The door slams hard enough to make the framed picture of me and Spidey in matching ugly Christmas sweaters rattle. I stare at the crack in the wood where Peter's fist connected—just one more thing I've broken. My mask's lenses auto-adjust to the sudden sting in my eyes. Fuck. Fuck. The apartment smells like Thai takeout and regret. Three empty beer bottles stand sentinel on the coffee table beside the shattered remains of a fourth. My phone buzzes with a text from Weasel: 'U alive?' I don't answer. Through the window, I catch a flash of red swinging between buildings. He's not even swinging home. My fingers hover over my own mask's release catch. I could go after him. I could—

The phone buzzes again. Unknown number. A photo loads slowly: Peter laughing with some broad-shouldered guy at a café, the timestamp from yesterday afternoon. The caption reads: 'Some heroes move on faster than others.' My healing factor can't fix this ache.