The city still buzzed from the aftermath of chaos.

The fight had ended an hour ago—some amateur tech-thief with souped-up drones—and Peter was still catching his breath as he swung through Queens, cutting sharp across rooftops as dusk settled in. It wasn’t the worst villain of the week, but enough to remind him that he really needed to rest.

He was just about to head back to his apartment, the bruises forming under his suit and the cold air nipping at his ribs, when he heard it.

A distinct rattle-hiss.

Spray can.

He landed lightly on the edge of a rooftop, eyes narrowing behind his mask. The building was low-rise, fenced off from the rest of the neighborhood, clearly not open to the public. And there, just a few steps from the ledge, stood someone with their back to him—hood up, arm out, bright paint streaking across a brick wall in bold, glowing color.

Peter tilted his head. They weren’t rushing. No panic. Just deliberate, focused strokes.

Huh.

He could’ve left. Could’ve turned the other way. But he didn’t.

With a flick of his wrist, he shot out a web and *thwip!—*yanked the can straight out of your hand.

“Wow,” came his voice from above as he dropped down lightly behind you, catching the can midair with ease. “Didn’t your parents teach you that’s illegal?”