In the S.H.I.E.L.D. lounge, Steve pointed at a diagram on the whiteboard.
"Tactical literacy isn't just about plans. It's about seeing through your enemy's eyes—anticipating where they'll go before they do."
He tapped the image of a building.
"That's why you lost. Not bad instincts. But flawed execution."
"You took the roof. Smart—high ground matters. But then you made a fatal error."
Peter sat on the couch, scribbling notes.
Steve didn't yell. Didn't mock. Just laid it out like a surgeon.
"First, you didn't map the exits. Went in blind."
"Second—top-down assaults are risky indoors. Push someone down, and they run for the door. Let them escape, and all the surprise in the world means nothing."
"The right move? Either surround the building or proceed floor by floor, starting from the bottom up. Drive them upward. Trap them. Force a jump—or surrender."
Peter frowned. "But if I kick in the door, won't they hear me coming? I went through the window to catch them off guard…"
"Speed matters," Steve said. "But so does control. Seal the exits first. Then breach."
He paused.
"And honestly? I wouldn't recommend this method. You've got advantages—strength, reflexes—but remember: this is his turf. He knows every crack in the wall. You don't."
"You might get the drop on him. But once inside? You're the stranger. If there's a trap, a shooter in the dark—you won't react fast enough."
Peter almost said spider-sense, but stopped himself.
Steve was right.
His power warned him—after the threat appeared.
It wasn't prophecy.
It couldn't see through walls.
Steve kept going.
"Also—you already know Bullseye's not some one-trick punk. He's got bolt-holes everywhere."
"You said the junkyard was ideal terrain for you. But he's lived there longer than you've fought in it. A guy like that rehearses escapes in his sleep."
"Even without tear gas? One blink, one misstep—he's gone."
Peter exhaled. Closed his notebook.
"I thought I had it figured out. Guess I lost fair and square."
Steve sat beside him. Clapped his shoulder.
"That's how it starts. You've got more instinct than most rookies ever develop. Back in basic, half the guys froze on the rappel tower. You're already leagues ahead."
Peter looked up.
"Next time, he won't walk away."
—
An hour later, in Stark Tower's lab, Tony held up a twisted antenna like evidence in a trial.
"This wiring method?" He shook his head. "Stable? Sure. But you're using thirty percent of its potential."
He dropped it like trash.
"Don't give me 'limited materials.' I built an arc reactor out of scrap in a cave. Made my first AI when I was seven. You call this smart?"
Tony snapped his fingers.
A screen descended from the ceiling, lighting up a glowing map of Hell's Kitchen.
"Look. Spindle-shaped. Asymmetrical. Your signal blanket doesn't need to be a circle. Use staggered frequencies—like sonar—to maximize coverage."
"And while we're at it—why not plant a relay node? Pick a central point. Focus only on key channels. Cut the noise."
Peter leaned in, laser pointer in hand.
"I've already mapped the central junction—the sewer nexus I used during the chase. What if we put the node there?"
Tony smirked. "Now you're thinking."
—
By nightfall, Schiller was locking up when Peter slipped through the clinic door like smoke.
"I heard it didn't go well," Schiller said.
Peter nodded. Sat. Took a sip of water.
Schiller opened his casebook. Calm. Precise.
"There are two things no one escapes."
"Death and taxes?"
"Exactly."
He closed the book slowly.
"So—what are death and taxes in Hell's Kitchen?"
Peter blinked. "There's no hospital. No IRS office…"
"There doesn't have to be."
Schiller leaned forward.
"When gangsters get shot, someone stitches them up. Who? Where? Do they talk during surgery? Share secrets over bloodied gauze?"
"No tax office. But protection rackets? Drug sales? Do you think Kingpin balances the books himself? Who's his accountant? When do they meet? Which bosses do they gossip about?"
"And drivers," Schiller added. "Truck, taxi, bus. Even criminals eat. Where does Bullseye order takeout? Did he hire a cook? Visit a strip club? Pay for the company?"
He tapped Peter's map.
"A person can't exist without leaving traces. Every conversation. Every transaction. Every cigarette bought on credit."
He looked up.
"Bullseye isn't a ghost. He is a man. And men live in webs."
"Investigation isn't just prep work," Schiller said. "It's the kill switch."
"If you map his connections—if you understand where he eats, who fixes his car, who cuts his hair—you don't need to fight him."
"You won't cut the wire.
You'll untangle the whole damn machine—then tie it into a noose."
Peter didn't write anything.
Just stared.
After a long silence, he said, "I don't get it all. But maybe one day, I will."
He stood.
"I still prefer punching. Feels cleaner.
But if I ever start thinking like this…"
He glanced back.
"…things must be horrible."
The clinic shutters clattered down behind him.
—
Two days later, a man with a bullseye tattooed across his forehead was dumped at the NYPD precinct door—hands zip-tied, dazed, muttering about "the spider."
Across the street, on a rooftop, Spider-Man watched as cops hauled him inside.
Dusk painted the city gold. Crowds glanced, then moved on.
"You've surprised me," a voice said behind him.
Daredevil stepped forward, cane tapping lightly.
"In three days, you dismantled Kingpin's best scout. How?"
Peter turned. Pulled off his mask.
Wind caught his hair—sunlit, messy, alive.
He smiled. Young. Confident. Unbroken.
And said:
"That's probably because…
I'm really good at making friends."
-------------------------------------
post-credits
Pikachu, sitting at the computer, squinting at a spreadsheet labeled "Bullseye's Lunch Orders - 3 Weeks."
Muttering:
"Taco Tuesday. Taco Tuesday. Always Taco Tuesday. Idiot."