POV Tombstone
I slammed the cigar into the crystal ashtray so hard the glass cracked. The sound echoed through the office like a muffled gunshot. Two of my lieutenants stood in front of me, sweating through their expensive suits, waiting for me to say something. I didn't. Not yet.
For two weeks now—two goddamn weeks—this so-called Shadow-Step Solutions has been screwing with my business like it's personal.
At first, I laughed. Thought it was just another pretentious security firm gimmick, one of those ex-SEAL outfits that get out of the military and think they can play mafia in New York. I let it slide. Gave it a week, just like I said I would. But now? Now I'm pissed off.
First it was the Red Hook port. My guys came back with their egos more broken than their ribs—tied up, gagged, with a cute little card pinned to their chests. Five thousand dollars a month in extortion, gone in the blink of an eye. Then came the painkiller shipment in Flatbush. A whole truck of oxycodone headed for the black market, worth almost three hundred grand on the street. Gone. They didn't steal the truck, didn't kill the driver. Just opened it, took the cargo, left the driver alive and with a "protection services" receipt from Shadow-Step in his pocket. The guy even thanked them when the cops showed up.
Then it was the floating casinos on the East River. Three nights in a row, my dealers being "convinced" to stop cheating at tables I personally order them to cheat at. I lost two entire blackjack tables because customers started thinking the house was honest. Honesty doesn't pay the bills, damn it.
And yesterday? Yesterday was the coup de grâce. My warehouse in Staten Island. The place where I store the heavy weapons—automatic rifles, grenades, those beauties that come straight from South America. Someone got in at night, disabled the cameras without leaving a trace, cracked the safe with surgical precision, and took only half the stock. Half. Left the rest behind, like they were saying, we could've taken it all, but today we're in a good mood. And in place of the missing crates, another card. Shadow-Step Solutions. Always the same minimalist logo, always the same perfect, irritating handwriting.
"Two weeks," I growled, my low voice making the two lieutenants take a step back. "Two weeks and this bullshit company is eating my profits like crumbs. Who are they? Where did they come from? And why can't anyone put a bullet in a black mask?"
I stood up from my chair, the floor trembling slightly under my weight. I walked to the reinforced window overlooking the lit-up Manhattan skyline. The whole city down there, shining like it belonged to me. And it did—until two weeks ago.
"Silvio," I growled without turning around. "What's the total damage so far?"
He cleared his throat, flipping through pages on his tablet with nervous fingers. "Conservatively, boss… one million two hundred thousand dollars in lost merchandise, canceled extortions, and contracts clients are reconsidering. That's not counting reputation. The other bosses are starting to laugh behind the scenes. They're saying Tombstone's getting soft."
Soft.
I turned so fast Silvio took a step back. My eyes must have been blazing with that kind of rage that makes even my own men tremble.
"Soft?" I repeated, my voice low, dangerous. "I built this empire by crushing the skulls of anyone who called me anything less than 'sir.' And now some bullshit security company thinks it can play with me?"
I went back to the desk, grabbed the most recent card—the one from the Staten Island warehouse—and crushed it in my hand like it was the neck of whoever was behind this.
"I want names, Silvio. I want to know who owns this Shadow-Step. I want to know where they sleep, where they eat, who their soldiers are. I want to know everything. And when I do…" I smiled, feeling my sharp teeth brush my lower lip. "I'll go down there personally. I'll break every bone in that company, one by one, until all that's left is a blood-stained logo."
Silvio swallowed hard. "We've got people investigating, boss. But… they're good. Ghosts. Nobody's seen a face, nobody's heard a name. All they know is they're fast, quiet, and they don't kill. Yet."
POV Normal
Peter woke up with the sun already high, filtering through the cheap apartment curtains. The smell of fresh coffee filled the room before he even fully opened his eyes. He blinked, confused, and saw a bluish, armored figure standing beside the bed, holding a tray with a steaming cup, toast, and scrambled eggs.
"Good morning, Mr. Parker," Rook said in his deep, perfectly modulated voice. "I prepared a high-protein breakfast based on nutritional standards recommended for humans with accelerated metabolisms. Akari provided the ingredients and supervised the preparation to ensure compliance with terrestrial customs."
Peter sat up so fast he almost knocked the tray over. "Rook? How did you… get in here? And since when do you cook?"
"I arrived at 05:47 hours using the discreet infiltration protocol you mentioned. Your apartment lock is… primitive. As for cooking, my Proto-Weapon contains a molecular analysis module that allows recipe replication with 99.7% accuracy. Akari insisted I learn 'human seasoning' to avoid the dish being 'bland like field rations.'"
Peter took the cup, sniffing the coffee. It was perfect. "So… you've already integrated with the team?"
"Yes, sir. I spent the night reviewing Shadow-Step Solutions' operational protocols with Ms. Karai and Lieutenant Kenji. I suggested updates in 47 efficiency points, including the gradual replacement of blades with non-lethal energy weapons and the implementation of microscopic surveillance drones. Ms. Karai approved 38 of them immediately. She possesses an admirable strategic mind."
Peter laughed, biting into a piece of toast. "Yeah, that's Karai. Quick on the trigger. Literally."
Peter's phone vibrated on the nightstand, interrupting breakfast. It was a blocked number. He answered as Rook immediately shifted into an alert stance, his Proto-Weapon rising almost imperceptibly.
"Parker?" Karai's voice came through low and tense, a tone Peter knew well. The something's about to go to hell voice.
"I'm here. What happened?"
"We've got movement. Heavy. Tombstone's not playing anymore. One of our listening posts in Brooklyn Heights picked up a flow of encrypted communications from a Kingpin ghost office, but the content was forwarded to a channel we traced to Silvio Mancini, Tombstone's right-hand man. They're planning a retaliatory strike."
Peter set the coffee aside, his morning good mood evaporating. "Against who? The base?"
"No. They don't know where the Web is. At least not yet. But they've identified one of our civilian 'field consultants.' Jenny Wong, the systems engineer we use to monitor Maggia data traffic."
Peter felt a knot form in his stomach. Jenny was a brilliant young woman Karai had recruited for her hacking skills. She had a normal life, an apartment in Park Slope, a cat named Noodle.
"They're going after her. For interrogation, or worse," Peter concluded, already getting up and looking for his suit.
"Exactly. Traffic suggests a group of six to eight heavily armed men will move today, between 10 a.m. and noon, during her lunch break. They plan to intercept her on the way between work and the restaurant she usually goes to."
Peter looked at Rook. The alien already had his main device active, a holographic display projecting a map of Park Slope with real-time routes.
"Rook, you heard that?"
"Affirmative, sir. I am analyzing the most likely routes based on Ms. Wong's movement patterns over the last seven days. There is an 82% probability the interception will occur on 7th Street, between Union Avenue and Carroll Street. It is a stretch with low commercial camera coverage and multiple vehicle exits."
Peter pulled on his suit over his sleepwear at superhuman speed. "Karai, mobilize a team. But I want maximum discretion. No ninjas jumping off rooftops in broad daylight. Rook and I will handle them first."
"I'm already ahead of you," Karai replied. "Kenji and Akari are three blocks away in a delivery van. They'll block escape routes. Four more are positioned on rooftops as observers. But, Peter… Tombstone is sending his bruisers. This is going to get ugly."
"That's fine. We'll get uglier. Keep me posted."
He hung up and looked at Rook. "Ready for your baptism by terrestrial fire, Recruit Blonko?"
Rook adjusted a setting on his Proto-Weapon, which emitted a soft hum and took the form of a compact precision rifle. "My function is to serve and protect, sir. Violence is a last resort, but the defense of those under our protection is non-negotiable. I am ready."
The two of them exited through the window—Peter with his webs, Rook using a retractable grappling device from his Proto-Weapon.
[Ding! Surprise Defense Mission!]
[Objective: Protect the civilian asset Jenny Wong and neutralize Tombstone's kidnapping team]
[Reward: 80 GP]
Park Slope, Brooklyn. 11:45 AM.
Jenny Wong walked distractedly, listening to a podcast about cryptocurrencies and thinking about the turkey sandwich she was going to order. She didn't notice the unmarked black van that had stopped two blocks away, nor the two men in leather jackets who had been following her for a block, maintaining a professional distance.
On the roof of a brick apartment building, Peter and Rook watched. Peter felt vibrations through TV antenna cables—heavy footsteps, Jenny's racing heart, the van's engine idling.
"Three in the van," Rook whispered, looking through a thermal sensor in his visor. "Two on foot behind the target. One more in a parked car on the next corner, likely the coordinator."
"Simple plan," Peter said. "I drop in and hold the van and the two on foot. You neutralize the coordinator and provide aerial cover. Kenji and Akari seal the perimeter."
Rook nodded. "I will apply a non-lethal shock protocol. Ms. Karai was emphatic about not causing 'headache-inducing messes.'"
Peter smiled beneath the mask. "She has a way with words."
Jenny was about to cross the entrance of a laundromat—a perfect blind spot—when the black van suddenly accelerated, screeching to a stop beside her. The side door slid open.
Everything happened in seconds.
A large man with a scarred face reached out to grab Jenny. She let out a muffled scream.
"Sorry to interrupt lunch, gentlemen!" Spider-Man's voice echoed from above.
Peter dropped like a stone, but landed lightly on the van's roof. With a precise kick, he slammed the side door into the kidnapper's arm, drawing a grunt of pain. Before the other two inside could react, Peter fired two quick webs, gluing their hands to their gun holsters.
The two men on foot ran, drawing pistols. Peter spun, but didn't need to fire another web.
ZAP!
Two silent, precise yellow energy darts hit them in the chest. They convulsed for a second and collapsed, immobilized, muscles paralyzed.
Rook landed softly on the sidewalk, his Proto-Weapon still faintly smoking in stun mode. "Terrestrial threats neutralized. The coordinator in the vehicle attempted to flee, but Lieutenant Kenji's van blocked his exit. He is contained."
Jenny, pale and shaking, leaned against the wall. "S-Spider-Man? What… who are these people?"
"People who won't bother you anymore, Jenny," Peter said, helping her steady herself. "You're safe. A friend of ours is going to take you for coffee and a long talk about digital security, okay?" He waved to Akari, who emerged from Kenji's van wearing a plain motorcycle jacket and a calming smile.
While Akari took care of Jenny, Peter and Rook inspected the captives. They were mid-level thugs, but one—the coordinator—had a phone with several recent messages.
Peter opened one. The latest, sent ten minutes earlier, was from an unidentified number:
"The boss doesn't want games anymore. Grab the girl and clean the site. If the blacks or any vigilante shows up, use the carbines. Lincoln wants a message sent today."
Peter showed the message to Rook. "Tombstone is escalating."
Rook narrowed his eyes. "Threat level increased. The reference to 'carbines' and 'cleaning the site' suggests an inclination toward indiscriminate lethal force. I recommend a proportional response."
Peter felt a chill that had nothing to do with the wind. Tombstone was willing to shoot civilians in broad daylight just to send a message. That changed the game. They couldn't just react anymore; they needed to defuse the bomb before it exploded.
"Karai," Peter spoke into the comm, his voice grave. "Did you hear?"
"I did," the response came sharp. "I'm analyzing their communication network through the coordinator's phone. They have an emergency channel. The attack failed, but the order still stands. Tombstone won't stop."
As Kenji and his team loaded the stunned thugs into the delivery van—which inside was an improvised mobile holding cell—Peter pulled Rook aside.
"We need to figure out their next move. Fast."
Rook tapped his Proto-Weapon, and a series of complex holograms—network diagrams, communication flowcharts—appeared in the air between them.
"I am tracing the cryptographic origin of the message. It's a relay. Likely a burner phone, but the activation pattern… it was turned on 47 minutes ago within an 800-meter radius of here. And it was turned off after sending the order."
"So someone was nearby, watching," Peter concluded, his senses expanding. He closed his eyes for a second, focusing on the tactile sonar. Asphalt, underground cables, building foundations… he swept the area. There were many vibrations, many people. But one stood out: a heart beating unnaturally slow and controlled, stationary on the roof of an office building two blocks away for several minutes. Not a curious observer's heartbeat. A professional's.
"Rook, rooftop of the brown building with the broken radio antenna. Northwest. We've got a spotter."
"Understood." His Proto-Weapon reconfigured into a silent grappling hook. He aimed and fired. The cable hissed through the air, nearly invisible. A second later, a muffled grunt and the sound of a body being dragged over gravel reached Peter's sharp ears.
"Target contained," Rook reported. "Human male. Equipped with long-range binoculars, a scrambler radio, and a 9mm pistol. He was transmitting."
They climbed to the rooftop. The spotter was unconscious, bound by the Proto-Weapon's cable. Peter frisked him quickly. No ID, of course. But in the inner coat pocket was a small metal device, the size of a lighter, with a single button.
"A tracker? Or a detonator?" Peter mused, examining it.
Rook pointed a wrist scanner at the object. "It emits a low-intensity, pulsing radio frequency. It is a beacon. For tracking."
Peter froze. If it was a beacon… he looked at the thugs in Kenji's van parked on the street below.
"Rook! The van! It's a trap!"
Too late.
From a covered parking garage across the street, an armored black pickup truck roared to life, accelerating with a guttural growl. It didn't aim for Kenji's van. It aimed straight at the building where Jenny Wong was temporarily sheltered with Akari—the laundromat.
The driver was a man with a sharp-toothed grin Peter recognized from police files: Silvio Mancini, Tombstone's right-hand man. And in the passenger seat, holding something that looked like a bulky remote control, was a man in an impeccable suit with dead eyes. A specialist.
"Bomb!" Peter shouted, firing a web toward the truck, but the distance was too great.
Rook moved faster. His Proto-Weapon transformed into a launcher in nanoseconds. He didn't fire at the truck. He fired at the asphalt in front of it.
PCHOOM!
A compact energy projectile struck the pavement, not exploding, but instantly liquefying the concrete and tar in a three-meter circle. The armored truck hit the softened ground and sank as if into quicksand, its massive tires spinning furiously, trapped up to the axles in the material that rapidly solidified again, imprisoning the vehicle.
But the suited man in the passenger seat had already pressed the button.
There was no massive explosion. Instead, a series of metallic clicks came from inside Kenji's van. The thugs inside, still stunned, began to scream.
"They've got collars!" Kenji shouted over the radio, his voice rarely showing such alarm. "Explosives! Attached to their necks!"
The suited man, trapped in the pickup, smiled through the bulletproof glass. It was a dual-purpose move: eliminate witnesses and create a catastrophic distraction.
Peter dropped in free fall, his brain working at spider-speed. Collar bombs. Probably proximity sensors or radio detonators. Disarming them one by one was impossible in the time they had.
Unless…
He landed beside the van. The thugs' eyes inside were wide with pure terror. One babbled, "Please… he gave them to us… we didn't know…"
Peter ignored the desperation. Focused. Earth Domination wasn't just about moving rocks. It was about sensing the composition of matter. And metal, at its most basic level, was part of the earth.
He placed his hands on the ground, not to lift something, but to feel. The vibrations of the small explosive charges, the structure of the locking mechanisms, the flow of electrons in the detonators. It was a symphony of tiny, complex destruction.
"Rook! I need you to create an energy containment cage! Something to suppress radio frequencies and contain fragmentation!"
"Affirmative. Activating Tactical Containment Force Field module."
Rook leapt onto the top of the van. His Proto-Weapon fired four spikes that embedded themselves in the asphalt around the vehicle. A pulsating amber energy net sprang up between them, forming a dome over the van.
Inside the amber cage, the air seemed to grow heavy, electrified. Peter closed his eyes, blocking out the screams, the smell of sweat and panic, even the hum of the force field. He was an extension of the ground. The steel of the van, the bomb components, the concrete below—all part of the same telluric fabric.
He didn't try to dismantle the bombs. Too risky, too slow. Instead, he remembered the basic principle of Earth Domination: everything that comes from the earth can return to it.
With a groan of effort that seemed to come from his bones, Peter focused not on the explosive, but on the metal of the collars themselves. He imagined the steel alloys, the copper wiring, the petroleum-derived plastic components—all returning to an inert, neutralized, "sleeping" state. It wasn't disintegration. It was… calming.
His right hand trembled. Beads of sweat ran down his temple under the mask. Chi flowed out of him like an overflowing river, draining in an effort that made lifting a boulder feel like child's play.
Inside the van, the thugs stopped screaming. An abrupt silence fell. The man closest to the door looked at his own neck. The metal collar, which moments before had been blinking with a sinister red light, was now dull, lifeless. The small clasp holding it shut had come undone—not broken, but undone, as if it had crumbled into loose sand. The device fell from his neck and disintegrated into a small pile of metallic dust when it hit the van floor.
One by one, the other collars met the same fate.
Peter dropped to his knees, gasping. Rook's energy dome dissipated.
Inside the van, the thugs were silent, staring in disbelief at what had once been explosive collars.
Silvio Mancini, still trapped in the pickup, pounded the glass in rage. The suited man beside him merely watched, calculating.
Peter stood, swaying. The rage he felt now was immense. They had crossed a line. Attempted kidnapping, using civilians as bait, collar bombs… this was no longer organized crime. It was terrorism.
He walked up to the pickup truck. The bulletproof glass was thick, but the material Rook had created to trap the vehicle was stronger still. Peter looked Silvio in the eyes.
"You're going to have a long talk with the police, Silvio," Peter said, his voice stripped of any usual jokes. "And tell your boss, Tombstone, that the game is over. Shadow-Step isn't just protecting clients anymore. Now, we're coming for him."
He gestured to Kenji, who was already anonymously contacting the police, a packet of digital evidence ready to be sent. The suited man—the explosives specialist—would be a special gift for the FBI.
[Ding! Surprise Defense Mission Completed!]
[Objective Completed: Jenny Wong protected. Kidnapping team neutralized. Explosive threat disarmed.]
[Reward: 80 GP added.]
[Current Total: 95 GP]
[Earth Domination Proficiency increased: Novice (97%)]
As sirens approached, Peter and Rook retreated into the shadows. Peter's exhaustion was deep, but the sense of having prevented a tragedy was stronger.
"Rook, what would you do, in your sector, with an organization like Tombstone's? Someone who respects no limits," Peter asked, leaning against a chimney.
Rook thought for a moment. "We would apply Galactic Law. Exhaustive investigation, identification of command and resource nodes, and surgical dismantling. Eliminating the head is inefficient if the tentacles can regenerate it."
Peter nodded, a plan beginning to take shape in his mind—still hazy, but forming. Tombstone had practically declared war. He had to respond.
"Then that's what we'll do, Rook," Peter said, his brown eyes reflecting the city lights he had sworn to protect.
POV Tombstone
The office fell silent after Silvio called, his voice distorted by rage and the armored glass of the pickup. The operation had been a complete disaster. The team captured. The explosives specialist—a costly, discreet acquisition—in police hands. And Spider-Man… with a new partner who had pinned an armored vehicle to the asphalt like a toy.
I said nothing. The rage consuming me was so dense, so heavy, it transformed into something cold and absolute. I crushed the phone in my hand, fragments of plastic and metal raining onto the Persian rug like an ill omen's confetti.
They weren't a security company. They were an army. An army with a ridiculous insect as a mascot and… something else. Something that smelled like brute force in a different way.
"Lincoln," one of the younger lieutenants dared to speak. "What do we do? The cops are going to have Russo. He knows about the northern warehouses…"
I turned to him slowly. "Russo won't talk. He knows what happens to rats. But he also won't be useful anymore." I walked to my secure computer, a model not connected to any network. "Shadow-Step wants to play hard. Wants to be the law of the streets. Fine."
I opened an encrypted file, a plan I had saved for an extreme emergency. Inside were the locations of six warehouses, three shell accounts in the Caribbean, and a list of names—cops, judges, low-level politicians in my pocket. It was time to burn some resources.
"Mobilize the Sharks," I ordered, my voice a low-frequency growl.
The Sharks weren't ordinary thugs. They were ex-military, ex-agents, real mercenaries I hired for jobs requiring more… finesse than brute force. Men who knew how to make someone disappear without a trace, or make an entire building collapse without it looking like an attack.
"I want a disinformation campaign. Leak to the Daily Bugle and any other tabloid that Shadow-Step Solutions is a front for a new crime faction, maybe tied to some international terrorist group. That they're behind the recent thefts of weapons and medication."
One of the lieutenants scribbled notes quickly. "And Spider-Man?"
"Spider-Man is a separate problem. He's reactive. He defends. He doesn't strike first. But this Shadow-Step… they're proactive. They cut our cash flow. They took our soldiers. They have a leader." I smiled, a gesture that never reached my eyes. "So we cut the head off the snake. Find out who it is. No matter the cost."
POV Normal
Back at the Web, the atmosphere was charged. News of the attempted kidnapping with collar bombs had spread among the Clan's members, and even with their iron discipline, the contained rage was palpable. They had been trained for death, but the cowardly use of civilians as bait and indiscriminate carnage were contemptible even to them.
Karai waited for Peter in the command center, a room now filled with screens displaying hacked security camera feeds, heat maps of suspicious activity, and the financial transactions of the Maggia and Tombstone they had managed to trace.
"Tombstone burned his own specialist and six men today," she said without preamble. "That means he's willing to lose valuable assets to hit us. He's no longer thinking about profit. He's thinking about annihilation."
Peter removed his mask, his face marked by fatigue and tension. Rook stood beside him, analyzing data on one of the screens with his Proto-Weapon.
"He'll come after me. After us," Peter concluded. "But he doesn't know who I am. So he'll attack what he knows: Shadow-Step's identity."
"Exactly," Karai agreed. "Our public records are a web of shell companies, but an aggressive, dirty investigation can find weak points. The lease on this building, utility bills, the vans we acquired… and our clients. The wine importer, the Red Hook port. Tombstone will pressure them to talk or use them as bait."
Rook interjected. "Predictable attacks. However, our advantage is mobility and information. I suggest a two-front counteroffensive: defensive and offensive."
"Explain," Peter said, sitting in an office chair.
"Defensive Front: We isolate and protect our known civilian assets. Relocate Jenny Wong and other contractors to temporary safe locations. Create false information traps for any investigation Tombstone initiates. Use the surveillance drones I proposed to monitor clients and our own facilities 24/7."
"And the offensive?" Karai asked, arms crossed.
Rook tapped the screen, enlarging a map of Tombstone's known businesses—illegal casinos, money laundries, warehouses. "We know where it hurts him. Instead of reacting to his attacks, we anticipate them. We conduct a series of coordinated sabotage and asset seizure operations. Not to expand territory, but to destabilize his financial and logistical operations. A precise strike on an accounting warehouse here," he pointed to an address in Queens, "could blind him to merchandise movement for weeks. A carefully leaked report on his police bribes to the right press outlet creates internal chaos."
Peter listened, impressed. Rook's strategy was cold, calculating, brilliant. True asymmetric warfare.
"But that exposes us more," Peter mused. "If we start hitting his infrastructure, he'll know we have resources and intelligence beyond a security company."
"And doesn't he already suspect that?" Karai countered. "He saw you disintegrate bombs with your mind, Peter. He saw Rook pin a truck to the ground. To him, we're already an advanced paramilitary group. We're just confirming what he fears—and doing it in a way that paralyzes him."
Peter took a deep breath. "Alright," he decided, voice firm. "We do it. But with rules. No deaths. No harm to civilians. The target is property, money, information. We want him bleeding, not a martyr."
Karai nodded, a dark gleam of satisfaction in her eyes. "Kenji and Akari will love it. I'll start planning the first operation: the accounting office. It's protected, but not heavily. We can breach it, wipe the servers, and leave a gift for the IRS."
"Rook and I will handle civilian protection," Peter said, standing.
The next hours were a whirlwind of activity in the Web. Karai assembled Kenji, Akari, and five of the Clan's most experienced members to plan the attack on Tombstone's accounting office in Queens. Rook supplied tactical data—architectural layouts, security schedules, guard movement patterns—with a precision that impressed even Karai.
Meanwhile, Peter retreated to his underground workspace. Fatigue still weighed on his bones, but the adrenaline of the near-tragedy and the determination to strike back kept him alert. He glanced at his mental interface.
[Current GP: 95]
[Free Draw Ticket (Bronze Rank): 1x]
"I need more advantages," he muttered. "And if we're heading into a shadow war… let's see what luck has in store."
First, the regular rolls. He still had enough GP for two Iron Rank rolls, even with the category filter increasing the cost. "System, activate Category Filter for 'Items.' Two Iron Rank rolls."
[GP: -24 per roll]
[Total GP: -48]
[Remaining GP: 47]
Gray and white boxes spun in his vision.
[Lottery Result:
Sonic Concussion Grenade x5: (Emits a high-intensity sound pulse that disorients and stuns targets within a 15-meter radius. Structurally harmless, but effective against groups.)
Quick Disguise Kit: (Contains wigs, disposable contact lenses, light facial prosthetics, and generic clothing that allow basic appearance changes in under three minutes.)]
"Useful," Peter assessed. The grenades were perfect for non-lethal infiltration, and the disguise kit… well, he still remembered times when having an alternate identity would have helped.
Now, the main piece. The Bronze ticket. Peter felt a chill. Bronze Rank had given him Karai and Rook—game-changing allies. What else might be there?
"System, use the Free Bronze Rank Draw Ticket."
[Ding! Using Free Draw Ticket (Bronze Rank).]
[Preparing draw…]
The animation was different this time. The boxes weren't gray, but polished bronze, with embossed details that looked almost organic. They spun more slowly, solemnly, as if the process itself acknowledged the weight of a higher-tier draw.
The boxes stopped. One opened with a soft golden glow.
[Congratulations! You obtained: Phantom Mentor (Bronze Rank)]
[Description: A projected mental presence of a deceased martial arts master. The Phantom Mentor can be summoned for accelerated mental training sessions, providing guidance in combat styles, martial philosophy, and internal energy (Chi/ki) control. The mentor exists only in the host's mind and cannot interact with the physical world.]
[Effect: +35% learning rate for physical and energy-based combat skills. Enables realistic combat simulations without physical risk. The mentor possesses its own personality and knowledge.]
Peter stood still for a moment, processing. A ghost? A master in his head? It sounded like something out of an '80s kung fu movie, but… considering he now had a Chi-based earth manipulation ability, maybe it made sense.
"How… how do I summon this?" he asked quietly.
[Ding! Simply focus on the intent to train a combat or energy-control skill. The Phantom Mentor will manifest in your mental space.]
Peter hesitated, then closed his eyes. He focused on Earth Domination—now at the Intermediate level, but still new, still raw. He wanted to refine it, make it natural instead of a herculean effort.
The lab around him vanished. He was no longer in the Web. He stood on a mountain plateau beneath a night sky filled with unfamiliar stars. The air was cold and crisp. Before him, seated in a lotus position on a smooth rock, was an elderly man of Asian descent. He wore simple peasant clothes, his face wrinkled like tree bark, but his eyes… his eyes glowed with a calm, deep light like a mountain lake.
"Student Parker," the old man's voice was gentle, yet carried a quiet authority that made Peter instinctively straighten. "You have summoned this humble servant to guide you on the path. I see you have taken your first steps in the Dance with the Earth. Heavy. Awkward. Like a child trying to lift a sword for the first time."
Peter opened his mouth to respond, then stopped. Was this a dream? A hallucination? Rook's fabricated memories and the ninjas were one thing, but this… this was interactive.
"I… yes. The skill is new to me," Peter admitted.
"New is the body that receives it, but the Earth is ancient. It does not care about your novelty. It responds only to the truth of your intent and the solidity of your spirit," the old man said, rising with a fluidity that belied his age. "You use force where you should use leverage. You shout where you should whisper. The Earth is not a wild horse to be broken with a whip. It is the mountain that accepts the tree that roots itself with patience."
The mentor extended a hand. In his palm, a common pebble levitated, spinning slowly. There was no visible effort, no tremor. The stone simply… obeyed.
"You feel the connection as weight on your feet, don't you? Because you are trying to carry the mountain on your back. Stop. Sit."
Peter, almost hypnotized, sat on the rocky ground.
"Close your eyes. Feel not the weight, but the presence. The Earth is not beneath you. You are in it. Your breath is its breath. Your heartbeat, the distant pulse of its stone veins."
Peter obeyed. In the darkness of closed eyes, he slowly stopped fighting the constant telluric "notification." Instead, he accepted it. The sensation changed—from burden to embrace, from noise to a low-frequency melody. He felt not just raw vibrations, but layers: moisture in the soil, the resistance of rock, the memory of solar heat stored in stone.
"Good," the mentor whispered. "Now, instead of commanding, ask."
Peter focused on a fist-sized stone a few meters away. Instead of imagining his fist tearing it from the ground, he imagined the earth gently yielding, offering it. The stone slipped free and floated into his open hand—no dust, no spectacle.
[Earth Domination Proficiency: Intermediate (5%)]
Peter opened his eyes, surprised. The exhaustion that usually accompanied using the skill was almost absent.
"Power does not come from you, student. You are merely the channel. The more you strain, the narrower the channel becomes. Relax. Allow. And the Earth will flow through you like a river through its bed."
The plateau began to fade. "Our lesson for today ends. Practice listening, not imposing. When you need me again, seek the stillness within the noise."
Peter opened his eyes back in the Web's laboratory. Only a few seconds had passed. His body felt refreshed, his mind clear. The phantom mentor wasn't direct power, but a multiplier—and in a war that would demand the most of his new abilities, that was worth more than any weapon.
He checked the clock. Night had fallen. Karai's operation would begin soon.
POV Daredevil
The rain had stopped, leaving behind an oily sheen on Hell's Kitchen asphalt and a damp silence that amplified every sound. I was on the roof of Mrs. Cardenas's apartment building, fixing a leak she couldn't afford to pay for, when the smell reached me.
It wasn't an ordinary smell. It was a mix of cold adrenaline, disciplined sweat, and the metallic scent of recently cleaned weapons. It came from the east, across the river. From Brooklyn.
Over the last few days, the symphony of Shadow-Step Solutions had changed key.
I heard their hearts racing this afternoon—not with fear, but with focused anticipation. I heard metal being inspected, plans whispered in archaic Japanese and in cold, technical English. And I heard the leader's voice—the "Master"—speaking with a clarity and determination that hadn't been there before. He sounded less like a company manager and more like a commander preparing troops for an incursion.
And then, a few hours ago, came the smell of smoke and sharp fear from Park Slope. I didn't need to be there to know the shape of the tragedy: attempted kidnapping, explosives, intervention. Spider-Man was there—his unique movement, the thwip of his webs, unmistakable. But there was another… something with a heart beating in a non-human rhythm, and a weapon emitting an energy hum that made my teeth ache from a distance.
Shadow-Step wasn't just defending itself. It was drawing fire. And worse, it was firing back.
Now, as I tighten the last bolt on Mrs. Cardenas's roof, I feel movement. From Brooklyn, a group—small, maybe six or seven—moves with murderous purpose. Their hearts are calm, their steps silent, but the air parts before them like water before a ship. They're heading to Queens. To an address my brain recognizes from old legal cases: a shell accounting office tied to loan sharking and money laundering. Tombstone's property.
They're not going there to watch.
Mrs. Cardenas thanks me, her voice trembling with gratitude. I help her down the stairs and promise to check the heating next week. My mind, however, is already miles away.
I don't care about Tombstone. Lincoln Tombstone is a cancer that needs cutting out, and if the police can't do it, people like me do the dirty work. But an organized group of vigilantes, trained like soldiers, attacking a crime lord's territory? That's not justice. That's gang war with a new coat of paint.
And gang wars leave innocent bodies on the ground.
I suit up, wet leather smelling of rain and old blood. My batons are firm in my hands. I won't stop them. Not this time. I want to see them in action. I want to see their methods. I want to hear what they say when they think no one's listening.
I leap from the roof, my cable launching me through alleys. I follow their trail not by sight, but by the vacuum they leave in the air, by the abnormal silence spreading before them. They're good. Ghosts.
But I'm the devil ghosts fear.
POV Normal
Silence in the Web's command room was thick, broken only by the low hum of servers and the soft tapping of Rook's fingers on his holographic interface. Karai had left twenty minutes earlier with Kenji, Akari, and the select squad. The plan was clean: infiltrate Tombstone's accounting office in Queens, extract data from the main servers, and plant digital evidence linking money laundering operations to identifiable offshore accounts. All without a single shot, if possible.
Peter watched the tracking dots of the team blink on a digital map. They were in position. Anxiety was a hot knot in his throat, but he mastered it. He trusted Karai. He trusted the Clan's training. He trusted Rook, who monitored police communication channels and the frequencies used by Tombstone's thugs, ready to interfere if anything went off script.
That's when Spider-Sense spiked sharply, accompanied by a subtle, strange vibration in his tactile sonar. Something… or someone… was watching them. Not from street level. From above. Something moving with silent precision rivaling the ninjas themselves, but with a different weight. A signature he knew, a presence that electrified the air with a specific tension.
Daredevil.
Peter didn't turn his head. Didn't alter his breathing. He kept staring at the screens, but his mind was on full alert. Matt was on the roof. Why? For how long? Had he heard the plan? Felt Karai's departure?
Rook, however, didn't have Spider-Sense. His Proto-Weapon emitted an almost inaudible ping. He turned his head a few degrees toward the warehouse's upper window.
"Mr. Parker. I detect a thermal anomaly on the roof. Human form. Stationary. Heartbeat… remarkably controlled. Does not correspond to any of ours."
"An old friend," Peter said, keeping his voice low and neutral. "A local vigilante. Daredevil. He probably followed Karai's group here, or is tracking Tombstone's agitation."
"Is he a threat?" Rook's Proto-Weapon subtly reconfigured to a silent neutralization mode.
"No. At least, not yet. He's… a bit suspicious. He sees what we're doing and doesn't like it." Peter sighed.
"Should we engage him? Explain our objectives?"
Peter thought fast. Matt Murdock was stubborn, dangerous, and incredibly perceptive. A conversation could escalate into a fight, and a fight inside the base was the last thing they needed. But ignoring him was risky too.
"No. Let him observe. He wants to see the operation? We'll show him. But… we'll give him something specific to hear." Peter stepped up to the main console and activated Karai's team comm channel. "Karai, plan adjustment. Execution confirmation in 30 seconds. Remember: non-lethality protocol is absolute. The target is data and financial infrastructure. No permanent harm to guards."
The message was for Karai—but also for the supersensitive ears on the roof. A declaration of principles. A line they wouldn't cross.
From the other end, Karai's calm voice replied, "Understood, command. Phantom Protocol in effect. Initiating in 30."
Peter closed the channel and looked at Rook. "He heard it. Now let's see if he believes it."
On the roof, perched like a gargoyle against the hazy glow of city lights, Daredevil listened.
The words were careful, calculated. A performance for his benefit? Maybe. But the young man's heart didn't race with a lie. It beat with firm resolve—concerned, but not guilty. The order was clear: non-lethal. Protect, not maim.
Then, across the distance, he turned his attention to Queens. He focused, filtering city noise—engines, conversations, music—until he found the unique symphony of Karai's team. Six hearts, beating in near-perfect sync. He heard them move. Not like thieves, but like surgeons. The accounting office's electronic lock emitted a soft click—not the sound of a battering ram. Light steps on carpet. Muffled whispers of commands in Japanese. The almost inaudible hum of a device being connected to a server.
He heard two guards—bored, sleepy hearts—being approached. No brutal blows. A whisper near the ear, fingers pressing specific points on the neck, and the hearts slowed, slipping into induced sleep. They were laid down carefully, not thrown aside.
This wasn't the Hand. The Hand would leave bodies—or at least screams. This was just… terrifyingly professional.
Back in the Web, Peter felt Daredevil's attention shift away, focusing on the distant operation. The vigilante was doing exactly what Peter expected: judging them by actions, not words.
"He's watching the op," Peter told Rook. "Now's the time. Let's prep for extraction. And… let's use some of our new toys."
Peter focused on the system. He still had 47 GP. The operation was underway, but the real test would come after, when Tombstone felt the hit. They'd need every edge.
"System, activate Category Filter for 'Skills.' One Iron Rank roll."
[GP: -24]
[Remaining GP: 23]
The boxes spun, now focused on the icon representing books or scrolls.
[Lottery Result:
Skill: Meta-Vision: An elevated awareness that allows the user to assimilate multiple streams of information (positions, velocities, trajectories, intentions) and predict the most probable movements in the field.]
The information integrated into Peter's mind not as memories, but as a new lens over his perception. Suddenly, watching the operation on monitors wasn't just tracking dots on a map. It was like seeing a three-dimensional chessboard. He saw Karai's position (main blue point) not in isolation, but in relation to her subordinates (smaller blue points), the neutralized guards (static gray points), and potential reinforcement routes (ghostly red arrows projected by the system based on traffic and architecture). He could intuitively calculate the optimal point for Akari to position herself to cover Kenji during data extraction.
"Interesting," Peter murmured as his mind adapted to the new processing mode. It wasn't precognition like Spider-Sense; it was real-time hyper-analysis.
On the roof, Daredevil frowned beneath the mask. The invasion's symphony continued—clean, efficient. Data extraction was complete. Guards unconscious, but alive. He was about to conclude that, disturbing as the scale was, their methods so far were… restrained.
Then a new sound reached his ears, coming from inside the Web. Not from screens or servers, but from Peter Parker himself. The young man's heart rhythm changed—faster, but not with anxiety. With intense focus. The sound of someone solving a complex problem at high speed.
"Rook, you have command here. Monitor extraction and Tombstone's network. Any retaliatory movement, alert me. I'm going to do a verification sweep of the team's evacuation points."
"Understood, Mr. Parker. Be cautious of the observer on the roof."
"He's not the problem," Peter said. "The problem is whether Tombstone already has someone watching the watchers."
Using the newly acquired Meta-Vision, Peter didn't simply exit through a door or skylight. His mind instantly traced the least exposed route, accounting for Daredevil's likely listening angles—estimated from the last sonar vibration—and neighboring building windows. He moved like a shadow among shadows, leaving the warehouse through a lower-level ventilation opening, completely outside Matt's optimal auditory line.
POV Daredevil
Something changed. The leader's heart inside the warehouse accelerated in a pattern of calculation, not alarm.
And then, his signature simply… dissolved. Not entirely—I could still sense a vague presence moving—but it was like trying to hear a specific whisper in a storm. He was hiding from me. Moving between my blind spots.
Point for him.
But my attention was yanked back to Queens. A new element entered the symphony: the muffled roar of large vehicle engines approaching the accounting office fast. Three vehicles. Aggressive, untrained heartbeats inside. Tombstone's rapid response thugs. Someone had tripped a silent alarm.
Inside the office, Shadow-Step's team hearts stayed calm. They had ears too, probably technological. Data extraction must have finished, because I heard the distinct sound of a device ejecting from a USB port. Then their movement pattern changed—not panic, but choreographed withdrawal.
They didn't flee through the front. Two went up, likely to the roof. The other four moved toward the rear exit, but stopped short. Setting an ambush? No… planting something. Small metallic devices. The sonic concussion grenades Peter had obtained.
I smiled—dry, humorless. Efficient. And non-lethal.
Tombstone's cars screeched to a halt in front of the building. Doors opening, men stepping out, weapons raised with the clumsy confidence of those used to intimidation, not real opposition.
And then their world collapsed into silence.
PCHOOM. PCHOOM. PCHOOM.
No fire, no shrapnel. Just a sonic pressure wave so intense I felt it miles away, like a dull blow to the chest. The thugs' heartbeats turned into chaotic panic. Muffled screams, weapons clattering to asphalt, bodies stumbling.
That's when Shadow-Step's shadows moved. From the roof, two figures descended on cables—not to engage, but to quickly retrieve spent sonic devices from the ground. From the rear, the other four emerged, moving among Tombstone's stunned men with brutal efficiency. Not killing blows, but disabling ones: pressure on motor points, arm locks resulting in shoulders popping with dry cracks, precise knee strikes. In twenty seconds, the response team was on the ground—immobilized, disarmed, wrists bound with plastic ties.
Then they vanished. The hearts scattered in different directions, blending into the city's background noise, footsteps dissolving into the urban maze. The operation was complete.
I stood on the roof as a fine rain began to fall again. They had hit a financial asset, neutralized a response team without spilling a drop of permanent blood, and disappeared without a trace—except for a few thugs with headaches and bruises to tell the tale.
They weren't heroes. But they weren't the Hand either. They were something new.
And their leader—the "Master"—was loose in the city, moving in a way even my senses struggled to track.
New York's underground war had just leveled up. And I was right in the middle of it.
POV Normal
Peter, moving with the dark fluidity granted by the combination of Spider-Sense, Earth Domination, and Meta-Vision, was a ghost in the city. He didn't swing between skyscrapers; he flowed through alleys, low rooftops, and lightly trafficked streets, his camouflage rendering him little more than a flaw in peripheral vision.
His Meta-Vision mapped not just his route, but the evacuation points Karai had established. He saw paths as probability streams. The primary extraction point was an abandoned garage fifteen blocks from the attacked office. His mind plotted the safest route for each team member, factoring in police patrols beginning to stir in response to reports of "silent explosions" and screaming men.
He reached the garage minutes before Kenji and Akari, the last to arrive. The other four were already there—motionless, silent, waiting. The mood was contained satisfaction, not euphoria. A mission accomplished.
Kenji and Akari slid inside like the wind. Kenji gave Peter a short nod.
"Mission accomplished, Master. Data extracted. The package for the Federal Revenue Service and the Bugle was sent anonymously and untraceably. Tombstone's response team was… persuaded to take a nap."
"Injuries?" Peter asked, his voice echoing lightly inside the hood.
"Two of Tombstone's men will have to explain dislocated shoulders to their bosses, but they'll live." Kenji's voice was matter-of-fact.
"Good work," Peter said, and the simple praise made the rigid posture of the six present relax a little. "Return to base by different routes. Rest. Karai will handle the debriefing tomorrow."
They vanished into the night, one by one, each following a different predetermined path. Peter lingered for a moment, alone in the dark garage. He felt the day's fatigue, the mental strain of Meta-Vision, the Chi drain from using Earth Domination. But he also felt a spark of satisfaction. They had landed a real blow on Tombstone—not just to his pride, but to his wallet and his sense of invulnerability.
His communicator (a discreet device provided by Rook) vibrated. It was Rook.
"Mr. Parker, the monitoring network has detected a reaction. Lincoln Tombstone is personally mobilizing a larger group, the so-called 'Sharks.' They're assembling at a warehouse by the docks. It looks like the retaliation will be direct and violent. Additionally, there's unusual activity on police frequencies. It seems Daredevil made an anonymous call… directly to Captain Watanabe's precinct, detailing the non-lethal attack on the office and the location of the incapacitated goons."
Peter frowned. Was Matt playing both sides against each other? Or was he trying to force Shadow-Step out of the shadows?
"Thank you, Rook. Maintain surveillance. I'm heading back to base."
He was about to leave when his Spider-Sense gave a small twitch. It wasn't a warning of imminent danger, but an alert of proximity. Someone had entered the garage silently. Very silently.
Peter didn't turn around. His Meta-Vision painted a likely image: a single figure, standing at the entrance, outside his direct line of sight, exploiting a blind spot. The posture would be balanced, ready, but not in a direct attack stance. A vigilante.
"You move well"