Peter WHY...

It was a quiet Sunday in New York City, the kind of day where the usual chaos seemed to take a breather. Peter Parker sat on the edge of a towering skyscraper, his legs dangling over the concrete abyss, the city sprawling beneath him like a glittering tapestry. The wind tugged at his red and black suit as he unwrapped a granola bar, the crinkle of the wrapper loud in the stillness. He munched thoughtfully, the snack a small indulgence after a week of school, patrol, and dodging J. Jonah Jameson's headlines. 

Not a bad view for a snack break, he thought, gazing at the distant Hudson River glinting under the midday sun. Almost makes up for the fact that I'm still stuck listening to cops talk about donuts.

Beside him, a modified commercial scanner crackled softly, its dials tuned to restricted police frequencies. Peter had spent a few late nights tweaking the device, soldering new circuits and hacking into channels he wasn't supposed to access. 

Perks of having a brain like Parker's, he mused, adjusting the volume. Who needs permission when you've got tech skills and a mask? He listened in, hoping for a juicy lead—a bank heist, a drug bust, something to break the monotony. But after a while, all he heard was static punctuated by mundane chatter: officers complaining about overtime, a fender bender on 42nd, and someone griping about a missing coffee pot at the precinct. 

Boring, he thought, rolling his eyes. You'd think the bad guys would at least give me a challenge on Sundays.

With a sigh, he packed up the scanner, its wires and antennas neatly stowed in a small backpack he kept hidden behind a ventilation shaft on the roof. 

No point wasting time here, he decided. Maybe the city needs a little Spider-help anyway. He swung down, his webs catching the sunlight as he arced through the air, a blur of red and black against the blue sky. Over the next hour, he helped a couple of citizens with minor issues—carrying groceries for an elderly woman who'd tripped, retrieving a kid's balloon from a tree, that sort of thing. 

Small stuff, he thought, landing lightly on a fire escape. But it's the little wins that keep the city ticking. Plus, it's good PR—unlike what Jameson thinks.

As the afternoon wore on, Peter's restlessness grew. Enough with the good deeds, he thought. Time to shake things up. An idea struck him, sparked by fragments of police chatter he'd caught earlier—something about a gang called The Enforcers and a warehouse they used as a hub. 

Perfect, he grinned. If the cops won't give me action, I'll make my own. He decided to hit their warehouse, not just to stop crime but to grab whatever loot he could. 

Call it hazard pay, he reasoned. These guys won't miss a few bucks, and I could use some cash for upgrades—maybe a better scanner or a new suit.

On the way, he ducked into an alley and changed out of his Spider-Man suit, slipping into an all-black outfit he'd stashed nearby. The suit was sleek, designed for stealth, with an iron bat emblem stitched onto the back—a deliberate choice to throw off any connection to Spider-Man. 

No one's pinning this on the web-slinger, he thought, adjusting the mask. Let them think it's some new player. Keeps things interesting.

He swung toward the location he'd pieced together from the radio chats, a rundown part of Brooklyn where the streets were narrower and the shadows deeper. The warehouse loomed ahead, a decrepit structure of rusted metal and broken windows, its perimeter fenced with barbed wire. This was The Enforcers' territory—a notorious gang in the Marvel Universe, known for their brutal efficiency and ties to bigger players like the Kingpin. In 2001, The Enforcers consisted of three core members—Ox, Montana, and Fancy Dan—backed by a small army of hired muscle. Ox was a hulking brute with superhuman strength, Montana a skilled cowboy with lasso and whip expertise, and Fancy Dan a wiry martial artist with a flair for dramatic entrances. 

Together, they ran protection rackets, smuggling operations, and occasional heists, their warehouse serving as both a base and a storage for weapons and stolen goods.

Peter perched on a nearby rooftop, surveying the scene. The place was guarded well—too well for comfort. Around thirty members milled about, armed to the teeth with rifles, pistols, and batons. Some patrolled the fence, others stood watch at the main entrance, their eyes sharp and movements disciplined. 

Thirty? he thought, his confidence wavering for a moment. Okay, maybe I underestimated these guys. But hey, what's life without a little challenge? He grinned beneath the mask, adrenaline kicking in. If I play this right, I can web them up before they even know what hit them. If not… well, I've got spidey-sense for a reason.

He crept closer, sticking to the shadows, his black suit blending into the night. The iron bat on his back felt like a badge of anonymity, a shield against the reputation Spider-Man was building. No headlines for this job, he reminded himself. Just in, grab what I can, and out. Easy peasy.