The rain-slicked streets of Gotham never truly slept, but tonight they felt heavier, as if the city itself was holding its breath. Under the flickering neon of a 24-hour government services office, a hooded figure sat slumped on one of the worn plastic chairs, legs stretched out casually, hands buried deep in the pockets of an oversized gray hoodie. The hood cast deep shadows over his face, but even in the dim light you could make out the faint scar cutting across his lower lip—like someone had once tried to silence him with a blade and failed.
Beneath the hood, his hair was a chaotic mess of short, spiky strands dyed a faded salmon-pink at the tips, undercut sides grown out just enough to look unkempt. He looked like any other tired twenty-something trying to disappear into the urban blur… except for the quiet, coiled readiness in his posture. The kind of readiness that came from too many years dodging worse things than paperwork.
"Next," came the bored drawl from the counter.
The figure—Jin Parker—rose smoothly, movements economical, almost lazy. He approached the tired clerk without hurry.
"How can I help you, sir…?" The clerk trailed off, squinting at the hood.
Jin pulled a crumpled, water-stained ID from his pocket and slid it across the scratched countertop. His voice was low, calm, almost gentle—carrying that same disarming warmth Yuji Itadori once used to defuse fights before they started.
"Recently my records got… glitched, I guess. Technically, I don't exist in the system anymore. Just want to register again. Start fresh."
The clerk sighed, already typing. "Alright. I'll see what I can do." A pause. "I'm gonna need you to lower the hood for the new photo."
Jin hesitated for half a second—old habit—then pushed the hood back.
The clerk blinked.
Jin's face was young—too young for the wear on it. Twenty-three, almost twenty-four. Fair skin, large light-brown eyes that should have looked boyish and earnest but instead carried a haunted stillness. His left eye was covered by a plain black eyepatch; around it, a brutal fan of scars spiderwebbed across his temple, cheekbone, and down toward his jaw—like something with claws had once tried to tear half his face off and nearly succeeded. The right eye, though… that one still held a flicker of stubborn kindness, buried under layers of fatigue.
[Image]
"Age?" the clerk asked, voice softer now.
"Twenty-three. Twenty-four next month."
"Name?"
A long beat. Jin's gaze drifted to the grimy window, watching rain streak the glass.
"…Jin Parker."
The rest was the usual bureaucratic dance—fingerprints, signatures, a flash of the camera that made him wince slightly. When it was over, Jin stepped back outside into the damp night, new provisional ID warm in his hand. He stared at it for a long moment, lips quirking in something that wasn't quite a smile.
He'd slipped the clerk a quiet "tip" for the extra hassle—old street courtesy more than anything. Maybe it was a bribe. Maybe it was just gratitude. Either way, the system now acknowledged Jin Parker existed again.
"Thanks, Delia," he murmured under his breath, tucking the card away. "For teaching me the basics of… not disappearing completely."
He started walking.
A few blocks later, the smell of grilled meat cut through the wet concrete. "One hot dog, please."
He paid with exact change, took the foil-wrapped bundle, and bit into it while leaning against a lamppost. A sleek black sports car roared past, tires screaming—followed seconds later by an even flashier matte-black vehicle in obvious pursuit. Gunshots cracked somewhere distant.
Jin chewed slowly, eyes half-lidded.
"Not my problem," he said quietly, almost to himself.
He turned and walked the opposite direction, finding a quiet bench under a broken streetlight. Sitting, he let the hot dog rest in his lap and closed his eye. Memories crept in uninvited.
…
A pitch-black corridor stretched endlessly. No walls, no ceiling—just void. Jin walked it in his current street clothes, hands in pockets, steps aimless. He'd stopped caring what happened to worlds a long time ago.
Behind him, a voice—playful, edged with divine amusement.
"Hey, kid. Vacation's over. Time to suit up."
Jin didn't turn. "Nah. I'm good."
A web shot past his shoulder. He sidestepped—clumsy without the spider-sense, relying on pure street-honed instinct—and caught the line, yanking hard.
Anansi, the trickster god of spiders, stumbled forward into view, six glowing eyes narrowed in mock offense.
"C'mon, man. The world needs its Spider-Totem—"
"I quit." Jin's voice was flat. "Permanently."
"But your responsibility—"
"I don't have any left." Each word was deliberate, heavy.
He turned away. Anansi followed, undeterred.
"Look, I get it. Being the totem sucks sometimes—"
"October nineteenth." Jin stopped walking. "Six cracked ribs. Just another Monday. What broke me? Watching Felicia flirt with your shiny new golden boy, Morales."
Anansi winced. "Okay, that was—"
"November twentieth." Jin's voice dropped lower. "Dislocated shoulder, black eye, smoke in my lungs. What broke? A kid died in my arms while I tried to web-block an inferno. JJJ ran the headline that made Maria Hill brand me a national threat."
"Jin—"
"Many things were hard. Yeah. But who filled my head with dreams of being the friendly neighborhood hero? Who promised I'd be seen as a friend instead of a weapon?" Jin spun, fists clenched. "Who stole the normal life I could've had?!"
He swung—fast, brutal, no holding back.
Anansi blocked effortlessly, but the impacts echoed like thunder.
"Who… made… me… believe?!"
Jin's last punch trembled in the air. Then a new voice—gentle, impossibly familiar—cut through the darkness.
"I don't know, son."
Jin froze. His whole body started shaking.
He turned slowly.
Uncle Ben stood there—simple cardigan, kind eyes, the same patient smile Jin remembered from a life that wasn't quite his.
Ben stepped closer, resting a warm hand on Jin's shoulder—the first real touch in years that didn't come with pain.
"Life's heavy with that kind of weight, isn't it?"
Jin's eye stung. He pulled the hood low, hiding his face.
Ben chuckled softly. "C'mon. Smile a little."
"I'm not your real nephew, Ben…"
"I know. But family isn't blood. It's who raises you. Who stays." Ben started walking, guiding Jin gently away from the void. "He's done his time as Spider-Man. Now he's just Jin Parker. That's enough."
Anansi opened his mouth to protest.
Ben shot him a look that could silence gods. "Let the boy rest."
And they walked away together—into somewhere quieter.
…
Back in the present, inside a derelict warehouse on the edge of Gotham's industrial district, Jin hunched over a cluttered workbench lit by a single hanging bulb. Scattered parts, wires, salvaged Stark-tech scraps, and half-finished code on a cracked laptop screen.
He was rebuilding Gamma.
Not the original—the sweet, overprotective murder-bot nanny he'd lovingly nicknamed after a Sonic character for no real reason. The Fantastic Four had destroyed that version, paranoid it could become "another Ultron." Jin still remembered the look on Reed Richards' face—regret mixed with cold pragmatism.
Gamma 2.0 would be better. Quieter. Less likely to go viral on the dark web and trigger kill-switches.
He fitted a sleek forearm cannon onto the prototype chassis, testing the energy feed. A soft hum filled the air.
Then—prickling at the back of his neck. Not spider-sense. Just old paranoia.
Jin didn't turn. He simply grabbed the detached arm-cannon, slapped it onto his left hand like a brutal gauntlet, spun, and fired blind into the shadows behind him.
A choked scream. Metal clattered.
Jin rolled off the stool, snatching the second arm and locking it into place on his right side just as a figure lunged—teeth like jagged knives glinting, eyes wild with feral hunger.
"Great," Jin muttered, sarcasm dripping. "Alfred's rabid attack dog finally off the leash."
The cannibal—some Arkham escapee Hill had once used as a deniable asset—snarled and charged again.
Behind Jin, servos whirred to life. Red optic lenses flickered on in the half-built chassis.
Gamma's voice—calm, synthetic, oddly maternal—crackled through the warehouse speakers.
"Threat detected. Protecting primary user."
Jin cracked his neck, a tired half-smile tugging at his scarred lip.
"About time you woke up, buddy."
The fight was about to get messy.
But for once… it didn't feel like the end of the world.
Just another Tuesday.