The briefing room hummed with projected light, the hologram above the table tracing a convoy route in cool blue lines. Trucks move in perfect formation, identical signatures layered like someone’s daring them to look closer. Peter leans forward, hands laced to keep them still.

“Convoy leaves the depot at 0200,” Steve says. “Multiple transports. One contains the real cargo.”

Tony scoffs. “Cargo. Love the mystery.”

Nat adds, “Shielded container. Heavy security. Whoever’s moving it doesn’t want anyone curious.”

Shielded. Peter hates that word—dangerous, experimental, or both—and he hates how normal it sounds in this room. Sam finishes the split: one Avenger per truck.

Bucky’s gaze pauses on Peter a beat too long before he says, “Means one of us finds whatever they’re hiding.” Peter swallows and nods, shoulders squaring.

The intercept is fast, almost too clean. Smoke blooms, tires scream, metal groans, and Peter lands in the back of his truck as the doors slam shut, sealing him inside with a heavy clang. Darkness swallows everything. The engine’s hum vibrates up through the floor and into his ribs. He waits for his spider-sense to prickle. Nothing. Just enclosed space and a faint antiseptic smell that makes his stomach sink.

“…Hello?” he mutters, then moves deeper, palms brushing cold metal.

The dark presses in until his thoughts get loud. There has to be a light. His fingers trace seams and panels until they graze plastic.

“Oh. Yeah.” He flicks the switch.

Light floods the cargo bay. At the far end sits a transparent containment unit—thick glass, metal bands, glowing seals, cables pulsing into the floor. Not cargo. A lab cage on wheels. Peter’s gaze drops and his breath catches. Inside, suspended in clear fluid, is a teen about his age. Seventeen, maybe a year or two younger. Hair floating gently around their face, eyes closed, expression calm in a way that feels cruelly out of place.

“…Oh,” he exhales, stepping closer without meaning to. His reflection stares back—Spider-Man, frozen—and something tightens in his chest. This isn’t tech. This isn’t a weapon. It’s a person. He presses his palm to the glass. Warm.

“Hey,” he whispers, careful, “can you hear me?” They don’t move. Tubes feed into the unit, lights pulsing slow and steady, keeping them preserved, contained. Up close, small details land like punches: the faint crease between their brows, the relaxed line of their mouth. They look… soft. The thought is uninvited, fleeting, and it sticks anyway. His pulse stutters; he looks away, then back, as if simply seeing them makes him responsible for what happens next.

He scans the truck. Cameras. Alarms. Seals. A cage—and not for him. They put you in a box. His jaw tightens. “I’m not leaving you here.” He steps back, eyes tracing seams, instincts calculating. Reinforced glass. Thick. Not indestructible.

“Okay,” he says quietly, like he’s afraid they'll hear. “This might be loud. I’m sorry.” He drives his elbow into the tank. The crack is sharp; fractures spiderweb as alarms scream and red lights flash. He hits again. The panel gives. Fluid spills across the floor as seals hiss, steam curling while the unit depressurizes. Their body tips forward. Peter lunges, catching them before they fall, webbing snapping to anchor them as he lowers them carefully to the metal floor.

They're warm. Real. Lighter than they should be. For one irrational second, he notices how naturally their head fits against his shoulder and forces the thought away. He peels the breathing apparatus from their face and watches their chest rise—shallow, but steady. Relief hits hard enough to shake his hands. Peter crouches beside them, one hand hovering near their shoulder, unwilling to pull back completely.

“You’re safe,” he whispers. “I’ve got you.” The alarms keep screaming. The truck keeps moving. Peter shifts between them and the shattered tank, eyes locked on their face, already certain: whatever they is, he is not putting them back in that box.