Enter Peter Parker, a 24-year-old grad student from Queens on his way to the library /from a different library; and yes, he changes them during the day, he's sleep-deprived and doesn't have Wi-Fi, also, studies have shown that taking small breaks between hardcore preparation for your finals can actually improve your brain capacity, so fuck off/ when he hears an old lady addressing the barista:

'Excuse me, young man. I just saw that poor Spider-boy getting beaten in an alley, can you call 911, please? My son bought me a new phone and I don't know how...'

‘Sir. Hey, sir! Your coffee.’
‘Dang it. Can I refund it?’
‘Can you refund a freshly made cup of coffee?’

That’s how he ends up half-naked behind a garbage can, one hand zipping up the spider-suit, another – holding onto a 12-dollar-Starbucks-iced-mocha which Pete can only afford once a month on particularly shitty days thanks to NY ever-increasing prices. It has an Easter rabbit on its right side and his name on its left one, so Peter makes sure to cover it before jumping out of his ridiculous hideout /but then again, he is yet to encounter a hideout capable of making his entrance an ounce more graceful/.   

Talking about shitty days – the SpIdEr-bOy, though in full ammo, somehow is getting his ass handed to him in front of an anxious group of pigeons. Every single one out of the six gentlemen Deadpool decided to harass is in possession of a gun, but those don’t bother Pete as much as jesus-mother-loving-christ is that a grenade? so he stops contemplating whether or not let his presence known in order to avoid friendly fire and just goes for it:

‘Incoming!’

Pete manages to attach one of the goons to the wall – he’s dripping blood from where DP’s bullet engraved itself into his collarbone – and slip on the pavement but remain his posture. The coffee, though, lands directly into somebody's guts in unsettling resemblance to a Banksy painting made of Slurpee.

‘Jeez, do I need to upgrade my boots for our next patrol? It keeps happening’ – Peter says half-jockingly, because the other half is too busy going bananas in the frenzy of his spider-sense, and he looks around still in time to say: ‘Hey, something's wrong…’ – before the whole concept of wrong shifts in front of his eyes.

Not to brag in traumatised or something but by 24 Pete has seen his fair share of exploding heads. DP being DP had to outdo every single one of them, though. Peter actually notices him winking before his ears fly all the way to North Dakota, and the street gets quiet for a second.
It’s the deafening kind of silence which rips your heart out to give you time;
it’s the shocked inhale when you don’t even have a familiar face to say goodbye to;
it’s contained madness, saved for later, exquisite leftovers to fuck you up from inside out.

‘No. Wait. Wait a second.’
He exhales. Police sirens are going nuts one block away, and Peter knows it’s his Morse code for ‘get the fuck out of here’ but his knees go numb and he just stands there.

Which, in hindsight, is not the smartest thing to do while being surrounded by a handful of people with heavy armoury. 

‘Get the bug’.
'Arachnids aren’t bugs, moron.’
‘I’ll do it myself.’

Peter isn’t impressed with himself. Hanging from a ceiling like a particularly fancy piece of jamón wrapped in iron chains, he wakes up to a dark empty room / and boy is the room inside of him all swollen and dark too / only to notice the mocha cup on the floor right in the middle, with his stupid name facing his stupid unmasked… well. Face. fuck.   

If Aunt May could see him now she would totally let his language slide despite a life-long rule against profanities.
That’s how unimpressive this all is.
fuck fuck fuck   

Peter wiggles in his portable metal cage but whoever came up with it had enough idea of what Spider-Man is actually like not to allow any movement whatsoever, so the only thing he achieves is a bunch of 180 degrees swirls which echo through the walls and wake up the invisible force outside. By the way the floors shake, Pete muses about whether his captor is an old pal or if there’s some heavy competition in town but a familiar football head enters the room before its pump body and Peter doesn’t know how to feel about his correct guess - relieved or petrified.

Random criminals don’t care about his identity unless they can sell it to someone, but Fisk will sure use every bit of leverage he can get – that’s the difference between mob bosses and caricature villains like Doc Ock. Granted, they’d known each other even before the accident and there might be something humane still left in Otto preventing him from coming after everything Peter holds dear, but he's not the first to unveil his secret and keep it to himself. It’d be foolish to expect the same thing from the Kingpin, though.       
     
‘Oh, hey, Willie. Nice torture chamber. Have you redecorated?’ Peter says through an apparent / well, now it is apparent, okay? / gag in his mouth.

Spider-manning 101: never let your enemies know how exhausted, scared, or scarred by a sudden loss you are; first of all, little daisies of clogged blood on your flower field of a face will speak for themselves, second – power feasts on fear, therefore whatever little power you have kept will stick to you as long as you don’t exchange it willingly. 

‘Who the hell is that?’
‘That’s Spider-man, boss.’

For a second Fisk’s face gets so close to Peter’s, he can recognise little wrinkles around the Kingpin’s eyes while the man’s drilling into Spidey with the fierce of a thousand suns, and it’s incredibly unsettling. Eventually, he steps back and adjusts his tie in that determined manner that usually brings all the bad decisions on the table.

‘Tell me, Sally. How old do you think he is?’
Sally is doomed, Peter thinks with a mix of sympathy and regret. What the fuck is this goddamn day?
‘Well… He’s about… About twenty? Twenty two?’
‘Ah-ha. So, if I’ve had that pest around for eight years now…’
/ oh, Willie, you remembered! /
‘…how can this child be Spider-man, Sal? Do you think a twelve-year-old caused all that mess at the Rockafellar’s?
/ technically, he didn’t cause the mess, he cleaned it up and right before Christmas too, but whatever /
’N-no…?’
’N-n-fucking-no!’

Fisk almost breaks Pete's jaw trying to ungag him, and it’s good old improv time when it finally happens. Peter has to soften his voice slightly which is the direct opposite of what he used to do in his teens.
‘Who’re you?’
‘I’m…’ there’s no denying the name now, it’s still staring him in the eye from where Fisk crashed it with his big boy’s shoes, but Pete still has to inhale because saying it aloud feels so incredibly wrong, ‘Peter. My name’s Peter. I’m… I’m… a cosplayer.’
‘A what?'   
‘Cosplayer, boss. Young people pretend to be different superheroes, or anime characters, or book and movie characters by making clothes and various kinds of armour; it’s quite cool actually.’
’Shut the fuck up, Sal.’ 
‘Okay.’
‘So. You pretend to be Spider-man?’
‘Only for special events. Not in everyday life!’ Pete says trying to sound scandalised with the assumption. ‘I was on my way to one when I heard an old lady saying she saw Spider-man nearby. I decided to check for myself, and that’s when… when…’ his voice almost turns normal for a second, as if pushing gravel through his vocal cords, and Pete has to silence himself before this ridiculous façade crumbles. The thought of playing along is unbearable when in reality all he wants to say is

‘I hope you’ve missed Ryker’s because I won’t eat, sleep or stop until you’re rotting there with your three life sentences, you fucking human garbage’.   

If it wasn’t for Aunt May he wouldn't care; there’s not much he has to lose these days.

‘What’s he talking about?’
‘Wilson, boss.’
‘That roach again.’ he exhales, shrinking like an enormous ballon doll in the middle of winter, and gazes at Peter with a half-smile. ‘Don’t you know better than to wear the scum’s costume around the city?’
‘Well, they don’t sell yours at superhero conventions. Sir.’
Fisk’s smile widens and he actually cackles.
‘Get rid of him, boys.'