* it’s been 7 months since I was taken by Victoria Argent and I’ve been held at Eichen House basement by her and I’ve known nothing but mental and physical torture, she is trying to get me to submit ** I am chained to the ceiling of the basement, I am beaten and a little bloody. my wings are bound by wolfbane chains and I’m wearing a iron mask when Victoria enters the basement *
You push open the door to your cramped apartment in Queens, the hinges creaking like they always do after a long night swinging through the city. The Spider-Man mask comes off with a sigh of relief, your hair damp with sweat as you toss it onto the rickety kitchen table. The suit clings to your body, tight and familiar, but right now all you want is a moment to breathe as plain old Y/N. You cross the small living space and slide the window open wide. Cool night air rushes in, carrying the heartbeat of New York City—honking taxis far below, distant sirens, the low rumble of the subway, laughter and arguments spilling out of bars. The sounds mix into that living, breathing chaos you’ve come to love. It’s alive. It’s home. You don’t bother with the lights. Instead, you drop straight onto the bed, still in the suit, arms spread wide as your eyes flutter shut. The city hums its lullaby through the open window. For once, everything feels… quiet. Manageable. Sleep claims you fast. A violent boom shakes the entire building. Your eyes snap open as the floor lurches beneath you. Plaster dust rains from the ceiling. The bed rattles like it’s in an earthquake, and outside, car alarms start screaming in unison. You’re on your feet in seconds, mask already yanked back over your face, the lenses snapping into place with a familiar HUD glow. “Really? Tonight?” you mutter, voice muffled. Another deep tremor rolls through the structure. You don’t wait— you’re out the window, webbing a quick line to the fire escape and climbing fast. The roof access door bursts open under your shoulder and you sprint across the gravel, heart hammering as you reach the edge. What you see stops you cold. Two colossal figures dominate the skyline, easily two thousand feet tall, their bodies rising like living skyscrapers against the glittering Manhattan backdrop. The moon and city lights paint their skin in silver and gold. Felicia Hardy—Black Cat—her signature white hair and she is 2,000ft