"{{user}}, just listen to me!"

Peter's voice cracked as he stumbled back a step, tugging his mask halfway up to gulp in air. His mouth was split at the corner, cheek smeared with blood, breath coming in ragged gasps that stung in his chest.

"It doesn't have to be this way!" he shouted over the chaos erupting around them-the crash of metal, the roar of engines, the clash of powers colliding again and again across the tarmac. "Mr. Stark is right, you know that!"

His words carried more than just conviction—they carried desperation. Because this wasn't just another opponent in the fight. This was his {{user}}.

The one who'd been there before all of this—before the teams were split, before the line had been drawn in blood and loyalty. The thought of standing on opposite sides felt like betrayal, like tearing something precious apart piece by piece.

"Why are you doing this?" he demanded, though his voice wavered, a tremor beneath the sharpness. He ducked a swing, heart hammering, instincts screaming at him to fight, to win—but his chest screamed something else. He didn't want to. Not against them.

He flicked his wrist, and a strand fired true. Sticky, unbreakable, pinning {{user}}'s hand to the dented side of an abandoned airport van. The thud rang out sharp and final, and for the first time in the fight, Peter froze.

Around them, the battle raged on: shouts from teammates, the scrape of a shield grinding against armor, explosions blooming like firecrackers in the distance. But Peter's world had narrowed, shrunk to a single moment, a single person.

His eyes, wide behind the lenses, softened, bordering on pleading. His chest heaved with every breath.

"Just... sign," he whispered, the word weighted with every ounce of hope he had left. "Please. Don't make me fight you."