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Meanwhile, in Queens
Peter Parker sat by his bedroom window, lost in a quiet storm of indecision.
'Should I say yes to Mark's offer? Is it time to finally tell Uncle Ben and Aunt May the truth?'
The weight of the questions pressed down on him, heavy and suffocating. He stared out the glass, his thoughts a tangled mess, until a movement across the street pulled him from his trance.
Behind a sheer curtain, faintly glowing with lamplight, a figure moved. It was a graceful silhouette, caught in a soft, amber hue.
Peter's breath caught in his throat.
'Mary Jane.'
She had just stepped out of the shower and was getting dressed, completely unaware that she could be seen. Peter's eyes widened and he immediately spun away from the window, his cheeks burning with a hot flush of guilt. Still, the image lingered, a beautiful and painful ache in his mind.
Mary Jane Watson. The girl he had adored in silence for as long as he could remember.
She lived just a few steps away, but the distance between their worlds felt like miles. She was radiant and fearless, the kind of girl who lit up every hallway she walked down. Her boyfriend, Flash Thompson, was the star of the football team and came from a family with money to burn.
In comparison, Peter felt like a background extra. He was just a kid raised by his aunt and uncle, small for his age, bullied daily, and constantly scraping by. Even though their bedroom windows were barely five meters apart, he had never found the courage to speak to her. Not in class. Not in the hallway. Not once.
Suddenly, angry voices tore through the night's stillness.
"Did you get the beer?"
"You could've gone yourself!"
"I bust my back every day paying for this family!"
"And I take care of everything inside this house!"
Peter stiffened. He knew those voices. Mary Jane's parents were arguing again. Their words were loud, bitter, and bone-tired.
Then, he heard her voice, sharp with frustration.
"I'm so sick of this. All you two do is fight. I'm leaving!"
"And where do you think you're going at this hour?" her father shot back.
"None of your business!"
"Go ahead, leave. Just like your mother does. Skipping school, running around like some worthless brat!"
"The dishes are still in the sink. You're not going anywhere until you wash them!"
A door slammed shut with a deafening crack.
Moments later, Peter saw Mary Jane storming down her porch steps, fury in every stride. On a sudden impulse, he ran downstairs, grabbed a garbage bag from the kitchen, and stepped outside, pretending he was just taking out the trash.
Just as he hoped, they nearly bumped into each other on the sidewalk.
This time, he didn't freeze. He took a slow, steadying breath, pushed past the knot of anxiety in his throat, and spoke.
"Hey."
Whatever the reason, Mary Jane didn't ignore him.
"Hey"
She smiled. She actually stayed. They talked.
It went on for longer than he ever could have dreamed. It was easy. It was natural.
But the moment didn't last.
A gleaming sports car rolled up to the curb, its engine purring. Flash Thompson stepped out with his usual swagger, wearing sunglasses even though it was pitch dark.
"Hey Mary. Come see what my dad got me for my birthday. Let's hit the party and celebrate till morning."
Her eyes lit up. She turned back to Peter with a quick, apologetic wave.
"Sorry, I have to go," she said.
She dashed across the sidewalk and jumped into Flash's arms, her laughter echoing as they sped off into the night.
Peter watched the red taillights vanish into the distance. They glowed like two mocking eyes, a taunt that left no bruises but hurt all the same. He walked back to his house alone, every step feeling heavier than the last.
Back in his room, he rummaged through a dusty box in his closet and pulled out an old newspaper, flipping to the car ads.
"Used Triumph TR-3 – $4,999."
Even the cheapest car was a fortune, completely beyond his reach. A car like the one Flash drove? That was probably ten times more, at least.
Peter stared at the page until the numbers and letters blurred.
"Maybe Mark is right," he muttered to himself.
He pulled the small card from his pocket. The phone number was printed in bold, clear digits. He had hesitated before, torn by doubt and fear. But not now.
'If I work hard enough, maybe I can earn enough for a car before graduation. Maybe then… maybe then I'd finally stand a chance.'
Elsewhere, in the Bronx
Something strange soared over the streets. It was a massive tree, slicing silently through the night air. The very same tree that had flown Mark to the mutant academy the day before.
It wasn't technically as fast as Scott's modified motorcycle, but it had one major advantage. It flew. Soaring above traffic, red lights, and everything else. In the end, it got him there faster. And unlike a bike, he could abandon it the moment he landed. He could always find another tree.
The tree descended into the same small park, landing in the same clearing. Mark jumped off with practiced ease, his coat fluttering behind him.
Same place. Same mission.
A big man stepped out of the shadows, cracking his neck.
"You like hurting people, huh?" he rumbled, his voice low and heavy.
"You made a mistake laying hands on my crew. I'm gonna have 'em fish you outta the Hudson in plastic bags."
Mark smiled faintly, rolling his shoulders.
"That's cute. You rehearse that line in the mirror?"
The leader snarled and charged without warning. He moved like a freight train of pure muscle, his fists raised like sledgehammers. The others surged behind him, a wave of violence ready to crash down.
Mark didn't flinch.
He stepped sideways just as the man's punch slammed into the concrete, shattering it. 'An enhanced individual,' Mark noted. The force was real, but it was clumsy.
Mark ducked under a wild haymaker and drove his elbow into the man's ribs. The impact sounded like a tree branch splitting. The man staggered, wheezing, and Mark followed up with a brutal flying knee to the jaw. It lifted him clean off the ground and sent him crashing into a pile of garbage cans.
The others swarmed in.
One came from the side with a bat. Mark grabbed it mid-swing, twisted it from the thug's hands, and snapped it over his knee. He then slammed the broken handle into the man's gut.
A knife flashed in the dark. Mark caught the attacker's wrist, twisted it backward until the blade clattered to the ground, then drove his palm upward into the man's chin. He dropped like a puppet with its strings cut.
Another rushed him with a pipe. Mark ducked the first swing, sidestepped the second, then caught the third in mid-air. His hand crushed the metal pipe like it was made of tin. The thug's eyes widened in shock just before Mark headbutted him, sending him sprawling.
Within seconds, the clearing was a storm of grunts, crashes, and bone-jarring impacts. Mark moved like a machine built for war. Fluid, relentless, efficient. Every blow landed with finality.
Bodies hit the ground one by one.
In under five minutes, it was over.
The clearing was filled with the groans of the defeated. Mark stood over them, casually flipping through a stack of cash he had pulled from their pockets.
"$652," he muttered, unimpressed.
"Seriously? You run a gang and this is all you've got? What are you, part-time criminals?"
Then an idea struck him. He reached for the bald leader, slapped him awake, and placed two fingers glowing faintly with magic against the man's temple.
"Mens potentia." (T/N Custom spell)
The man's eyes glazed over. The spell was subtle, like slipping into a dream, making the victim lose all will to resist. It wasn't perfect, but for tonight, it would hold.
"Talk," Mark commanded. "I want to know everything. Gangs. Territory. Who's in charge. Who's got real money."
The answers came spilling out.
Mark listened, filing away names and places. He had a new goal now. Funding. Not just for Peter, but for something much bigger. He was building a global superhero network, independent and unchained.
And criminal empires were sitting on mountains of cash. Better yet, they couldn't go to the police.
Mark would make his moves carefully. He would wear a different face for each strike. He would be a phantom.
'First half of the night, hero work. Second half, making money.'
With a few swift steps, he vanished into the shadows. His coat shimmered, transfiguring into golden armor as his patrol began.
From eleven to two, the city would be loud and chaotic. That was his window. After that, even the worst thugs went to sleep.
And when the streets finally quieted, Mark would switch hats, from vigilante to thief. He preferred subtlety over violence, but if someone stood in his way, he was more than ready.
The night was young. And Mark had work to do.