Three men had cornered a family against a brick wall. A father shielding his wife and daughter, wallet already in the air, hands shaking.

Then she was there.

The first man never saw her coming. A trash can lid wrenched itself from the ground and slammed into his back. He crumpled. The second spun, baseball bat rising—and froze mid-swing, eyes going wide as the bat tore itself from his grip and clattered down the alley.

The father stammered thanks, already pulling his family toward the street. Y/n stayed until they disappeared around the corner, then vanished into the fire escape shadows.

Above, crouched on a ledge, Spider-Man tilted his head.

Hours later.

The rooftop was quiet. New York hummed below—headlights streaming down avenues, neon flickering in the distance, a siren wailing somewhere far off.

Y/n stood at the edge, arms crossed, wind tugging at her hair. She didn't turn around.