Peter WHY...

The Midtown High cafeteria thrummed with the usual Friday din trays clashing and voices overlapping as students filtered through the snowy Queens morning's chill. Peter Parker sat alone at a corner table, his lunch—a ham sandwich and a carton of milk—half-eaten before him, his backpack slumped on the chair beside him. The air carried the familiar whiff of fries and reheated pizza, a mundane backdrop to his thoughts drifting from the uneventful patrol the night before. Quiet out there—guess the snow's keeping the chaos down, he thought, sipping his milk, his mind flickering to the rooftop guy and his dark resolve. Wonder if he's moving yet—better keep it off my radar.

He glanced across the room, catching sight of Liz Allan at a nearby table, her blonde hair tied back as she pored over notebooks with her group, her voice cutting through their chatter as she pointed at a page. Group assignment's got her in gear, he thought, a faint grin tugging at his lips. She's all in—love that focus. She'd been deep in it all morning, leaving him solo for lunch, but he didn't mind—her drive was part of what drew him to her.

The chair opposite him scraped as Harry Osborn dropped into it, his tray landing with a clatter—a slice of pizza and a soda, his dark hair mussed, his grin crooked but tinged with weariness. "Hey, Pete," he said, popping the soda tab with a fizz. "You look like you're plotting something over here—what's up?"

Peter chuckled, leaning back as he swiped a fry from Harry's tray. "Just chilling," he said, his tone easy. "Liz's got her crew on lock—figured I'd let her roll. You holding up?"

Harry shrugged, taking a bite of pizza, chewing with a half-hearted nod. "Same old," he said, swallowing. "Dad's been a ghost lately—barely see him. Always tied up with Oscorp crap, hardly comes home."

Peter raised an eyebrow, his thoughts flickering. Norman Osborn—big shot, huh? he mused, picturing the stern, driven man he'd glimpsed a few times. Running Oscorp solo, no surprise he's gone all the time. "Yeah?" he said aloud, sipping his milk. "What's keeping him out so much?"

Harry sighed, leaning forward, his elbows on the table. "Who knows?" he said, his voice laced with frustration. "Work—meetings, projects, whatever. Oscorp's got him on a leash. Comes home late, if he shows at all—crashes in his office most nights. Just me rattling around the place."

Peter nodded, his expression sympathetic. "Rough gig," he said. "He ever clue you in on what's got him so busy?"

"Not a chance," Harry replied, popping a fry into his mouth. "Grunts about 'deadlines' or 'business'—like I'm supposed to figure it out. Last time I saw him, he was on the phone barking orders—didn't even look up. Guess that's how it goes when you're the big boss."

Big boss—sounds right, Peter thought, his mind sketching Norman as a relentless machine, no mom in the frame to balance it out. Harry's on his own—tough break with a dad like that. "He's intense," Peter said, leaning back. "You managing with him AWOL?"

Harry smirked, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Yeah, I get by," he said. "Keeps it quiet at home—too quiet sometimes. You're lucky—your folks are around."

"True," Peter said, his thoughts drifting to Aunt May's warmth and Uncle Ben's steady hand. "May and Ben keep it real—keeps me sane. You ever drag him home for a breather?"

Harry snorted, shaking his head. "Fat chance," he said. "Tried once—got a spiel about 'responsibility' instead. He's wired different—always has been."

Peter grinned, snagging another fry. "Wired weird—Osborn trait," he teased, his tone light. "You'll corner him one day—lock him in or something."

"Ha—maybe," Harry said, his grin widening faintly. "Gotta catch him first. You sticking with Liz's squad after this?"

"Nah," Peter said, glancing at her table, where she was jabbing a pencil at a diagram, her voice sharp. "She's got it handled—gonna let her shine. You?"

"Flying solo," Harry said, raising his soda. "Surviving Dad's vanishing act, one slice at a time."

Peter laughed, clinking his milk carton against Harry's soda. "To survival," he said, the cafeteria's buzz wrapping around their chat, a slice of everyday life amid his hidden edges.

The final bell rang through Midtown High. Peter slung his backpack over his shoulder, weaving through the crowd as he left the school, the cold biting at his cheeks. Liz buried in her group assignment—but now classes were done, and Peter's mind shifted gears. Day's over—time to switch it up, he thought, his steps quickening as he headed down the snow-dusted street. Tonight's not Spider-Man—it's Shadow.

He'd kept his second identity buried deep, a secret even from Liz and Harry, born from the darker edges of his pragmatism. Got plans tonight—Shadow's got work, he thought, his grin hidden as he veered toward the industrial edge of Queens, the abandoned railway lair waiting.

He slipped into the alley concealing the lair's entrance, his breath fogging in the fading light. He tapped the hidden panel, the heavy door sliding open with a soft hiss, and stepped inside, the sterile glow of the well-secured space washing over him. The air was still, the hum of equipment a low pulse as he crossed to his locker—a reinforced steel cabinet bolted to the wall, its surface scratched from use. Here we go, he thought, his pulse ticking up as he punched in a code, the lock clicking open with a metallic snap.

The locker door swung wide, revealing his dual lives side by side. On the left hung his red-and-black Spider-Man suit, sleek and agile, the emblem a bright mark of his public face. Next to it lay the "Shadow" suit—his creation, upgraded over months into something fiercer. 

It was full black, matte and light-absorbing, with bulky armor plating across the chest, shoulders, and thighs, forged from scavenged Kevlar and reinforced steel he'd shaped in the lair. The helmet was a masterpiece—angular, with a tinted visor that obscured his face, topped by a hood that draped over the shoulders, giving it a shrouded, menacing silhouette. The suit's design echoed a black version of Red Hood—broad, imposing, built for intimidation—its weight balanced for swift, brutal moves. Beside it, a pair of handguns rested—a matte-black Beretta 92FS and a snub-nosed revolver—modified with silencers and custom grips, ammo clips tucked in a pouch.

Looking sharp, Peter thought, his grin widening as he ran a hand over the Shadow suit's chest plate, the cold metal solid under his fingers. Upgraded the armor—thicker plating, better joints. Helmet's got a voice modulator now—keeps it anonymous. Red Hood vibes, but all mine. He stripped off his school clothes—jeans, hoodie—tossing them into the locker, and pulled on the Shadow suit, the weight settling over him like a second skin. The armor clicked into place, the hood falling over his shoulders as he secured the helmet, the visor dimming his view to a tactical haze. He grabbed the guns, holstering the Beretta at his hip and tucking the revolver into a thigh strap, the cold steel a familiar heft. Ready, he thought, flexing his hands, the suit's bulk a stark shift from Spider-Man's agility. Shadow's got a job—time to move.