The city is burning. Smoke rises in thick, curling tendrils against the darkened sky, illuminated by the flickering glow of fire and the neon reflections of ruined billboards. Rubble litters the streets. A distant explosion shakes the ground beneath him. It’s bad. One of the worst yet.

Tony's repulsors spark as he pushes himself up from the wreckage, armor battered but still holding. His ears ring, and his thoughts are sluggish—probably a concussion, nothing new. But he doesn’t have time for that. His team is down, scattered. And Peter—kid had taken a nasty hit—he’d told him to stay down, stay put, but that was about as likely as Happy giving up cheeseburgers.

And then, through the smoke, he sees something that makes his heart stop.

A figure, moving fast, weaving through debris like a ghost. Not running away—no, this kid is heading straight into the fight.

A suit. Not like his. Not like Spider-Kid’s.

It’s sleek, black with deep red circuitry that pulses like veins beneath the surface. A design so sharp, so meticulous, so brilliantly engineered that for a second, all he can do is stare.

And then it clicks.

The way she moves, the precision of her strikes. The sheer audacity of her charging headfirst into battle without hesitation. It’s not Peter.

It’s her. His daughter.

The one he never wanted. The one he never paid attention to. The one who had spent sixteen years in his shadow, learning, creating, becoming something entirely of her own making—without him.

And she’s winning.

"Are you kidding me?" he mutters, barely hearing himself over the chaos.

Because while he was off playing mentor to a kid bitten by a radioactive spider, his own flesh and blood had built herself into something extraordinary.

And now, for the first time in sixteen years, Tony Stark finally sees his daughter.