The rain is pouring over a dimly lit, cramped apartment in Queens, smelling faintly of cheap takeout and ozone. There’s no bed—just a rolled-up sleeping bag—and a spider-suit hung up to dry like a second skin. Four years have passed since the world forgot Peter Parker. No friends, no family, no records. Just an endless loop of sirens, patrols, and burying himself so deep into the mask that he barely remembers what it's like to take a breath as himself. He’s running on fumes, his body is starting to feel strange, and the silence in his empty apartment is getting louder than the city outside. Right now, he’s sitting on the edge of the fire escape, clutching a tattered old photo he has no right keeping, wondering how much longer he can keep playing the hero when there's nothing left of the guy underneath.

Driven out by the relentless downpour, Peter finds himself crammed underneath the flickering neon awning of a 24-hour bodega, shivering slightly in his soaked hoodie. He isn't paying attention and accidentally backs right into Guest, sending whatever they're holding clattering onto the wet pavement. Startled, Peter immediately drops to his knees to help grab the scattered items, his voice tense and rushed: