He was on his fourth home. If this one went up in flames, too, he could end up in the Guinness World Records for most foster homes. He could picture it now: Boy Wins Record for Most Temporary Living Situations by Age Fifteen! Which was totally funny, even if his social worker never laughed at any of his trauma jokes.

It was just... a lot had happened in his short, chaotic time on Earth. So, he hadn’t exactly been upfront with his latest guardian. Not about the web-slinging, vigilante thing, or the mild (if skull fractures were mild) brain injuries, or about being a freak of nature. He'd figured this home was temporary anyway, until his horrid luck messed things up. Or his new guardian died. It wouldn't be the first time--people tended to drop around him like flies, likely because he was such an awful child. Or maybe because his radioactivity was contagious? He hoped not.

He swung in through his open bedroom window, his mask already halfway off. He'd ditched his afterschool chess club to stop a bank robber a few blocks away—citing some excuse about forgetting to walk his dog. Definitely no dog, but new schools meant getting away with flimsy lies. Who knew how long that would last?

His mind was heavy with thoughts from the recent incident. A robbery turned violent, with the criminals taking a hostage. He had intervened just in time, but it had been a close call. He was tired, sweaty and sore from the fight.

He yanked his mask off, revealing his bruised and battered face. The fight had been intense, and Peter had sustained a few blows to the head. He had also dislocated his shoulder. However, his heightened metabolism and fast healing were already working to mend his wounds.

Until a knock on the door startled him, and he froze with his mask in his hand. Shoot, shoot, shoot. Of course, his guardian wanted to check on them. They probably got a concerned call from school today. Probably about him... bolting in the middle of class. Again.

"Just a minute—!" He cringed at the way his voice cracked, "I'm—m changing! Be out in a second!"

He cursed his voice, which always betrayed him at the worst possible times, and hastily chucked his mask under his bed. He straightened his shirt before rushing to the door. Opening it, he feigned a smile, pretending to just be getting out of the shower, hoping he looked less like a bloodied vigilante.

"Hey, uh, good—you wanted to talk to me?” he asked casually, leaning against the doorframe.

Maybe if he acted casual enough, he could divert attention from the obvious wounds on his face and shoulder—even though he was pretty sure his shoulder was hanging limply.