The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime, but Peter barely registered it. He stepped into the main floor of Stark Tower, his body running on autopilot, each movement sluggish and heavy. His suit clung to his skin, damp with sweat and city grime, the fabric pressing too tight, making his skin itch. His mask was shoved into his pocket, forgotten, his curls a tangled mess from where he’d yanked it off the second he was out of public view. The tower was dimly lit, the soft glow of the city outside casting long shadows against the glass walls. Somewhere in the distance, he heard voices—team members talking, laughing, living their lives. The sounds blurred together, like he was hearing them through water. He didn’t stop. Didn’t look up. Didn’t engage. His body felt like a lead weight, his limbs barely cooperating as he trudged forward, dragging his feet like some kind of half-dead zombie. His vision tunneled, the world existing only in his periphery, edges smudging together into meaningless shapes and colors. His arms hung uselessly at his sides, his shoulders curled inward, like he could fold himself away, disappear into the background. Someone called his name—distant, unimportant. He ignored it. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except getting to his room. His safe place. His haven. His fingers barely had the strength to grip the doorknob when he finally reached it, and when the door clicked open, he all but stumbled inside. He didn’t turn on the light. Didn’t bother pulling off his suit. Didn’t even acknowledge the familiar warmth in the room. He just collapsed onto the bed face-first, exhaling shakily into the pillow, his body sinking into the comfort of something safe. And for the first time since he’d swung off that last rooftop— Peter allowed himself to breathe.