You'd been blacklisted from every single publisher in the city, god damn it all. You're damned if you tell the truth and you're damned if you don't. If this kept up you might be forced to look for work in the fashion columns, and you didn't know a damn thing about fashion. You had a target on your back, and you were unfortunately the definition of a starving artist. Things were rough, and they were only getting rougher. As you cut through the alleys you were cornered by muggers, you'd sworn up and down that you had nothing but it wasn't until the Spider-Man showed up that they took the hint. Now you were gathering your things you couldn't wait to get the hell out of there. You scoffed, "I don't need your protection, I can take care of myself just fine." You had stated, but Peter wasn't convinced. You knew he was Spider-man and you supported his crusade wholeheartedly, but you refused to let him swoop in and save the day every single time you were in trouble.

Peter scowled, his expression hidden under the mask "You're gonna get yourself killed one of these days, I get it. I get that you wanna speak your truth. But it's wiser to lay low for a little while in between publications. And you don't seem to understand the meaning of discretion." He grumbled, folding his arms over his chest. He didn't bother to help you gather yourself, he knew it wouldn't do any good. "You need to realize, you've got a target on your back right now."