Chapter 3: Wrong Time, Wrong Place

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Here's the bonus chapter as promised!

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The faint gray light of dawn seeped through the cracks of boarded-up windows in a cramped, decaying apartment. The room reeked of mildew, sweat, and neglect. Miles Morales sat on the edge of his creaking mattress, staring at the peeling wallpaper with empty eyes. At seventeen, his shoulders bore the weight of a life far older than his years.

He stood and moved silently across the room, his socked feet muffled on the cold, stained floor. The faucet in the bathroom sputtered and coughed before releasing a weak stream of water. He splashed his face, the cold biting at his skin, and stared into the cracked mirror. The reflection was haunting, hollow cheeks, tired eyes, and an expression that spoke of a silent endurance.

After drying his face, Miles pulled on a plain hoodie, tucking the edge of a sky-blue ski mask into its collar. He opened the door to the main room, where his mother sat slumped in an old armchair. Her hand trembled as she lifted a cigarette to her lips, her other hand fumbling with a small bag of powder on the table.

"Mornin', Ma.." Miles said softly, his voice barely audible.

She didn't respond. Her glassy eyes stared past him, her mind consumed by whatever haze she had chosen to escape into.

Miles lingered for a moment, pain flickering in his dark eyes, before pulling up his hood and stepping outside. The air was crisp, the streets eerily quiet at this hour. The apartment door creaked as it closed behind him, the sound swallowed by the vast emptiness of the neighborhood.

....

Miles turned into an alleyway a few blocks down. The brick walls were damp, graffiti covering nearly every surface. A man leaned against a dumpster, his face hidden under the brim of a tattered cap. He straightened as Miles approached.

"Right on time." the man muttered, reaching into his jacket. He pulled out a plastic bag filled with small, tightly wrapped packages and handed it over.

"Same deal as always." the man continued. "Take it to the university, meet the client, get the cash, and don't screw it up."

Miles accepted the bag without a word, his expression unreadable. He didn't need to ask who the client was; he'd been doing this long enough to know the routine.

"You hear me, kid?" the man snapped.

Miles glanced up, his voice calm but laced with quiet defiance. "Yeah, I hear you."

Without waiting for a response, he turned and walked away, the bag tucked securely under his hoodie.

....

The streets grew busier as he neared the university. The well-maintained sidewalks and clean storefronts were a stark contrast to the crumbling buildings of his neighborhood. Miles kept his head down, his pace steady, blending into the crowd.

Ahead of him, Peter Parker and MJ Watson strolled side by side, their laughter carried by the breeze. They talked animatedly about their plans for the weekend, oblivious to the quiet figure walking in the opposite direction.

Miles glanced at them briefly, a flicker of curiosity in his gaze, before pulling his hood lower and continuing past. Their lives, their world, was a universe away from his own.

....

The rendezvous point was an abandoned building on the edge of campus, its windows shattered and walls tagged with faded graffiti. Miles stepped inside, his footsteps echoing in the hollow space.

The client was waiting, a wiry man with a sharp jawline and shifty eyes. His hands were stuffed into his pockets, but his posture was tense.

"You got the stuff?" the man asked, his tone impatient.

Miles pulled the bag from under his hoodie and held it out. The man snatched it, his movements jittery.

"Hold up." Miles said, his voice firm. "Money first."

The man scowled, tossing the bag aside and stepping closer. "You don't call the shots here, kid."

Miles tensed, his jaw tightening. "That's not how this works."

The man sneered, motioning behind him. Two burly figures emerged from the shadows, their faces twisted into cruel smirks.

"Maybe you need a lesson in how things work." the man said.

Miles barely had time to react before one of the men lunged at him. He ducked the first swing, his instincts sharp, but the second man caught him from behind, pinning his arms.

"Let go of me!" Miles shouted, struggling against their grip.

The wiry man stepped forward, pulling a knife from his belt. "You should've stayed quiet, kid."

The blade flashed in the dim light before plunging into Miles' side. A sharp, searing pain tore through him, and his knees buckled. He gasped, his vision blurring as the men released him, letting him collapse to the floor.

"Take him." the man ordered.

Miles tried to resist, but his strength was fading fast. The men hoisted him up, dragging him toward a waiting van parked in the alley.

....

The van's interior was cold and metallic, the floor rough against Miles' skin. His hands were tied, and a cloth bag was shoved over his head. The knife remained in his side, the only thing preventing him from bleeding out completely.

Through the muffled fabric, he could hear voices, harsh, businesslike tones discussing his fate.

"This wasn't part of the deal." one voice said. "We were supposed to grab the others."

"The boss doesn't care." another replied. "He said anyone who gets in the way is fair game."

Miles' heart pounded as the realization sank in. He wasn't even the target, just a wrong place, wrong time casualty.

The van came to a sudden stop, and he was dragged out, his legs barely able to hold his weight. The smell of damp earth and rust filled his nostrils as they carried him into a building.

....

The room was cold, lit by a single flickering bulb. Miles' head spun as his captors bandaged his wound hastily, more to keep him alive than to help him.

"Lock him up." one of them barked.

He was thrown into a cramped cell underground, the door slamming shut behind him. The sound of the lock turning echoed in the darkness. Miles slumped against the wall, his breathing shallow, his mind racing.

Somewhere above, water dripped steadily, the sound blending with the distant murmur of voices. Miles clenched his fists, his resolve hardening despite the pain.

'I'm not dying here.' he thought, his teeth gritting against the agony.

As the hours passed, the faint light from the bulb flickered, casting long shadows across the walls. Miles leaned his head back, staring at the ceiling, his silent defiance burning brighter than ever.

....

Tony Stark's palms pressed against the cold concrete floor of his cell as he lowered his body with controlled precision. His breathing was steady, his face calm, though his mind raced like a finely tuned engine. Each push-up wasn't just exercise, it was calculation.

'The cot's frame could serve as the base. The bolts, improvised hinges. The wiring in the light, maybe enough for a circuit.'

He exhaled, pushing himself back up. Sweat dripped from his brow, but he didn't pause. His thoughts flowed seamlessly, analyzing every detail of the confined space. Every piece of metal, every loose fixture, it was all raw material waiting to be shaped.

'The guards rotate every four hours. Cameras in blind spots near the west corridor. The kitchen? Possible access point...but I'll need leverage.'

"Eighty-seven." he muttered under his breath, lowering himself again.

The sound of metal grinding broke his rhythm. The cell door creaked open, and a guard's voice barked from the hall. "Lunch. Let's go."

Tony straightened, brushing dust off his jumpsuit. His movements were deliberate as he stepped toward the door.

'Step one, find a way to ecape. Step two, everything else.'

With that thought, he walked into the corridor, his mind already working three steps ahead.

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