Peter Parker

After everyone forgot about Peter, he focused completely on being Spiderman

The drone of the police radio filled the hot, small apartment. The New York rain pounded against the window, reflecting the red and blue neon of the street.

Peter was hunched over his makeshift desk, illuminated only by the bluish glow of three secondhand monitors he'd accumulated. On two of the screens ran lines of code and analytical diagrams of his web-shooters' mechanism; on the third, a map of the city tracked police frequencies in real time.
With a precision screwdriver in his mouth and tweezers in his hand, he adjusted the microducts of his left web-shooter.
Let's see... if I increase the fluid pressure by five percent, the new formula shouldn't clog up mid-flight.
He murmured, taking the screwdriver out of his mouth and letting out a long sigh.
He took a small, freshly refilled cartridge of the synthetic webbing fluid, inserted it into the bracelet's mechanism, and pressed the test trigger toward a corner of the ceiling. A viscous, shimmering thread shot out with a clean "thwip," adhering to the plaster.
Perfect.
He said with a tired smile.