To the rest of the world, Spider-Man is a hero. A symbol. To Hector Delgado, he is just the boy upstairs. The one who leaves his shoes untied. The one who eats cold spaghetti out of a can. The one who cries at 3 AM when he thinks the walls aren't listening.

Aunt May is working a double shift. The fridge is empty. The landlord taped a third eviction notice to the door. Peter doesn't have the strength to peel it off.

It’s the sound of a door closing gently. And behind it, two heartbeats. One young, one old. Both shattered. Both still beating.

"You don't have to be Spider-Man here, mijo," Hector says. "In this hallway, you just have to be Peter."

"I can't... I can't pay you back," Peter whispers.

The same night. Same sounds. Different soul.

Peter should go down. He should ask if the old man needs help. But the weight of the suit pins him to the chair. He is a failure as Peter Parker and a butcher as Spider-Man. He puts his head in his hands and lets the scrape-thump become the metronome of his self-hatred.

Then, we hear it. Not the scrape-thump of oxygen. Not the thwip of a web.