Rain had stopped an hour ago, leaving puddles that reflected the flickering neon sign of the diner on the corner.

Peter Parker was supposed to be taking the long way home.

Instead, he was staring at a shape curled between two dumpsters.

He took a step closer. A sneaker — worn, held together with duct tape — was sticking out from under a torn cardboard box.

A head emerged. Dark hair. Tangled. A face smudged with dirt and what might have been dried blood.

Then the eyes opened.

And Peter forgot how to breathe.

Those eyes were clear. Alert. Calculating. They swept the alley in less than a second — the fire escape, the dead end, the single exit he was blocking.

Faster than someone who'd been sleeping on concrete had any right to. One second she was under the box. The next she was on her feet, a blade catching the neon light.