Peter WHY...

Peter woke up feeling good. Classes at Midtown High rolled smooth—math clicked, science hummed, no drama. He aced a quiz, kept it easy. This is a great day so far, he thought to himself. After last night's mess at the harbor, it's nice to just coast for once.

After school, he met Liz for coffee. They hit Mel's Brew, a small diner tucked off Queens Boulevard—cracked vinyl booths, chipped mugs, neon sign buzzing faint in the window. Inside smelled of burnt coffee and grease, warm against the snowy chill outside. Tables sat half-full—old guys sipped black brew, a waitress shuffled slow. Mood hung soft—quiet, cozy, a break from the grind. Peter slid into a booth across from Liz, her blonde hair loose, jacket slung over the seat. She grinned, eyes bright.

"Survived the group project," Liz said, stirring sugar into her coffee. "Barely—those guys are clueless."

Peter chuckled, sipping his black brew—hot, bitter. "Knew you'd pull it off," he said. "You're the brains—always are."

She smirked, leaning forward. "Flattery's working," she said. "You're not bad today—quiet, though. What's up?"

"Just chilling," Peter said, shrugging. "Good day—classes were fine, now this. Can't complain." He's having fun with Liz, he thought. She's sharp—keeps me on my toes, makes it all feel normal.

Liz sipped her coffee, grinning over the rim. "Better not," she said. "I'd drag you into my chaos—group's submitting tomorrow. You'd hate it."

"Pass," Peter said, laughing. "You're the boss—stick to that." This is perfect, he thought. Coffee with her—it's simple, keeps the edge off after Red Hook.

They talked—school, her project, dumb teachers. Coffee cooled, cups emptied. Liz checked her watch, sighed. "Gotta bounce—finishing touches," she said, standing. "See you tomorrow?"

"Count on it," Peter said, grinning as she grabbed her bag. She waved, slipped out—snow puffed in as the door swung shut.

Night fell, Peter switched gears. Shadow suit locked on black armor hugged tight, helmet visor dimmed his view. Guns sat heavy, Beretta at his hip, revolver on his thigh. He rode his bike to a garage off Flushing, concrete box, rusted doors, snow piled at the edges. Air hung cold, oil-stained, faint hum of traffic buzzed outside. Mood shifted—tense, sharp, all business.

Vera called earlier , equipment's ready, she'd said. DNA sequencer, bioprinter, all of it—game-changers. Waiting's fine, he thought. Great day's rolling, now this. Kingpin's hurting, and I'm building.

Peter sat in the driver's seat of his black truck, the Shadow suit encasing him like a second skin, its bulky Kevlar armor pressing against his chest and thighs as he waited in the dimly lit garage. The night outside was bitter, snow drifting in lazy flurries past the rusted doors, casting a faint white sheen over the oil-stained concrete floor. The air hung heavy with the sharp tang of gasoline and the cold bite of winter seeping through the walls, a stark contrast to the warmth of his day—classes had flowed smoothly, and the coffee date with Liz at Mel's Brew had left him buzzing with a rare contentment. 

Now, though, his focus sharpened as the low rumble of an engine broke the stillness, signaling Vera's arrival. This is it, he thought to himself. The day's been great so far—Liz's smile, easy school hours—and now this shipment's going to top it off perfectly.

The garage door rattled upward, revealing Vera's gray van as it rolled in, tires crunching through the packed snow. She stepped out with a brisk stride, her white hair loosely tied back, glinting faintly under the flickering fluorescent lights overhead. Her leather jacket was zipped tight against the chill, an unlit cigarette dangling between her fingers—a habit she never seemed to shake, even in business. 

Two men followed her out of the van, their bulky frames shadowed by the crates they hauled from the back—scarred faces, heavy coats, and hands that moved with practiced efficiency. Peter slid out of the truck, his helmet's tinted visor concealing the faint grin tugging at his lips as he approached. Vera's here with the gear, he thought. Everything I need to take this to the next level, I'm just getting started.

Vera kicked one of the wooden crates open with a thud, the sound echoing off the bare walls. "Here's your haul," she said, her voice rough and gravelly, cutting through the quiet like a blade. "DNA sequencer, polymerase machine, centrifuge, bioprinter—all the fancy stuff you asked for. Take a look and make sure it's right."

Peter moved closer, his armored boots scuffing the floor as he bent to inspect the shipment. The equipment gleamed under the harsh light—the DNA sequencer was a compact, silver box with a digital display humming faintly, precise and ready. The polymerase machine sat squat and sturdy, its steel casing built to churn through samples without a hitch. The centrifuge was heavier, a brute of a thing designed to spin fast and hard, while the bioprinter loomed beside it, sleek and intricate, promising precision work. "Looks good," he said, keeping his modulated tone flat and emotionless through the helmet's voice filter. "It's all here and verified, just like we agreed."

Vera gave a curt nod, her gray eyes narrowing as she studied him, though the visor kept his face a mystery. "Cash," she said simply, extending a hand with an expectant tilt. Peter reached into the truck, grabbed the bag stuffed with half a million dollars in crisp stacks, and tossed it to her men. The guy with a buzz cut caught it with a grunt, unzipping it fast to reveal the green bills inside. "Counting it now," he said, flipping through the stacks with quick, practiced fingers, while the second man—neck tattooed with a coiled snake—watched and nodded. "It's all here, no short," he confirmed, zipping it back up.

Vera slipped the cigarette into her pocket, her gaze locking onto Peter with a casual but piercing edge. "Heard about that mess at the harbor last night ?," she said, her tone light but probing, like she was testing the water. "Red Hook—Kingpin's lab got smashed, shipment blown wide open. You or your employer got any guesses on who pulled that off?"

Peter stood still, his armored frame unwavering as he kept his voice steady through the modulator. "Not a clue," he said, letting the words hang cool and detached. "Me and my employer don't know anything about it—it's all news to us." There's no way she's pinning this on me, he thought to himself. 

She smirked, a faint, cold twist of her lips as she shrugged. "It was a Big hit. Someone's got guts," she said. "Kingpin's spitting nails over it and watch yourself out there, shadow man."

"I always do," Peter said, giving a slow nod as he crossed his arms. The equipment's in my hands now, Kingpin's reeling, and this day's still rolling strong, couldn't ask for better.