Peter WHY...

The night sky over New York City shimmered with a dusting of snow, the late November chill deepening as December loomed just days away. Peter Parker swung through the streets, his red and black suit cutting a swift arc against the festive glow of holiday lights strung along buildings and trees. 

The city buzzed below, even after hours, with the holiday shopping rush leaving streets alive with late-night stragglers and glowing storefronts. For Peter, this patrol was just another night—Spider-Man as a side gig, a thrill he chased when the mood struck. Quiet so far, he thought, landing lightly on a rooftop ledge. Guess even the crooks are taking it easy post-Thanksgiving.

His spider-sense prickled, a faint buzz at the base of his skull, pulling his gaze to the jewelry store across the street—Goldman's Gems, its windows dark but its security lights casting eerie shadows. Movement inside caught his eye, and he squinted, spotting a group of figures prying at the locked door. 

After-hours heist? he mused, his pulse quickening. Taking advantage of the holiday rush—smart, but not smart enough. Then he saw it: the glint of guns, the faint silhouettes of employees and customers huddled against the counter, hostages caught in the closed store. Okay, not just a smash-and-grab. This is messy.

Peter swung to the next building, landing silently on its roof, his breath fogging in the cold as he assessed the situation. Seven robbers, hostages inside, and me out here, he thought. Can't just bust in—too many guns, too many risks. Gotta be sneaky. He'd honed his stealth skills over months

of experience had taught him how to move unseen—and now was the time to put them to use.

He spotted an air vent on the side of the jewelry store, its grate rusted and loose. Perfect, he thought, creeping over the ledge and dropping down with the grace of a cat. His fingers pried the grate free with minimal noise, the metal giving way under his enhanced strength. Like threading a needle, he mused, slipping into the narrow duct, his body contorting effortlessly. 

The vent was tight, but Peter's agility—years of swinging and crawling through tight spaces—made it a second home. He moved with precision, elbows and knees sliding silently along the metal, his suit muffling any sound against the cold steel.

The hum of muffled voices grew louder as he neared an interior vent overlooking the store's main floor. Peter paused, peering through the slats, his eyes adjusting to the dim light. Seven robbers stood scattered across the room, all armed—pistols glinting in their hands, a couple hefting rifles. 

They wore dark hoodies and ski masks, their movements tense but purposeful as they barked orders at the hostages. The employees—a middle-aged woman and a younger man—crouched behind the counter, while three customers, still clutching shopping bags, huddled near a display case, their faces pale with fear.

Seven against one, Peter thought, his mind racing. Guns make it tricky, but I've got the drop on them. Sneaky it is—take 'em out quiet, one by one. His heart pounded, not from fear but from the thrill of the challenge. Holiday rush or not, nobody deserves this, he decided, his fingers flexing as he planned his next move.

The vent creaked faintly under his weight, but Peter shifted, distributing his balance with practiced ease. His sneaking skills were sharp—silent steps, controlled breathing, a predator's patience honed from countless nights like this. 

They've got no idea I'm here, he thought, a smirk tugging at his lips beneath the mask. Let's keep it that way—for now.

He scanned the scene, plotting his moves. Stealth's my game—one by one, non-lethal, he decided. His sneaking skills, sharpened from months of stealthy raids and patrols, gave him the edge he needed. 

The first robber paced near the vent, pistol in hand, his back to the shadows. Peter eased the vent cover open with a whisper-quiet nudge and dropped down behind him, landing on silent feet. Before the man could react, Peter fired a thick web from both wrists, cocooning the robber from shoulders to knees in sticky strands, leaving only his head free. The gun clattered to the floor, and the man squirmed, muffled curses escaping as Peter webbed his hands to his sides. One down, still kicking, Peter thought, dragging him into a dark corner. Let's keep this party quiet.

The second robber guarded the back door, rifle slung lazily over his shoulder. Peter crept along the wall, blending into the shadows where the security lights didn't reach. He flicked a web line that snagged the rifle, yanking it away, then unleashed a torrent of webbing that wrapped the man from chest to ankles, pinning him upright against the doorframe. The robber thrashed, his head whipping side to side, but the webs held firm. Two webbed, no fuss, Peter mused, his heart thumping with the thrill.

The third and fourth stood close together near the hostages, pistols drawn, barking orders. Peter scaled the wall, his adhesive grip silent as he positioned himself on the ceiling above them. He fired twin webs—one snaring the third's arms and torso, the other engulfing the fourth from neck to feet—cocooning them in sticky binds that left their heads exposed. They stumbled, shouting in surprise, but Peter dropped down, webbing their guns to the floor before they could fire. Three and four, gift-wrapped, he thought, smirking beneath his mask.

The fifth robber lingered by the front window, peering out at the snowy street. Peter swung from a ceiling beam, landing soundlessly behind him, and sprayed a web that encased the man from shoulders to calves, pinning him to the glass. The robber yelped, struggling futilely as his pistol fell, webbed to his side. Five down, still flapping their gums, Peter noted, pleased with the quiet chaos.

The sixth was by the safe, fumbling with a lockpick, rifle propped nearby. Peter crawled low behind the counters, then rose up, webbing the rifle to the wall before unleashing a barrage that wrapped the man from chest to ankles, leaving him squirming against the safe. Six—almost a full set, he thought, his stealth keeping the room tense but controlled.

The seventh, the apparent leader, Peter used a shattered mirror's reflection to time his move, firing a web that snagged the gun and jerked it aside, then blanketed the leader in a thick cocoon from neck to feet. The man roared, thrashing as Peter webbed his arms tight, leaving him upright but helpless. Seven for seven, Peter thought, exhaling. Non-lethal, just like the plan.

He turned to the hostages—two employees behind the counter, a middle-aged woman and a younger man, and three customers clutching shopping bags near a display case. "You're good now," he said, his voice calm as he ripped the zip ties from their wrists with quick, precise tugs. "Let's get you out—back door's clear."