Gwen was half on top of me, her head on my chest, one of my old Midtown High shirts riding up just enough that I could feel the warmth of her stomach against my side. My arm was around her, fingers tracing lazy circles on her shoulder because it felt like the most natural thing in the world now. The living room was dark except for the TV glow, some late-night news anchor with perfect hair and a voice like warm syrup reading the end of an era.
Anchor: …Joseph Lorenzini, better known as Hammerhead, was sentenced today to eight consecutive life terms without parole. Federal prosecutors called it the most comprehensive takedown of organized crime in New York history. Alongside Lorenzini, thirty-seven high-ranking Maggia members, six corrupt NYPD detectives, two city councilmen, and a deputy mayor all accepted plea deals or were convicted on charges ranging from racketeering and murder-for-hire to drug trafficking and human trafficking. The evidence, an anonymous data dump now confirmed authentic by multiple agencies, included decades of financial records, audio of bribes, and video from hidden cameras in trafficking safehouses.
They cut to footage of Hammerhead in an orange jumpsuit, steel plate on his head catching the courtroom lights, face slack like someone had pulled the plug on the man he used to be. The anchor kept talking.
Anchor: Among the most damning revelations were recordings of Lorenzini personally ordering the 2025 attempt on Captain George Stacy's life, as well as direct involvement in the fentanyl trade responsible for over two hundred deaths in the tri-state area last year alone.
Gwen's fingers tightened on my shirt.
Gwen: You did this.
She said, quiet, almost wondering.
I exhaled, long and slow.
Peter: Gaia did most of the digging. I just told her where to aim.
She shifted, propping her chin on my chest so she could look at me. Her hair was still damp from the shower, falling across her face in soft waves.
Gwen: You legally buried him, Peter. Alive. That's… colder than killing him.
Peter: Yeah.
I stared at the screen where they were now showing old photos—Hammerhead young and smiling next to some politician who was currently sweating in a holding cell.
Peter: Killing him would've been quick. A headline for a day, maybe a week. This? This is forever. Every morning he wakes up in a six-by-eight, he'll know exactly why. Every time someone googles his name, they'll see the files. The girls he sold. The kids who overdosed on his product. The cops he paid to look away. He gets to live with that. That felt… fairer.
Gwen was quiet for a long time, just breathing with me. The anchor moved on to some city councilman crying in court, claiming he "didn't know" where the money came from.
Gwen: You okay?
She asked finally.
I thought about it. Really thought about it. The weight of what I'd done—unleashing decades of rot onto the world, knowing some of it would splash back on innocents, knowing I'd crossed a line I could never uncross. But then I thought about the Widows who'd come for us, the way Gwen had bled on that rooftop, the way Hammerhead had ordered a hit on her dad like it was Tuesday's trash pickup.
Peter: I'm okay. I'm really okay. He sent assassins after us, Gwen. After you. After May and Ben if he ever found out who I was. I gave him a cage instead of a grave. That's mercy.
She nodded, slow, then laid her head back down. Her fingers found mine, lacing them together like it was the simplest thing in the world.
Gwen: They're saying the leak saved lives. Trafficking rings shut down overnight. Kids pulled out of those factories. Cops who were on the take turning in their badges before the feds even knocked.
Peter: Good. That's what it was for.
The news cut to a press conference, some federal prosecutor looking smug while cameras flashed. Gwen reached for the remote and killed the volume, leaving just the low hum of the house and the sound of us breathing.
Gwen: You ever think we're becoming the bad guys?
She asked, so quiet I almost missed it.
I tightened my arm around her.
Peter: Every day. But then I remember the girls he sold. The kids he got hooked. The cops he paid to look away while Captain Stacy bled out on a warehouse floor. And I sleep just fine.
She was quiet again, then turned her face up to mine.
Gwen: You're scary when you're righteous, Parker.
Peter: Righteous is a strong word. I prefer thorough.
She laughed, soft and tired, and pressed her lips to the underside of my jaw.
Gwen: Thorough works.
We stayed like that, tangled on the couch, the TV flickering silent now, just two kids who'd burned an empire to the ground and were trying to figure out what came next.
I kissed the top of her head.
Peter: Tomorrow we figure out SHIELD. Tonight we just… breathe.
She nodded against my chest, fingers tracing the line of my collarbone through the shirt.
Gwen: Tonight we breathe.
And for the first time in weeks, we did.
Timeskip
I walked into the diner like I owned the place, which, let's be honest, with the money in my account, I could buy the whole block if I felt like it. The bell above the door jingled lazy, the kind of sound that hadn't changed since the fifties, and the smell hit me first—grease and coffee, the burnt-edge kind that stuck to your clothes and made you hungry even if you'd just eaten. The place was half-dead at this hour, a couple of truckers nursing mugs at the counter, a waitress with a nametag reading "Doris" wiping down a booth like it had personally offended her. I spotted Natasha right away, tucked in the back corner, red hair tied back, black jacket zipped to her chin, nursing a cup of something that looked like motor oil.
I slid into the booth opposite her, hoodie up, the white hair skin active under the hood so anyone glancing my way would just see some kid cosplaying as that vigilante from the news. Vector. Funny how that name stuck. Natasha's eyes flicked up, green and sharp, taking me in like she was deciding if I was worth the coffee she'd already bought.
Peter: names So, let me guess. You wanna recruit me into SHIELD?
She didn't blink. Didn't smile. Just set her mug down slow, the ceramic clinking soft against the Formica.
Natasha: Normally, yeah. In fact, I wouldn't mind at all. You're good, kid. What I saw on that roof last night? That's not street-level stuff. That's asset material.
I nodded, keeping my face neutral, but inside my head was spinning. Normally, I'd be game. SHIELD sounded like a safety net, resources, backup when the next Hammerhead rolled in. But this timeline? I wouldn't be surprised if Hydra still had their claws deep in it, pulling strings Fury didn't even see. The files Gaia pulled were old, but they painted a picture—infestation, the kind that rotted from the inside out. Joining now would be like walking into a spider web blind.
Peter: Your SHIELD isn't SHIELD right now. So unfortunately, I can't officially join. But... I'll need some convincing.
Natasha's eyebrow arched, just a fraction, the kind of look that said she'd heard every line in the book.
Natasha: Convincing. Like what, a signing bonus? Pension plan?
I shrugged, picking up the menu even though I knew I wouldn't eat.
Peter: Bribes work. Incentives. Whatever you call it when you want someone on your team bad enough to make it worth their while.
She leaned forward, elbows on the table, that green stare pinning me like a bug.
Natasha: You think this is some joke? Two kids taking down four Red Room Widows without a single body bag? That's not a game. That's a threat. Or an opportunity. Fury sees potential. I see it too. But you pull stunts like that leak on Hammerhead, you're playing with fire.
I flipped a page in the menu, not reading.
Peter: You saw what I can do fighting-wise. And let's be honest, you haven't seen anything yet. That leak? Yeah, that was me. Had Gaia my personal digging for weeks—every bad deed, every dirty secret. I knew even if we beat those Widows, he'd come for us again. So why not remove him legally? Better than killing him. He gets to watch his empire fall, his name turn to poison. Every morning in that cell, he wakes up knowing exactly why.
Natasha didn't move, but I could see the wheels turning behind those eyes. She picked up her mug, took a sip, set it down.
Natasha: You released everything. The Naples garrote from '78? The Bronx headshots? The fentanyl labs killing kids? That's not just a leak. That's a war crime on paper. You buried him alive.
Peter: Legally. No bodies. No guns. Just truth. What other dirt do I have? Plenty. But you want me on your side? Convince me SHIELD's worth it.
She sat back, crossing her arms, the leather of her jacket creaking soft.
Natasha: What do you want, then? Money? Gear? A get-out-of-jail-free card for the next time you blow up a warehouse?
I set the menu down, leaned in a little.
Peter: Why not investigate SHIELD? What you think it is may not be what it is. Tell Fury. Motherfucker needs to know.
Her eyes narrowed, just a hair, but she didn't pull away.
Natasha: You saying something?
Peter: I'm saying look closer. The leaks I pull? They're not just for show. Hydra's still in the walls. You know it. Fury might not. But if you want me, clean house first.
Natasha was quiet for a long beat, the diner sounds filling the space—Doris calling an order to the cook, a trucker laughing at his paper. She drummed her fingers on the table, once, twice.
Natasha: You got balls, kid. Digging that deep? Dangerous.
Peter: Everything's dangerous. But you saw the Widows. Saw what Hammerhead called down on two kids. SHIELD's supposed to be the good guys. Act like it.
She pushed her mug aside, leaned in.
Natasha: Suppose I make that call. What then? You sign up, play nice?
I smiled, small.
Peter: Convince me.
The waitress wandered over then, notepad out.
Doris: What'll it be, hon?
Natasha: Two coffees. Black.
She said, not breaking eye contact. Doris jotted it, wandered off. Natasha leaned back.
Natasha: You want info? On what?
I thought about it, the words hanging heavy. Parents. Richard and Mary Parker. The files Gaia had teased but never fully cracked—classified, buried under layers I couldn't touch without drawing eyes. But saying it out loud? That was handing her a key to me.
Peter: Later. First, the housecleaning.
She nodded, slow.
Natasha: Fair. But if you're wrong—
Peter: I'm not.
Coffee came, steaming black. Natasha sipped, eyes never leaving mine.
Natasha: Deal. But you pull another leak like that without a heads-up, we're on opposite sides.
I lifted my mug.
Peter: Deal.
We drank in silence, the city waking outside, the diner filling with the morning rush. The war was on hold, for now. But I knew it wouldn't last.
Natasha set her mug down.
Natasha: Tomorrow. My office. Bring the girl.
I nodded.
Peter: She's the brains.
She almost smiled.
Natasha: See you then.
I tossed cash on the table and stood, hoodie up, white hair catching the light. The bell jingled as I left, the door swinging shut behind me.
Third person view
Natasha watched the kid push through the diner door, the bell jingling behind him like it was in on the joke. He didn't look back, just melted into the morning crowd on the sidewalk—hood up, white hair peeking out, hands in pockets like he was strolling to class instead of walking away from a conversation that could upend her whole world. The street was starting to fill, delivery guys hauling boxes, a mom herding two kids toward the bus stop, the city grinding into gear without a clue that a seventeen-year-old had just dropped a bomb bigger than most ops she'd run.
She sat there a minute longer, coffee going cold in her mug, the bitter dregs sticking to her tongue. The booth felt too small now, the vinyl cracking under her elbow like it was echoing the fracture in her head. Peter. Vector. Whatever name he hid behind, he wasn't a kid. Not the way he'd looked at her, eyes steady, voice even when he said "motherfucker" like he'd been saving it for Fury personally. He'd known. Not guessed—known. Like he'd read the files, the ones buried so deep even she had to pull strings to get a peek.
Doris shuffled over, rag in hand, eyeing the empty mugs.
Doris: More coffee, hon? Or you two lovebirds done jawing?
Natasha forced a smile, the kind that didn't reach her eyes.
Natasha: We're good. Thanks.
The waitress nodded, wiped the table with a swipe that smeared more than it cleaned, and moved on. Natasha pulled her jacket tighter, the leather creaking soft, and fished out her phone. Hill first. Protocol. Always protocol, even when it felt like chasing smoke.
The line picked up on the first ring.
Hill: Romanoff. You get anything from the meet?
Natasha glanced at the door again, half-expecting the kid to stroll back in with a grin and a follow-up.
Natasha: Got a name. Peter. No last name yet, but he's Vector. The spider girl's his partner—Ghost-Spider. They're tight. He wants in, but not blind. Said SHIELD's 'not SHIELD right now.' Dropped Hydra like it was casual chat.
Hill went quiet, the kind of quiet that meant she was already three steps ahead, mind racing through contacts and contingencies. Natasha could picture her in the ops room, fingers tapping the console, dark hair slipping from its ponytail.
Hill: Hydra. Christ. You buy it?
Natasha: Buy it? He didn't blink. Said to tell Fury the 'motherfucker needs to know.' Like they'd met. Kid's got access, Maria. Deep access. He admitted to the Hammerhead leak—said he had his AI digging for weeks. Wanted the bastard to rot in a cell, watching it all burn. No bodies, no mess, just truth.
Hill: AI?
Hill's voice sharpened, the word hanging like a hook.
Hill: What AI? SHIELD tech?
Natasha shook her head, even though Hill couldn't see it.
Natasha: Didn't say. Called it Gaia. Didn't push—he shut down fast. But he's not some basement hacker kid. This is organized. Resources. The leak was surgical—every file, every timestamp, every photo from '78 to last week. He buried Hammerhead without breaking a sweat. That's not amateur. That's calculated.
The line hummed with Hill's thinking, the faint click of keys in the background.
Hill: Fury's going to want a full rundown. You set the meet?
Natasha: Tomorrow. Triskelion annex. My office. Said to bring the girl—she's the brains, apparently.
She paused, stirring the dregs in her mug with her spoon.
Natasha: Maria, treat him like a kid and he'll walk. He's not. Seen too much, done too much. Dropping 'motherfucker' for Fury? That's not guesswork. He knows the man's style. Knows the game.
Hill sighed, the sound tired, like she'd been carrying the weight of this op too long.
Hill: Understood. I'll brief him. Extraction on the Widows went smooth—med teams patched the worst, they're in holding at the Farm. No chatter from the Room. They're ghosts, like always.
Natasha: Good. Keep it that way. Last thing we need is Dreykov's ghosts circling back for round two.
She hung up, pocketing the phone, and waved Doris over for the check. The waitress slid it across with a wink, no change needed on the twenty. Natasha left it, stepping out into the morning air that hit cool and damp, the city grinding into gear with buses rumbling and horns bleating impatient. She zipped her jacket higher, hands in pockets, and started walking toward the subway, the kid's words sticking like burrs in her mind. Hydra in the walls. Fury needing to know. She'd defected from the Room because she'd seen what blind loyalty did, the way it turned you into a tool that forgot it had a soul. SHIELD was supposed to be different. Better.
But if Peter was right, it wasn't.
The subway stairs swallowed her, the rumble of the train vibrating up through her boots. She found a seat in the half-full car, back to the wall, eyes on the doors. Commuters avoided her gaze, the kind of instinct that came from years of spotting trouble. Natasha pulled her comm unit from her sleeve, thumb hovering over Fury's direct line. The car lurched forward, lights flickering, and she hit call.
The line rang once.
Fury: Fury.
Natasha: Director, we need to talk. About the kid from the roof. And something he said that you won't like.
A pause, the kind Fury used when he knew it was bad, the line humming like a held breath.
Fury: Talk.
Natasha shifted, boot tapping the floor.
Natasha: His name's Peter. No last name yet, but he's Vector. The spider girl's his partner—Ghost-Spider. They're solid. He wants in, but not blind. Said SHIELD's 'not SHIELD right now.' Dropped Hydra casual, like it was Tuesday trivia. Said to tell you the 'motherfucker needs to know.' Like you'd met.
Fury's end went dead silent, the kind of quiet that meant he was already rewriting plans in his head. Natasha could picture him in that office, eyepatch casting a shadow, fingers steepled, mind three moves ahead.
Fury: Hydra. How the hell does a kid know that word?
Natasha: That's what I'm asking. He didn't guess. He knew. Said he's got access—deep access. Admitted to the Hammerhead leak. Had his AI on it for weeks, digging every dirty secret from '78 Naples to last week's fentanyl labs. Wanted the bastard to rot in a cell, watching his empire burn. No bodies, no guns, just truth. Surgical. Like he had a vault waiting for the right moment.
Fury: AI? What AI? SHIELD?
Natasha: No. Called it Gaia. Didn't elaborate. Shut down when I pushed. But Nick, he's not some high school hacker. The leak was too clean—timestamps, audio, manifests, photos from trafficking raids with faces blurred but details that match our files to the letter. He buried Hammerhead without a trace of regret. That's not a kid. That's a player.
Fury exhaled, the sound rough over the line.
Fury: Set the meet. Tomorrow. Triskelion. Bring the girl.
Natasha: Already did. His office, annex. Said she's the brains. But Nick, treat him like a kid and he'll bolt. He's seen too much, done too much. Dropping 'motherfucker' for you? That's not bluff. He knows your style. Knows the game better than most agents.
The train rattled into a tunnel, signal cutting for a second, then back. Fury's voice when it came was low, the director's tone that meant wheels turning.
Fury: Hydra. If he's right... we have a problem.
Natasha: He's right. I've felt it. Delays on ops, redacted files that shouldn't be, names in the chatter that don't belong. You're blind to it, or pretending. But the kid isn't. He wants convincing. Said to clean house first.
Fury went quiet again, the line humming with his thinking.
Fury: Convincing. Like what?
Natasha: Money, gear, whatever. But it's not about that. It's about trust. He wants SHIELD to be SHIELD. No shadows.
The train lurched to a stop, doors hissing open. Natasha stood, blending into the exiting crowd.
Natasha: Tomorrow, Nick. My office. And bring something real. Kid's not bluffing.
Fury: Understood. Watch your six, Romanoff. If he's right about Hydra, no one's safe.
The line clicked dead. Natasha pocketed the comm, stepping onto the platform, the crowd pushing past her like water around a rock. The air down here was stale, thick with the smell of metal and old gum, but she moved through it easy, head down, just another face in the rush.
Peter knew Fury. Knew the man well enough to drop that word like a challenge. Not guesswork. Intel. The kid had files, layers deep, the kind SHIELD buried under mountains of black ink. And Hydra? If he was right—and her gut said he was—that meeting tomorrow wasn't recruitment.
It was a reckoning.
Natasha surfaced at the next stop, the morning sun hitting her face like a slap. The city was fully awake now, horns blaring, people shoving for cabs, the world turning without a care for the shadows creeping in.
She flagged a black SUV from the motor pool, sliding into the back as it pulled up smooth. The driver nodded in the rearview, silent, and she gave an address—the Triskelion. Time to prep.
The kid had just cracked the mirror.
Now to see what fell out.
Natasha leaned back, eyes on the passing buildings, and let the plan form. Tomorrow, Fury would hear it all. The kid's words, the Hydra shadow, the way Peter had looked at her like he saw the cracks in her armor too.
No more games.
Time to play for keeps.