Peter WHY...

The woman employee stood first, her hands trembling as she gripped Peter's arm. "Thank you, Spider-Man! I thought we were goners— you're incredible!"

"No sweat," Peter replied, steadying her. "Just another night on the job."

The younger employee scrambled up, wide-eyed. "Man, you saved us! They had guns, and you just… took them up like it was nothing!"

"Happy to help," Peter said, moving to the customers. He freed their hands, his strength making short work of the bindings.

An older man with a gray beard clasped Peter's hand, his voice shaky. "Bless you, son. I've got family waiting—I owe you everything tonight."

"Glad you're safe," Peter said, his mask hiding his grin. "Go enjoy your holiday."

A woman with a shopping bag nodded fervently. "Thank you, Spider-Man! You're a real hero—I can't believe how fast you moved!"

"Just doing my thing," Peter quipped, then turned to a teenage girl, the last hostage. "You okay?"

She beamed, breathless. "Yeah, thanks! That was so cool—those moves were insane!"

"Stick around for the encore," Peter joked, ushering them toward the back exit. "Cops will handle these guys—get out and stay safe."

He turned to the middle-aged woman employee, who was smoothing her apron with shaky hands. "Hey, can I borrow your phone for a minute?" he asked, his voice casual through the mask.

She looked up, her brow furrowing slightly. "For what?"

"To call the cops," Peter replied, tilting his head with a playful edge. "Gotta let them know the show's over."

"Oh, right," she said, a faint smile breaking through her nerves. She gestured toward the counter. "The store phone's over there—it's working."

"Sweet," Peter said, giving her a quick nod. No need to mess with personal phones, he thought, striding over to the counter where a black rotary phone sat, its cord neatly coiled. He picked up the receiver and dialed 911, leaning against the edge as the line rang. The hostages—the two employees and three customers—watched him, their tension easing into amusement, small smiles tugging at their lips as they observed their web-slinging savior.

"911, what's your emergency?" a woman's voice answered, calm but clipped.

Peter cleared his throat, pitching his voice into a high, squeaky tone—a goofy disguise to keep it light. "Hiya! This is your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man!" he chirped, twirling the phone cord around his finger. "Got a little robbery attempt at Goldman's Gems—Fifth and Main. Seven bad guys tried to swipe some jewels after hours, but I webbed 'em up tight. They're all here, plus five hostages, safe and sound now."

The operator paused, her tone shifting to skepticism. "Spider-Man? Is this for real? You're saying you're Spider-Man?"

"Yep, that's me!" Peter squeaked, grinning beneath his mask. "Your friendly web-head, reporting live! Caught these guys red-handed—well, webbed-handed. They've got guns, but they're not going anywhere, all wrapped up nice and cozy."

"Are you serious?" she pressed, her voice tinged with doubt. "How do I know this isn't a prank? We get weird calls this time of year."

Peter chuckled, keeping the squeak. "Oh, it's legit, I swear! Check Fifth and Main—you'll find seven goons stuck to the walls and floor, courtesy of my webs. Hostages are free, no injuries. I'd stick around to prove it, but I've got places to swing!"

There was a beat of silence, then the operator sighed, professionalism overriding her uncertainty. "Alright… Spider-Man, if that's you. Units are dispatched to Goldman's Gems, Fifth and Main. Can you confirm the robbers are secured?"

"Secured like a Christmas present with extra tape!" Peter chirped, his voice cracking for effect. "They're not moving—just muttering a lot. Send the cops quick, though—don't want 'em catching a cold in my webs!"

"Understood," she said, still sounding wary. "We'll have officers there shortly. Anything else?"

"Just tell them happy holidays from Spider-Man!" Peter squeaked, then hung up with a flourish, turning back to the freed hostages. They were all watching him, their smiles widening—the woman employee smiling, the younger man stifling a laugh, and the three customers whispering excitedly.

Time to bounce, Peter thought, his work here done. He shot a web line to the roof, swinging up and away from the crime scene with a smooth arc, the cold air rushing past him as he vanished into the holiday-lit skyline. The streets below twinkled with festive lights, snowflakes swirling in his wake, and he grinned beneath his mask. Cops'll mop this up—Spider-Man's off the clock.

Moments later, the wail of sirens pierced the quiet, and three police cars screeched to a halt outside the jewelry store on Fifth and Main. Red and blue lights flashed against the snow-dusted pavement, cutting through the festive glow as officers spilled out, their boots crunching on the icy ground. The lead car's door swung open, and Officer Maria Delgado stepped out, her flashlight sweeping the storefront. Behind her, Officer Tom Harkness and a younger cop, Officer Jake Ruiz, followed, their breaths fogging in the cold as they approached the webbed-up chaos inside.

Maria pushed the door open, her beam landing on the seven robbers—each cocooned in thick, sticky webs from neck to feet, their heads free and their voices grumbling in frustration. 

The webbing pinned them to walls, the floor, and a counter, guns tangled uselessly in the strands. "Well, I'll be damned," she muttered, holstering her flashlight. "That squeaky call wasn't a prank—Spider-Man really did this."

Tom, a grizzled veteran, pulled out a utility knife and knelt by the first robber, who was stuck to the floor near the counter. "Figures," he grunted, sawing at the webs. "He swings in, webs 'em up, and leaves us to play janitor. This stuff's like steel—gonna take forever to cut through."

Jake, newer to the force, circled the second robber, webbed upright by the back door, and tugged at the strands with gloved hands. "How's he even make this?" he asked, his voice a mix of awe and annoyance. "It's sticky as hell—my knife's barely denting it."

"Beats me," Maria said, working on the third robber with her own blade, the webbing resisting with a stubborn elasticity. "Heard it's organic or something—guy's a freak of nature. Keep cutting, though—they're not slipping out anytime soon."

Tom snorted, finally slicing through a thick layer around the first robber's legs. "Freak or not, he's a pain in our ass. Look at this—takes three of us just to free one guy. Dispatch said he called it in with some squeaky voice, like a cartoon character."

"Seriously?" Jake laughed, wrestling with the webs on the second robber's arms. "That's hilarious. 'Friendly neighborhood Spider-Man,' huh? Guy's got style, I'll give him that."

"Yeah, style we've gotta clean up," Maria shot back, her knife snapping a strand that sent the third robber slumping forward, still half-wrapped. "Seven armed idiots, all trussed up like holiday hams—least he didn't knock 'em out. Witnesses saw it all, so we've got statements to take too."

Tom hauled the first robber to his feet, cuffing his freed wrists as the man glared through his ski mask. "Quit whining," Tom growled, shoving him toward the door. "You're lucky he didn't break your jaw—Spider-Man's nicer than I'd be."

Jake chuckled, cutting the last webbing from the second robber's legs. "Think he's out there laughing at us right now? Swinging around, watching us hack away?"

"Probably," Maria said, wrestling the third robber loose and passing him to another officer who'd joined from the second car. "Let's just get these clowns into custody—web's tough, but we've handled worse. Move it, people!"

The cops worked steadily, their knives and shears slicing through the stubborn webs with grunts and muttered curses. The robbers, still conscious, squirmed and complained, but the officers ignored them, dragging each one free and cuffing them as the webs finally gave way. The process was slow—Spider-Man's handiwork was a nightmare to undo—but they managed, loading the seven into the squad cars parked outside, their lights painting the snow in flashes of color.