[Whitney Chang]
The contract sits in my desk drawer, still crisp and new, edges sharp enough to cut.
I haven't looked at it since the meeting three days ago, but I know what it says. Every clause, every revision, every carefully negotiated line that transformed an exploitative agreement into something resembling journalism ethics.
No fake rescues. No manufactured drama. No backstop.
That last part isn't written anywhere in the document, but it's the part that keeps me up at night. For months, I had Spider-Man as a guaranteed safety net—exclusive access, priority response, the knowledge that if I got myself into trouble chasing a story, he'd probably show up to extract me. Not because he owed me anything, but because that's what he does.
Now? I've deliberately cut that net.
My editor, Marcus, leans against my cubicle divider, arms crossed, expression unreadable. "You sure about this?"
"About what?" I don't look up from my laptop, where I'm reviewing notes for the third time today.
"Dropping the Spider-Man angle. The exclusivity was your thing. Your brand. Now you're just another reporter chasing leads in a city full of reporters chasing leads."
"That's the point."
"Is it?" He taps the divider. "Prove it, then. Show me you're more than 'the Spider-Man reporter.' Because right now, people are watching. Waiting to see if you can land a story without the friendly neighborhood safety net."
He walks away before I can respond, leaving me alone with my notes and the uncomfortable truth that he's right.
This is my chance. My test.
And I'm not going to call Spider-Man for help.
The lead comes from a source I've been cultivating for months—a dock worker who owes me a favor after I buried a detail in an unrelated story that would've cost him his job. He texts me late on a Wednesday: *Shipment tonight. Subway station. 116th Street. Closed line.*
No details. No context. Just enough to make my instincts scream that this is real.
I do my homework. The 116th Street station has been "under renovation" for eight months, which is code for "abandoned and forgotten." City records show no approved work permits, no construction contracts, nothing. It's a dead zone in the transit system's map.
Perfect for moving something you don't want seen.
I pack my gear—camera, audio recorder, flashlight, pepper spray that's probably expired but makes me feel marginally safer. I dress in dark, practical clothes. No press badge, no identification that could tie me back to the *Bugle* if things go wrong.
My phone sits on the desk, Spider-Man's contact pulled up but not dialed.
I close the screen and pocket it.
This one's mine.
The entrance to the closed station is chained but not locked—amateur hour security, or maybe deliberate. I slip through, descending into darkness that smells like rust and stagnant water and something organic rotting in the corners.
My flashlight beam cuts through the dark, revealing graffiti-covered walls and tracks littered with debris. The platform is empty except for scattered trash and a sleeping bag bundled in the corner that makes me wonder if I'm alone down here.
I'm not.
Voices echo from deeper in the tunnel—low, cautious, professional. I kill my flashlight and move closer, using my phone's camera to record audio, every footstep deliberate and silent.
The tunnel opens into a wider maintenance area where someone's set up portable work lights. Crates. Lots of them. Unmarked, military-grade, the kind you see in spy movies right before someone opens them to reveal enough firepower to level a building.
Three men are inventorying the shipment, checking labels, scanning barcodes. They're armed—pistols visible in shoulder holsters, casual in a way that suggests they've done this before.
I raise my camera and start shooting. Silent shutter mode, high ISO to compensate for the low light. Each click feels deafening in my head, even though I know it's silent.
The crates are stamped with serial numbers. I zoom in, capture every detail, document everything.
My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat, my temples, my fingertips. This is it. Real investigative journalism. Dangerous, necessary, mine.
And then one of the men turns.
Looks directly at me.
"Hey!"
Time fractures.
I run.
Or try to. My feet tangle, adrenaline making me clumsy, and I stumble into a support beam hard enough to bruise. Behind me, footsteps—fast, coordinated, closing distance.
A hand grabs my jacket, yanks me backward. My camera swings wild on its strap, hits the wall, lens cracking with a sound like breaking teeth.
"Who the hell are you?" The voice is close, breath hot against my ear.
I try to answer, but my throat is closed. Fear, pure and animal, floods every system. This isn't the cinematic version where I have a clever retort or a hidden weapon. This is just raw terror and the realization that I am incredibly, catastrophically fragile.
Another hand grabs my other arm. They pull me back toward the maintenance area, toward the lights, toward whatever comes next.
I think, with absolute clarity: *This is the part heroes usually save you from.*
And then chaos erupts.
Webs.
Shadows moving too fast to track.
Shouting—confused, panicked, cut off mid-word.
I'm released, stumbling forward, catching myself against a crate. My hands are shaking too hard to grip properly. Everything is happening too fast, like reality's frame rate has doubled.
Something heavy hits the ground. Then another. Then silence, except for my own ragged breathing.
I don't see him arrive clearly. Just impressions: red and blue, fluid motion, the distinctive *thwip* of web-shooters firing. By the time I can process what's happening, it's already over.
The three men are webbed to the walls and ceiling, suspended like flies in a spider's larder. Weapons scattered. Crates intact.
Sirens wail in the distance, growing closer.
I'm still trying to remember how to breathe when Spider-Man drops down in front of me, landing silently, head tilted in that concerned-but-trying-not-to-be-weird way he has.
"You okay?" he asks.
I want to snap at him. Want to demand to know how he knew I was here, why he followed me, why he can't just let me do my job without playing protector.
Instead, I nod. Then shake my head. Then just stand there, useless.
"Let me see your hands," he says gently.
I hold them out. They're shaking. Scratched from the fall, but nothing serious.
"You're in shock," he observes. "That's normal. It'll pass."
"I had it under control," I lie.
"You had nothing under control. You were five seconds from being a hostage or worse."
"I was documenting—"
"You were way out of your depth." His tone isn't angry. Just tired. Frustrated in a way that suggests he's had this conversation before. "Whitney. Why didn't you call me?"
"Because I don't need you to save me every time I chase a story."
"I'm not asking to save you every time. I'm asking you not to put yourself in situations where you need saving."
The words hit harder than they should. I slump against the crate, camera strap cutting into my shoulder, and for the first time since this started, I let myself feel how badly I underestimated everything.
"I thought I could handle it," I admit quietly.
"Maybe you could've. But you didn't have to handle it alone." He sits down next to me—actually sits, like we're having coffee instead of hiding from smugglers in an abandoned subway tunnel. "You know what the difference is between bravery and stupidity?"
"Preparation?"
"Exactly. You were brave. You found the lead, did the research, gathered evidence. That's good journalism. But walking into an armed operation alone, at night, with no backup? That's not brave. That's just... human. And humans are really, really fragile."
I laugh, and it comes out shaky. "Thanks for the reminder."
"I worry," he says, and there's something genuine in his voice that makes me look at him. "About people like you. People who want to do the right thing so badly that they forget to protect themselves. You're not invincible, Whitney. And I can't be everywhere."
"So what am I supposed to do? Just avoid danger? That's not how journalism works."
"No. But you can be smarter about it. Bring backup. Tell someone where you're going. Hell, call me *before* you walk into a weapons depot, not after you're already caught."
I want to argue. Want to defend my choices. But the truth is, he's right. I got lucky. Without him, I'd be a hostage or a statistic, and the story would've died with my career.
"I'm sorry," I say finally. "For being reckless."
"Don't apologize to me. Apologize to yourself. You're the one who almost got hurt."
The sirens are close now. Spider-Man stands, offers me a hand. I take it, let him pull me up.
"Get your photos to the police," he says. "They'll need them for evidence. Then go home, ice whatever's bruised, and write your story."
"What about you?"
"I'm going to stick around, make sure the cops find everything, then disappear before they ask me to fill out paperwork." He pauses. "You're a good reporter, Whitney. But good reporters live long enough to write more stories. Remember that."
He's gone before I can respond, swinging back into the darkness, leaving me alone with the webbed smugglers and the approaching sirens.
---
I write the article the next day, after giving my statement to the police, after sleeping fitfully for six hours, after staring at my cracked camera and wondering if my insurance covers "investigative journalism gone wrong."
The piece is accurate. Careful. Focused on the facts: the weapons shipment, the closed station, the smuggling operation that's been running undetected for months. I document everything I saw, everything I photographed before my camera broke.
I credit Spider-Man as "assistance at the scene." Nothing more. No dramatic rescue narrative, no hero worship, no turning myself into a damsel to make the story more exciting.
Just facts.
Marcus reads it twice before approving it. "Good work," he says, which from him is practically a standing ovation. "See? You don't need the spider-guy to make a story worth reading."
He's wrong, though. I *did* need Spider-Man—just not in the way he thinks.
I needed the reminder that bravery without preparation is just another word for reckless. That survival sometimes means knowing when you're outmatched. That some safety nets exist for a reason, and cutting them doesn't make you stronger—it just makes you alone.
That night, I sit in my apartment with the contract on my lap, reading it properly for the first time since we signed it.
*No fake rescues. No manufactured drama.*
I almost laugh. Tonight wasn't manufactured. It was terrifyingly, stupidly real. And the rescue wasn't fake—it was necessary, earned by my own poor judgment.
There's a story I didn't write. The one about a reporter who thought she could be brave enough to replace common sense. The one about a woman who learned the hard way that heroism isn't about running toward danger—it's about surviving long enough to tell the truth about what you found there.
Some heroes run toward danger.
Others survive by knowing when not to.
I'm trying to figure out which one I want to be.
Maybe both. Maybe neither.
Maybe just someone who lives long enough to keep writing stories worth reading.
I close the contract, slide it back in the drawer, and open my laptop.
Tomorrow there will be other leads. Other stories. Other choices about when to be brave and when to be smart.
Tonight, I'm just grateful to be alive to make them.