Chapter 56

The rain was soft—more of a mist than a downpour. It slid across the rooftops like fog made tangible, gathering in tiny rivulets along the ledges.

Peter crouched at the edge of a water tower three blocks from Hell's Kitchen, hood pulled forward, mask eyes dimly glowing in the dark. The city was quiet tonight. Too quiet. He had been hoping for a mugging or a robbery—something to break the monotony.

But Queens was calm, and he wasn't in the mood to swing across Manhattan just to stop someone from stealing lottery tickets.

So he came to visit an old friend.

He arrived silently, perching on the rooftop of a church with a familiar crooked cross. The steeple loomed behind him. A few seconds passed, then—

"I figured you'd show up eventually," came a voice from the shadows.

Peter turned his head slightly. "Still listening for heartbeats, huh?"

Daredevil stepped forward, red suit gleaming faintly under the moonlight filtered by rain. "Always. Yours is surprisingly calm for someone who sneaks up on rooftops."

"I've been bored," Peter said, stretching his arms lazily. "Thought I'd check in. You're more entertaining than Midtown's football drama."

Matt chuckled. "I feel flattered. Or insulted. Hard to tell."

"Bit of both," Peter replied. "How's the kitchen?"

Matt sighed and leaned against a rusted pipe. "Overcooked. Too many fires. And one particularly fat rat I can't seem to catch or stop."

"Kingpin?"

"Kingpin," Matt confirmed. "He's been unusually quiet the past few weeks. That usually means one of two things: he's dead, or he's planning something."

Peter tilted his head. "My bet's on the latter. That guy never dies. He just rebrands."

Matt gave a tired smile. "He's using shell charities again. Pushing real estate grabs through dummy firms. Gentrification disguised as outreach. I've been trying to get the city to notice, but the man owns half of the council."

"Typical Fisk," Peter muttered. "What do you need?"

Matt turned toward him. "Honestly? Advice."

Peter blinked. "Okay. That's a new one."

"You work different," Matt said. "Detached. Quiet. You know how to move without drawing fire. I've been swinging into this mess like I'm wearing a spotlight."

"I mean, you are wearing red leather."

Matt smirked. "Point taken."

They stood in silence for a few seconds, listening to the hum of distant traffic and the occasional honk from a cab several stories below.

Peter finally broke the quiet. "If it were me, I'd stop poking him directly. Let him think you've backed off. Go dark. Watch his people move. Wait for someone to get sloppy."

Matt nodded slowly. "Go passive."

"Go patient," Peter corrected. "Fisk is the kind of guy who thinks in towers. You knock out a brick, he doesn't notice. You remove the support beams, the whole thing collapses."

Matt was quiet for a moment. "You'd help if I needed backup?"

Peter shrugged. "You've got my number."

Matt chuckled. "You don't have a phone."

"Exactly."

They both laughed lightly. The rain was starting to ease, the mist becoming clearer.

They stood there for a while, just existing in the calm. It wasn't awkward. There was no pressure to speak. Just two people who wore masks, breathing in the city.

Peter stretched his arms, cracked his neck, and took a step back toward the ledge.

"I should head back," he said.

Peter raised a hand. "Call me if Kingpin makes a move. I don't like that man thinking he owns my city."

With that, he fired a webline across the adjacent rooftop and vanished into the misty skyline, the wind catching his coat like a whisper. The city swallowed him whole.