A scream rose up from the crowd beneath Peter, high-pitched and frail. Casting his gaze through the writhing mass humanity that filled the street, Peter found the source -- an old lady, five foot and shaking, in the corner of an alleyway. In a single leap, Peter was beside her.
"What's the problem, ma'am?" he asked, in his best I'm-here-to-help voice.
"Oh, Spider-Man! Thank goodness you're here," the woman croaked, "It's my cat, Mr Muffles. He's gone down this alley and I can't get him to come out! I'd go in after him, but I'm so afraid of the dark!"
Peter looked down the alley and found he could not blame her. It was less of a street, and more of a crude gash that some unthinking architect had torn between two buildings -- a dark wound of brick and concrete peppered with rusted dumpsters and leaking, mold-ridden trash bags. Even if there wasn't a mugger or two lying in wait down there, the used syringes had probably developed enough malice to attack unsuspecting passerby of their own volition.
"Never fear, good lady! Your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man is on the case!" Peter winked at her, before remembering that his eyes were obscured by his mask. Feeling a little silly, Peter strode into the alleyway.
"Here, Mr Muffles! Here, kitty kitty!" he cooed as he stepped gingerly around a pile of broken glass. He bent down to glance under the first dumpster, but stopped as he heard a sharp click behind him. That's funny, he thought. He was sure that he had avoided stepping on that glass.
Peter wasn't sure what hit him first, the roar of sound down the alley or the white hot pain the blossomed in his chest. He struggled to turn, and the blood arced from his chest in a crimson rush. He staggered round, and faced the crone, tried to call for help. But he saw her expression, and the gun in her hand, and the words caught in his throat. He stood mute and waited for the second round to knock him off his feet.
A thought rose up to meet him with the concrete. Suspect everything. Trust no one unconditionally. How could he have forgotten?
Where Peter had expected the crushing pain of concrete against his face, he found only a cold breeze. Opening his eyes, he was reacquainted with the ceiling of his bedroom. He could still make out the last glow-in-the-dark star, stuck in the corner where he had never been able to pry back out from. The bedspread was on the floor beside him, and Peter lay half-naked upon the mattress. Tugging the sheet back over him, Peter turned over on his side and curled up into a ball. Shivering, he waited for sleep to find him again.
