"Gwen, are you really okay?"
Vincent asked again, his eyes scanning her face for signs of mutation.
"I'm fine," Gwen murmured, her eyelids heavy. "Just... tired. See you tomorrow."
"See you tomorrow."
Vincent watched her walk into the elevator, a private smile on his lips.
Life was good. He had made a fortune on the stock market, and the "Birth of Ghost Spider" mission was complete.
"System, confirm. Did the mutation take?"
He didn't want Gwen turning into a Man-Spider monster or dying from genetic rejection.
[Host, rest assured. The mission is complete. The mutation is stable.]
Vincent relaxed.
Ghost Spider was born.
Now, the question was: what would trigger her transformation?
In the comics, Gwen's rise as a hero was often catalyzed by tragedy. Usually, Peter Parker died in her arms, or she failed to save him.
"The trope of 'Sacrificing the Best Friend for Infinite Power'," Vincent mused. "Without Peter as the sacrificial lamb, will the universe target me instead?"
His expression turned strange. Let's hope not.
Nightfall.
After dinner, Vincent changed. He swapped his designer clothes for a tactical black outfit: hoodie, mask, gloves.
He walked into Hell's Kitchen.
The transition was stark. From the manicured streets of Park Avenue to the grime-covered sidewalks of the Kitchen. Homeless veterans and junkies lay in the shadows, their eyes tracking him like hungry wolves.
Vincent could feel the Desire Points ticking up. Greed. Malice.
He ignored them. They were small fry.
His target was the Triad. Madame Gao.
But he knew the rules. Hell's Kitchen was a ecosystem. You pull one thread, the whole web shakes. Kingpin, The Hand, the Russians, the Irish. And the Devil.
Daredevil.
Vincent stood before a dilapidated warehouse. Under the yellow streetlights, he recognized the location from Jessica's photo.
He narrowed his eyes.
"Should I use my Ice powers?"
Using superpowers meant escalating the conflict. It invited SHIELD, the X-Men, and the Avengers. A gang war was police business. A super-powered massacre was an Avengers level threat.
"Mask on. Hood up. Keep it quiet."
Vincent knocked rhythmically on the reinforced steel door.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
A slide opened. Cold, dead eyes peered out.
"What do you want?" The guard spoke in Mandarin.
Vincent's eyes crinkled in a smile beneath his mask.
"I just wanted to ask... have you ever been kicked at the speed of light?"
Crack.
Vincent's leg turned into translucent, diamond-hard ice.
BOOM!
The steel door flew off its hinges like a cannonball. The guard behind it was flattened instantly, his chest caved in.
"Enemy attack!!"
Screams in Mandarin echoed inside.
Vincent stepped into the room.
Rat-tat-tat-tat!
Submachine gun fire erupted from the darkness.
Vincent didn't dodge. He let his skin elementalize.
Ping! Ping! Ping!
Bullets struck his ice-form body, sparking and ricocheting harmlessly. To the gangsters, it looked like he was wearing body armor, but the sound was wrong—like hail hitting a tin roof.
"Baji-Mizong Art!"
Vincent lunged. A tiger entering a flock of sheep.
His hands were coated in ice, harder than steel. He moved with the fluid unpredictability of Mizong and struck with the explosive power of Baji.
Crack. A skull shattered.
Snap. A spine broke.
He snatched a dropped SMG from mid-air.
He stood in the center of the room, trading fire with the Triad enforcers. He realized his aim was mediocre.
"System. Upgrade Marksmanship."
[Consuming 50,000 Wealth Points. Acquired: Master Marksman.]
Instantly, the gun felt like an extension of his arm.
Vincent stopped spraying. He started tapping.
Pop. Pop. Pop.
Headshot. Headshot. Headshot.
It was a massacre. A cold, mechanical harvest of life.
The floor was slick with blood. White powder from ruptured heroin bags mixed with the red, creating a grotesque pink sludge.
Vincent scanned the room. Bags of cash were stacked on a table.
He swept the money into a duffel bag. Why leave loot on the table?
"Made a lot of noise," Vincent noted, checking his watch. "The Devil of Hell's Kitchen should be on his way."
He poured gasoline over the drugs. He planted a C4 charge he found in their armory.
"Tonight, Hell's Kitchen burns."
He walked out, tossing the cash bag into a parked van. He punched the window out, hotwired it, and started the engine.
"My parents' killers are still out there. I'm going to flip this city upside down until I find them."
He spoke aloud, knowing his voice would carry to the rooftops.
BOOM!
The warehouse exploded behind him, a fireball illuminating the night sky.
Vincent floored the gas, the van screeching down the street.
On the rooftops above, a silhouette in red leather leaped across the gap, tracking the van. Daredevil.
Vincent glanced in the rearview mirror and smirked.
"Matt Murdock."
As Daredevil landed on a slanted roof to cut him off, Vincent subtly flicked a finger.
Ice-Ice Fruit: Flash Freeze.
A thin, invisible layer of ice coated the rooftop tiles instantly.
Daredevil landed. His boots found zero traction.
Sliiiip.
The Man Without Fear flailed, his legendary balance failing him against physics. He slid off the roof and crashed hard into a dumpster below.
CLANG-THUD.
"Oops," Vincent chuckled, drifting the van around a corner. "Watch your step, counselor."