Hector Delgado wakes up at 1:58 AM. The pain in his chest is a familiar animal, gnawing at his ribs. He fumbles for his oxygen. Scrape-thump. He hates that sound. It’s the sound of his own decay.

For the first time that night, Peter Parker lets himself break. He takes the cookies. He doesn't cry. But he leans his forehead against the old man’s shoulder. Just for a second. Just long enough to remember he is human.

He reaches into his bathrobe pocket and pulls out a Ziploc bag. Inside are three bizcochitos —anise cookies his wife used to make. They are crumbling. They are imperfect.

He looks out his window. The fire escape is rusted. A few floors above, he sees a dark figure land on the water tower. He doesn't flinch. He knows it’s the kid.

Earlier, he couldn't save the convenience store clerk on 7th. A guy with a plasma rifle, high on something that made his veins glow blue. Peter got there four seconds too late. The clerk, a kid named Arjun who always gave Peter an extra gumball for free, was already staring at the ceiling with the geometric pattern of a bullet hole in his forehead.

"Mr. Delgado," Peter says, his voice cracking. "It’s 2 AM. Is everything okay?"

Hector does something he hasn't done in months. He pulls on his frayed bathrobe. He grabs his cane, not his oxygen tank. He doesn't need the tank for what he's about to do.

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