He left quickly after that.

Peter stuffed the note and doll into his pocket, grabbed his bag, his camera, and was out the door in seconds. He'll call in later and claim he was sick, but right now he couldn't be in that room for another minute. Not without feeling like he was going to throw up.

He didn't bother taking the subway this time, or hailing a taxi, he sidestepped into the first empty alleyway he saw and was swinging back out as Spider-Man within minutes. There was little that could get him moving like this. The last time he felt so panicked was when Venom first bonded with Eddie and they made it their personal mission to unmask him and rip him to shreds - whichever came sooner. He felt this way back when Norman Osborn found out he was Spider-Man. He shuddered, thinking of the sound of his name on Goblin's lips.

The same thing was happening now. The Spider-Man toy - it was a sign. Your secret is safe with me. He seriously doubted it. There were few times in his life where someone figured out his alter ego and hadn't immediately gunned for his blood or the blood of his family. Which begged the question: who was this woman? Why was she going after him? And what did she want?

Peter raced through any significant interactions he's with a woman of her hair color and build, but nothing came to mind. It was like searching for a needle in a haystack.

He went straight to his apartment building, but just as it came into sight, he had second thoughts and landed on the shadowed side of a building down the street. If he was being watched, he didn't need any more incentive that he was Spider-Man. So, he dropped behind a dumpster and returned to his civies, checking and double-checking with both his eyes and spider-sense that no one was watching, before scuttling into the crowds. He hurried up to his apartment and practically shoved the key through the door when he made it to his floor. Once inside and the door was locked again, like a madman he whirl winded through each room and closed and locked every window and drew the curtains closed. As he worked, he called Wade, and when it inevitably went to voicemail he wanted to scream and throw his phone at the wall.

"Okay, so, things have escalated," he said after the beep. He hated how hysterical he sounded. "I think my covers blown, code Blue, please call me when you get this. Bye." Short and sweet and so-so panicked Peter inwardly cringed.

The little Spider-Man was burning a hole in his pocket and his eyes were drawn to the collection of gifts on his dresser. His stomach heaved. They didn't look like sweet senseless gifts anymore; they were a dozen red flags waving their alarms and screaming their hidden menace. They needed to go right now. He grabbed the trinkets and frantically began tossing them into the garbage next to his desk. In his haste, he bumped the dresser and the little toy camera fell, plummeting to the floor and breaking into a dozen pieces. There was hardly a tear shed for it, and once Peter was finished putting the other gifts in the trash, he bent to do the same to the remains.

But the camera had more to it than he initially thought. Upon leaning down, Peter picked up the miniature camera lens and realized with a start that it was an actual lens. In the mess, an array of wires and plastic stuck out from the broken side of the camera. Peter picked it up to inspect it closer and then crushed it in his hand. It was a camera. An actual camera. One with gears and wires and parts that shouldn't be in a toy. Peter's hand trembled around the crushed remains, uncaring for the jab in his palm where pieces of plastic and metal dug into his skin.

Had the camera worked? Has it been watching his room this whole time? Is this where the stalker got that photo of him? He took out the picture.

No, the angle was all wrong and the toy camera hadn't been facing the bed. It couldn't be the same spot. She would've had to be in the room with him for this picture, which did nothing to make him feel better. Peter threw the camera in the trash with a disgusted curl of his lips.

How hadn't he known? How did he miss the signs?

"Fuck this," he grabbed his phone, dialing the number Tony Stark gave him. It was for emergencies only, as he'd emphasized while typing it into Peter's phone. Peter's never used it before, as he's never had a reason to. He made his own tech, didn't need help on patrols, and didn't feel like being pestered by Tony about SHIELD or joining the Avengers.

But if someone knew he was Spider-Man and was willing to use it against him, then Peter hit a new level of desperation. Tony, at least, had the resources to help him track down this woman and figure out who she is. With JARVIS, he could get everything from her dental records to her kindergarten class photo. But just as Peter hit the first number there was a loud succession of thuds as someone knocked on the door. He froze. Another knock followed, and he crept through the apartment, sliding on his web-shooters, and approached the front door. His spider-sense wasn't humming, but he was too twitchy to care.

A manilla envelope slid across the floor, and a shadow disappeared from under the crack of the door. There were no markings on it, not his name or even a note. His spider-sense was still quiet so it couldn't be anything dangerous. He picked it up, weighing it in his hands. It wasn't very heavy either and there were no distinguishing bumps or creases. He slid the top open.

He was wrong. So wrong. This was quite possibly the most dangerous thing that could've happened to him. Inside were pictures, dozens of them, of him.

Him eating at his favorite cafe. Him walking down the street. Standing in the subway, playing on his phone as he waited for the train. At the Bugle, leaning back in his chair and sipping his coffee as he examined the string of coding he worked out. Standing in his apartment, Spider-man costume on and mask off. At his desk, working on his web-shooters. Perched on the wall in nothing but sweatpants and a t-shirt.

There were some of Wade too. The both of them sitting on a building eating lunch in costume. Them walking in the park, a hotdog in hand and laughing at a stupid joke. Sitting on the couch in their apartment, arguing over the cheap Avengers coasters Wade bought, because they couldn't decide who should get the Thor coaster and whether or not they should throw out Tony's just to piss him off.

But it wasn't just him and Wade, there were pictures of Aunt May and MJ too. At their jobs, on the streets, in their homes. Peter wasn't the only one being watched.

Among the damning pictures was a note. Peter opened it with shaky fingers.

You tell anyone and they're the ones who get hurt. I'm watching. I'll know.

Curled in the note were two more pictures. One of MJ asleep in her bed, the camera so close he could see the bundle of knots in her hair and the wrinkles in her pajamas. The other was Aunt May, taken from outside the house and looking in from the kitchen window. It was dark out, and Aunt May was walking in from the living room, her white hair neatly kept around her tired face. All she had to do was look up and she'd be looking straight at the camera.

Peter wasn't sure when his legs gave out from under him, all he knew was that suddenly he was on the floor and he couldn't breathe. The note slipped from his fingers but he barely noticed. He felt light-headed, his hands shook. All he could see were the scattered pictures around him, each embossed with the faces of those he cared about most in the world, all of them threatened and in danger. How did that woman get so close to them? She was inside MJ's apartment, outside Aunt May's house. She'd been in his apartment too, taking pictures of him, and apparently has been watching him and Wade for months. Those pictures of Wade were taken just before he'd left on his job.

Was she the one who robbed him too? Did she steal his blankets? Did she break into Aunt May's house and steal those photographs? Why? What did she want? Why was she doing this? He didn't recognize her face, and he couldn't place her from hair and build alone.

Peter stumbled to his feet, nausea overwhelming him. He teetered through the hall and barely made it to the bathroom before he was throwing up his lunch. Most of it made it in the toilet, thankfully. He curled around the porcelain bowl, clutching its sides as he emptied his stomach. He didn't have much of an appetite all day, so it was mostly dry heaving.

When he was done convulsing over the toilet, he wiped his mouth with the edge of his sleeve, and still shaking, got to his feet. He found his phone with the sudden insatiable urge to call Aunt May and check on her. To hear MJ's voice and know that she was okay. For once, Peter was thankful Wade was out of town so he wasn't in the line of fire either, but then again, Wade was just the kind of person he wanted by his side for this. At least together they could handle it. As crazy and irresponsible as people thought Wade was, he was scarily good at his job. He always bragged that he could find anyone, anywhere, and that he didn't even need a mental mutant contraption to do it. ("Suck it, Xavier!")

Peter had the phone pressed to his ear when something else came to mind. What if she was watching him right now? Could she be listening in? She snuck a camera into his apartment, it was possible she hid a microphone too. He ended the call, and peered skeptically around the room. Nothing looked out of place. Nothing was disturbed or changed. But he was riled up now and his hackles were effectively raised. This apartment used to be a safe haven; the place he went to after patrols to wind down and recuperate.

He didn't feel safe here anymore.

But this stalker couldn't bug the whole city. Peter was still wearing his shoes, so all he needed to do was grab his coat and head out the door. Whoever slipped the envelope inside was long gone by now and the hallways were empty.

He didn't feel any better on the street and shrunk in his coat, eyes narrowed as he watched people pass him by. He probably looked shady as hell, and if he lingered someone might get suspicious, so he kept moving until he was down in the subway. Once on a train, he found the least crowded car and stationed himself next to one of the poles in the back. It was still too packed for his liking, but he kept an eye out for any woman with brown hair and waited until the train was moving before he dialed Wade's number and brought it to his ear. He'll call Tony right after, but he'll feel better knowing he sent a message to Wade.

Besides, there was a chance Tony wouldn't pick up and Peter doubted he'd listen to any voicemail he left behind. The mission in Wakanda was still going and it was a lot more important than a spider-guy in New York and his stalker.

As expected, the call was left to voicemail, but just as Peter inhaled to start his message, someone pressed up close to his back and whispered, "I wouldn't do that if I were you."

Peter's words died in his throat. He tried to turn, but the woman behind him grabbed the back of his jacket and something hard probed his back. His spider-sense hummed.

"Don't do that either," she whispered, "In fact, from here on out, I suggest you stop calling your boyfriend at all," her tone. She sounded angry, "I know who you are, Peter. And if I find out you kept calling him, I might do something we'll both regret. Do you understand me?"

When Peter didn't reply she shoved the hard object - a gun?- harder into his back until he nodded.

"Good," her tone lightened and she sounded relieved, as if he'd given her good news." The train was beginning to slow as it came to its next stop. She pressed closer, voice dropping so low he almost couldn't catch it.

"Don't be afraid, okay. I'm not going to hurt you. I don't want to hurt you."

Peter snorted disdainfully, "Is that right? Well I -" she cut him off with a quiet "Shhhhh. I don't want to hurt anyone; I promise."

"Doesn't sound like a very good promise," he snapped.

"Just stop calling your little boyfriend," she said the word 'boyfriend' as if personally offended by it, "And we'll get along just nicely. You hear me?" When Peter didn't respond, she leaned in closer, making the back of his neck tickle from her breath, "I said, do you hear me?"

He nodded. And then the train was coming to a screeching stop and people got up to leave, the presence at his back left as suddenly as it arrived and Peter turned to see her figure walking calmly out with the line of people, an innocent pep in her step. She had the same brown hair from the office in the same ponytail.

Peter liked to think he had a good hold on his anger, but there were times it got the better of him. Like right now, it swarmed around him, tightening his jaw and clenching his hands like clamps. He shoved his way through those departing and stumbled out of the train, whipping around wildly.

Ahead of him, her black jacket weaved among the crowd, and he latched onto it before it could disappear in the multitude. Dodging people, he followed her as she put the hood over her head and ducked behind another crowd. Peter was there in minutes and grabbed her by the shoulder where she'd stopped to check her phone. An amateur move.

"Hey," he snapped, "Who do you-" the boy he grabbed recoiled from him with wide, terrified eyes. In Peter's aggression, one of his headphones had fallen out and now dangled helplessly from one ear. This boy was, well, a boy as far as Peter knew, and his hair was blonde, not brown. Peter blinked and stepped back.

"Oh, I'm -" he looked around but there were a dozen other black coats now. Too many to differentiate. She was gone. "I'm sorry, I thought you were someone else."

The boy didn't say anything, but he gave Peter another terrified look and hastily shuffled off, calling up a friend on his phone to make sure the stranger in the subway didn't follow him home. Peter did another twirl around the platform. There were women with brown hair among the crowd, but he didn't recognize any of them.

Then again, he hadn't recognized her either.

He wiped a hand over his face, blinking hard. He almost hurt that kid. He grabbed him far too tightly for someone with his strength. He needed to get a grip on himself before he actually hurt somebody.

But he couldn't get a grip on himself. He could feel his grip slipping. He'd thought he was alone. He went here because he wanted to get a step ahead of her. But she was with him the whole time, right behind him.

All this proved was that she was truly watching him.

Maybe she was still here, hiding among the crowds as people boarded trains and others got off. How would he know? Suddenly feeling exposed, Peter curled his jacket tight and left the subway. He didn't know which stop he got off at, but he could figure it out.

It was harder to recognize his surroundings from the ground, as he's gotten used to a bird's eye view of the city, but he managed to pin-point one of the carts he frequented as Spider-Man and plotted a way home from there. There was no point in wondering if he was going to be followed, she already knew where he lived.

Calling anyone was out of the question. She was watching too closely. Even talking to Wade wasn't an option anymore, because the moment he punched in his number that psycho could rig up a bomb to go off at MJ's, or slink off and hurt Aunt May, or simply send those incriminating photos to the closest media outlet and watch his life fall apart.

He could still feel the press of her gun at his back.

Peter grit his teeth and his eyes flashed. She was wrong if she thought he was going to sit down and take this. He underestimated her, yes, but he was still Spider-Man. He's been protecting this city for years, and this wouldn't be the first time he's had to fly solo against a threat and it probably wouldn't be the last.

He's gotten used to having Wade around and the safety net he provided, but Peter was going to get to the bottom of this.

This game was far from over and Spider-Man was finally taking his place at the table.