New York shimmered as always—a mosaic of light and concrete, distant sirens, and blinking billboards painting the night. On the top floor of an old downtown building, the wind blew softly. There, sitting on the ledge with her legs swaying over the edge, Gwen watched the city as if it were a living map of possibilities.
She wore the black-and-white suit she had sewn with her own hands: web patterns adorned the arms, the tight fabric outlined agile movements, and the white hood, turned inward, bore delicate web designs as if the entire outfit breathed an identity not yet fully born. Beside her, neatly folded, lay a simple white mask with large hollow black eyes.
"Arthur's suggestion was too good," she murmured to herself, the radio still clipped to her chest. Her earbuds muffled the urban noise; the small receiver connected to the police frequency crackled in her hand. It had been Arthur's idea—to tap into an emergency line, signals, a real-time map of New York's problems.
She tightened her grip on the radio, feeling the cold plastic. Access to the police frequency meant an advantage. Gwen smiled, waiting for her first opportunity. This was the first step she had chosen to take: see, listen, and act.
As her mind wandered through tactical possibilities—where to position herself, how to descend faster without losing control, whether a clean entry would be better than direct confrontation—the radio hissed with the familiar urgency of something real unfolding.
"—…repeat, robbery in progress at 'Langford & Sons' jewelry store. Armed suspect fleeing along Central Street toward Fifth Block. Backup required for interception."
Gwen's eyes narrowed. Her body reacted before her mind did: adrenaline unfurled like a parachute, and the faint anxiety transformed into electric drive. She grabbed the mask and pulled it over her face, adjusting it with practiced confidence.
Her breathing shortened. Then she leapt—a calculated jump, arms open, hood graying in the wind like a bird learning how to fly.
"Woohoo!" The cry that escaped her throat carried both fear and exhilaration. The fall felt like a thread of freedom; the panoramic view of traffic and tiny human figures below made her feel immense and absurdly alive.
When the ground rose up dangerously fast, she pressed her fingers together and fired a thin white strand from the device on her wrist. It shot forward and latched onto the edge of a neighboring building. Her body swung, the line holding her weight as she twisted midair, legs angling gracefully toward the street.
On the sidewalks below, people looked up. It happened in fractions of seconds—heads lifting, phones blooming like technological flowers, whispers turning into recordings, recordings turning into posts. Someone was already livestreaming before her figure was fully clear.
Gwen saw none of it. She didn't see notifications flooding social media or the comments split between "miracle" and "hoax." Her focus locked onto the unfolding scene at Fifth Block: sirens, makeshift police tape, a curious crowd—and at the center, a man holding a gun to a little girl's head.
The police were doing what they could, but the suspect was cornered and unstable. Every word he shouted cut like a blade, and every tear from the child hammered another nail into the fragile moment.
"Stay where you are!" one officer shouted, his voice tight with tension.
"Put the girl down and we won't hurt you," another tried to negotiate, face flushed with strain.
Gwen landed a few meters away. The impact was soft, almost theatrical. The crowd instinctively parted.
The gunman screamed, eyes wild. "Don't come any closer! I swear I'll shoot!"
An officer called for calm, another for backup—and through a crackling radio came Captain Stacy's order: "Stabilize the situation. Avoid escalation. I'm on my way." Authority threaded through the static, still distant.
Gwen moved with the precision of someone who had imagined this scene countless times. Two lateral steps, a sharp pivot—and she fired a strand of web into the air. Not to seize the gun. Not to snatch the child. But to create subtle distraction. The line coiled around the man's ankle, stealing his balance in a fleeting moment of vertigo.
"Hey! It's not cool to intimidate a kid, big guy. Hand her over. Now." Her voice rang firm—youthful, yet oddly deep behind the mask.
The man searched for the source of the voice—no one stood there. Panic eroded his focus; his hands tingled for a split second. When he turned, another strand snapped around the gun, pinning it uselessly against his body. Shock and fury twisted across his face.
Gwen was already in front of the child, arms open. She pulled the girl gently away and whispered, "It's okay. You're safe now. Your mom is nearby."
The girl sobbed, trembling, clinging to the protection offered by that unknown figure. The criminal tried to wrench the gun free, but Gwen fired more webbing from her wrist, fastening him to the pavement like a mask of silence.
The officers reacted with a collective breath of relief. Within seconds they secured the man—careful not to harm him further—and snapped cuffs around his wrists. Around them, the once-frozen crowd erupted into applause. What had breathed danger moments earlier now rang with celebration.
"That was amazing! Who are you?" someone shouted. Others whistled, others cried "Hero!"—though she had asked for no such title.
Gwen simply returned the girl to her mother's grateful arms and paused for a brief second, taking in the scene: relief, tears, camera flashes.
Something swelled in her chest—a mix of euphoria and embarrassment. The public admiration flushed her cheeks beneath the mask. There was a gap between who she was in everyday life and the figure who had descended between skyscrapers.
Amid the commotion, applause swelled into a chorus of recognition. Gwen allowed herself a small smile. The first spark of purpose flickered within her—there was something powerful in that immediate exchange between risk and rescue.
Without lingering beneath the improvised spotlight, she fired a web toward the nearest ledge, pulled herself upward, and vanished into the urban lattice—leaving behind murmured questions and notifications spreading faster than sound.
---
At the same time, elsewhere in the city, Jean walked along the sidewalk. The day had been long; her head buzzed with thoughts her telepathic mind refused to quiet. For a moment she brushed outward with a subtle touch of empathy to locate Arthur's address—almost mechanical in its precision.
She smiled faintly upon realizing he still lived in the same place.
She was about to hail a taxi when something sliced through her awareness: something passed overhead, too fast to be a bird, too large to be an insect.
She looked up. For a few seconds, recognition flickered across her features.
"Why is she exposing herself so openly?" Jean murmured, a brow arching in concern. Jean had always preferred discretion when it came to those with powers—secrecy was still a shield for many.
But the figure had already vanished from view. Jean considered intervening—she could easily offer advice.
Yet the masked girl didn't appear to be in danger or facing hostility. So Jean chose instead to continue on her way toward Arthur's apartment.
---
Gwen returned to the rooftop where everything had begun. She sat again with her legs dangling, breathing fast. In her hand, the radio still murmured, now filled with press updates.
She looked out over the vast city below and, for a brief moment, allowed herself to relax. She didn't have a name yet—no label etched into that masked silhouette. There were suggestions forming in the mouths of strangers, but none felt entirely hers.
Gwen smiled at the uncertainty.
"Maybe tomorrow I'll think of a name," she thought, confused and happy. "Today, I just wanted to save someone."
And with her heart still racing, she gazed at the horizon and felt the first weight of her new responsibility—sweet, terrifying, and alive.
New York continued to breathe.
And she—small, daring—had just leapt into its story for the very first time.
---
(End of Chapter)