city's endless song.
"Maybe this time," I say softly, "I can be the voice I never had."
And then I swing off into the dark, heading home, thinking about responsibility and legacy and the strange, terrifying cycle of heroes creating heroes.
Hoping I don't screw this up too badly.
Because I've already screwed up enough for one lifetime.