On the other side of the country, in New Mexico, just outside an astronomical observatory—
Jane Foster was on the verge of tears, desperate after days of searching and failing to find Thor—when the night sky split apart once again.
BOOM—!
A bolt of purple lightning, even more dazzling than before, crashed down from the heavens. With a deafening roar, a massive figure tumbled out of the lightning like a discarded ragdoll.
"Thor!"
One glance was all it took. Jane recognized the silhouette—specifically the distinctive shape of the buttocks she'd accidentally rear-ended twice with her SUV—and gasped as she sprinted toward him.
Thor lay sprawled in the sand, utterly disheveled. Dust billowed around him from the impact.
On his dark silver breastplate, a clear shoe print was imprinted dead center, cracks radiating outward from it like a spider's web.
His scarlet cloak was torn open by a long, clean gash from a sharp blade. Golden hair tangled with sand, and a few smudges of dried blood streaked his face.
"Honey! Are you alright? Where have you been all this time?!"
Jane knelt beside him, trembling fingers brushing the shoe print on his chest, her voice thick with worry.
Thor's azure eyes lit up with unprecedented brilliance. He grinned broadly, satisfaction radiating from him as he declared:
"I was just sparring with a purple-haired woman. We fought for a long time—she's incredibly skilled. It was… very satisfying."
"…?!!" ×3
The three of them froze in stunned silence.
Jane's anxious expression hardened instantly. She stared at Thor as if he were already dead, her voice dropping to an icy whisper:
"Oh… is she pretty?"
Thor, blissfully oblivious, paused thoughtfully—then nodded with grave seriousness, as if savoring a fine memory:
"She's beautiful! But looks aren't important. What matters is how fierce she is—truly impressive!"
Daisy Louise swallowed hard. Then, wearing an expression of exaggerated innocence—as if to say, "A fair game has both ups and downs. I've reaped the benefits, but shouldn't there be consequences too?"—she stepped forward.
"Well," she said brightly, "just from Thor's description, this sounds like a fun, positive, uplifting multiplayer experience!"
"Can I join too? No offense," she added quickly, "but learning a new language is honestly really fun—sob sob—"
Before she could finish, Selvig clamped a hand over her throat and dragged her silently into the nearest shadowy corner.
Even Thor—legendary for his density—finally sensed the atmosphere had turned frigid.
He looked at Jane, whose smile was now so sweet it bordered on saccharine, and asked hoarsely:
"Jane… are you… angry?"
"No!!!" she replied, voice syrupy and soft.
Five meters away, Daisy rubbed her buzzing ears, visibly shaken.
---
——————
Night in New York City.
Times Square still blazed with neon, but the streets had emptied of daytime crowds. Only the occasional taxi sliced through the quiet avenues.
Skyscraper windows flickered sporadically, like fallen stars. The Hudson River mirrored the opposite bank's lights in rippling reflections, and the evening breeze swirled scraps of paper through empty intersections.
From deep underground, the rumble of the subway echoed faintly—like the slow, rhythmic snores of a sleeping metropolis.
Inside a modest apartment, Peter Parker lay sprawled on his bed in a perfect "T," a suspicious drool stain glistening at the corner of his mouth.
Riiing—!
A shrill ringtone shattered the silence. Peter groaned, rolling over and fumbling blindly across the nightstand.
After several clumsy attempts, he finally snatched the vibrating phone.
"Ta-da!"
"Aaaaaah—! My eyes!!"
The screen's glare stabbed through the darkness like a supernova. Peter recoiled as if struck—half vampire, half sleep-deprived teenager.
He fumbled to dim the brightness, squinted through bleary eyes, and mashed the answer button.
"H'lo… this is Peter…" he mumbled, voice muffled as though his mouth were stuffed with cotton.
"Peter, do you know why priests are always portrayed as villains in Japanese films and TV shows—?"
Before the voice on the other end could finish, Peter hung up without hesitation, tossed the phone aside, and buried his face back in the pillow.
A beat of silence.
Then, from the shadows:
"Peter, do you know why priests are always portrayed as villains in Japanese movies and TV dramas?"
"Hmm… why?" Peter mumbled drowsily, answering on autopilot.
Then his eyes snapped open.
He bolted upright, staring at the windowsill with an expression that clearly said: "We didn't grow up in the same pot—but that doesn't mean you get to pee on my lawn."
There, perched like a gargoyle with a caffeine addiction, sat Damian—grinning wider than a sack of dog poop left in the sun.
"Because priests like little boys," he said cheerfully, "and Japanese people don't."
Peter's face flushed crimson. He glared at the suspiciously detailed sand sculptures arranged outside his window and hissed through gritted teeth:
"Damia—!"
Before he could finish the name, Damian held up a placating hand.
"Friendly reminder: it's 3 a.m. If you shout, the whole building will hear you."
He leaned in slightly, eyes glinting.
"Peter… you wouldn't want your neighbors showing up at your door, pointing fingers at your Glock, would you?"
Peter's gaze flicked nervously toward the door of the next bedroom. He exhaled sharply.
"You'd better have something important to say!"
Damian calmly adjusted his owl-shaped hood and replied in a leisurely tone:
"Oh, nothing urgent. Just that a few days ago, Diluc was chasing that pervert Green Goblin—got really close to catching him, too."
"But at the critical moment…" He paused meaningfully. "A certain kind-hearted citizen in a red-and-blue bodysuit showed up. With his 'strong support,' 'crucial guidance,' 'outstanding professional skills,' and 'selfless collaborative spirit'…"
Damian's smile turned razor-thin.
"…he somehow managed to help the Green Goblin escape completely unharmed."
He tilted his head. "Any idea who that might've been, Peter?"
His expression softened into something almost paternal—"Go ahead. Say it. I'm not exactly a good person either."
Peter's face went pale. His eyes darted like a trapped raccoon's. He stammered:
"Uh… I think the main issue is that the underlying logic of the current operational framework hasn't been fully integrated into a closed-loop system, which has led to a lack of strategic alignment in vertical execution…"
"Even though the aforementioned enthusiastic citizen provided rapid multi-dimensional empowerment and agile iteration," he babbled on, "the early-mover advantage in the niche ecosystem failed to coalesce into a synergistic value proposition…"
"We should encourage said citizen to remain track-aligned, refine his gameplay mechanics, and leverage the next opportunity window to drive a step-change in performance outcomes…"
Damian stared at him for a long moment.
Then, with the weary sigh of a man who's just watched someone spell "Peter Parker" but pronounce it "Section Chief Ma," he said flatly:
"Alright. Enough corporate jargon. Tell that 'helpful citizen' in the red-and-blue suit to stop dreaming of grand heroics and start with small, actual responsibilities. The ones who talk the loudest are usually the ones who accomplish the least."
He stood, stretched, and added cheerfully:
"That's all! I'm off to bed. Bye~"
With that, Damian lea
pt from the windowsill.
Peter scrambled to the window, heart pounding—and found only an empty lawn below, the night wind whispering through the grass.
Visit patreon.com/ShiroTL for more chapters.