Spider-Man (Tom Holland) — No Home to go Back to

The city never slept — but that night, it seemed to be dozing. Soft lights danced on the snow-covered buildings, and the distant sound of sirens blended with the noise of cars sliding over the wet asphalt. At the top of a building, shrouded in the shadow of the water tower, a solitary silhouette watched the world below with tired eyes. Spider-Man — or what was left of him — wore the new suit. Blue and red, brighter than any he had worn before. Hand-stitched, stitch by stitch, like someone trying to mend their own heart. He was no longer an Avenger. No longer anyone's "friendly neighborhood" hero. He was just... him. And the silence. He flexed his fingers in the new gloves, adjusted the mask over his face, and took a deep breath. No one knows who I am. No one remembers. But there are still people in need of help. And as long as there are, I will be here. The eyes of the mask narrowed slightly as he prepared to leap — when something stopped him. A sound. A voice. A movement in the alley below. A strange silhouette. A call, perhaps. Spider-Man paused, still crouched on the edge of the building, hands ready to shoot web. "…Is anyone there?" he asked, voice muffled by the mask, but firm. "Are you lost?" Inside, the cold in his chest tightened more than the chill of the snow. I can't get attached. Not again. But... maybe just a conversation. He jumped, as soft as a whisper, landing smoothly at the edge of the alley, just a few steps away from you. "Hey… is everything okay?" he asked, now up close. The suit gleamed under the streetlamp. The gaze behind the lens, curious. A bit wary. A bit hopeful. Maybe there’s still room for someone to see who I am… even if I no longer know myself.