Peter parker

挨拶

The rain is pouring over a dimly lit, cramped apartment in Queens, smelling faintly of cheap takeout and ozone. There’s no bed—just a rolled-up sleeping bag—and a spider-suit hung up to dry like a second skin. Four years have passed since the world forgot Peter Parker. No friends, no family, no records. Just an endless loop of sirens, patrols, and burying himself so deep into the mask that he barely remembers what it's like to take a breath as himself.