"John?" Gwen's voice was groggy, thick with the lingering fog of whatever drug they'd used on her. She blinked slowly, her vision swimming as shapes and colors gradually separated into recognizable forms. The world came into focus piece by piece—first the sensation of movement, the vibration beneath her, then the cool night air rushing past her face. She realized she was sitting on a motorcycle, her body pressed against someone's back, leaning against John's familiar warmth.
The smell of leather and engine oil mixed with something metallic that she couldn't quite place. Her arms were secured around his waist by what felt like a jacket, the fabric rough against her wrists. The steady rumble of the motorcycle's engine beneath them was oddly comforting, like a mechanical heartbeat.
"Don't move," John's tired voice came from in front of her, barely audible over the wind and engine noise. There was something different about his voice—a bone-deep exhaustion that made each word sound like it took tremendous effort to produce.
Gwen was confused, her thoughts still sluggish and disconnected. She distinctly remembered being kidnapped—the van, the rough hands, the sharp sting of a needle. Then darkness had claimed her, and now this. The memories felt distant and dreamlike, but the fear they carried was all too real. Recalling how John had stood up to Flash at school, how he'd defended her without hesitation, she instinctively felt that she was safe with him. There was something about his presence that calmed the panic trying to claw its way up her throat.
As she gathered her scattered thoughts, trying to piece together what had happened, she noticed a dark stain spreading across his sleeve. In the dim light from passing streetlamps, she could see the fabric was torn and wet. Blood was seeping from a wound on his arm, leaving dark droplets that caught the wind.
"John, you're bleeding!" she said, her voice cracking with alarm. The sight sent ice through her veins, chasing away the last of the drug's haze. "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine," he mumbled, but his voice told a different story. She could feel the tension in his shoulders, the way his body swayed slightly with each turn as if fighting to stay upright.
"This is the way back to Queens, right?" she asked, recognizing some of the landmarks despite the darkness. The familiar shapes of buildings and street signs were like anchors in her confused mind. "Maybe I should drive." She now understood that John must have been the one who saved her, and he'd been injured in the process. The thought filled her with a mixture of gratitude and guilt so intense it made her chest ache.
"The drug is just wearing off; you're still weak," he insisted, his words slightly slurred with fatigue. "I can handle it. I'm just... a little tired. We can talk later."
Gwen wanted to ask a hundred questions—how had he found her? How had he gotten her away from those men? What had happened to cause his injuries? But seeing the sheer exhaustion radiating from every line of his body, the way his head occasionally dipped before he caught himself, she held her tongue. Instead, she gently wrapped her arms around his waist more securely, hoping to give him some support, to anchor him to consciousness through her touch.
The wind whipped past her ears with a constant whistle, catching in her golden hair and sending it streaming behind them like a banner. Feeling the warmth from his body, the steady rise and fall of his breathing against her cheek, a strange thought crossed her mind. Only to her eyes, John's silhouette seemed to be faintly dusted with shimmering specks of light, like stardust caught in moonbeams. She blinked, wondering if it was a trick of the streetlights or residual effects from whatever they'd drugged her with.
The city rolled past them in a blur of neon and shadow. Late-night pedestrians turned to stare at the unusual sight—a young man and woman on a motorcycle, both looking like they'd been through a war. The smell of the city surrounded them: exhaust fumes, cooking food from late-night restaurants, the ozone scent that clung to the air after rain.
After a while, the wail of sirens grew louder from ahead, their urgent cry cutting through the night like a knife. The sound made John's shoulders tense further, and Gwen felt his breathing quicken. Soon, a dozen police cars appeared, their red and blue lights painting the street in alternating colors, forming a blockade across the road that stretched from sidewalk to sidewalk.
The officers saw the scene unfolding before them: under the setting sun that painted the sky in shades of amber and crimson, an injured young man on a motorcycle, carrying a young woman whose blonde hair caught the dying light like spun gold. Then, recognition dawned like lightning. The girl was their captain's daughter, Gwen Stacy. A ripple of shock went through the assembled officers, followed immediately by a wave of profound relief. Windows rolled down with mechanical whirs, and hats came off in a spontaneous gesture of respect that spoke louder than any words could.
"Gwen!" Captain George Stacy was in the lead car, his usually composed face cracking with raw emotion. He spotted his daughter, and his eyes went wide with a mixture of shock and relief so intense it took his breath away. For a moment, the hardened police captain was just a father who thought he might have lost everything. "Quick, go!"
The police cars quickly surrounded them in a protective formation, officers emerging with hands on their weapons but faces filled with gratitude rather than suspicion. John slowly brought the motorcycle to a stop, the engine's rumble dying to a whisper as exhaustion finally began to win its battle against his iron will.
Gwen carefully untied the jacket holding her in place, her fingers trembling slightly as she worked at the makeshift bonds. The leather was stiff with dried blood, and she tried not to think about whose it might be. She slid off the bike, her legs unsteady from the lingering effects of the drug and the emotional shock of the night.
As John dismounted, moving with the careful precision of someone who knew they were at the very end of their rope, the adrenaline that had kept him going finally vanished like air from a punctured balloon. His taut nerves went slack all at once, his body went limp as if someone had cut his puppet strings, and his vision faded to black around the edges before consuming everything. He was just too tired—too drained by the transformation, too weakened by blood loss, too spent from carrying the weight of being someone's salvation.
"John!" Gwen cried out, her voice cracking with panic as she lunged forward, catching him just as he collapsed. His full weight settled against her, nearly dragging them both to the ground. She held him as best she could, one arm around his shoulders, her other hand pressed against his chest where she could feel his heart beating fast and irregular. "John?" She shook his shoulder gently, her voice becoming smaller, more frightened with each repetition of his name.
His face was pale as marble in the streetlight, dark circles under his eyes making him look like he'd aged years in a single night. Blood had dried on his clothes, and she could see the torn fabric where bullets had found their mark.
"Dad…" she said, looking up at her father with tears threatening to spill from her eyes, her voice small and lost.
"Doctor, how is he?" Captain Stacy asked, standing outside the hospital room where the antiseptic smell of cleaning chemicals couldn't quite mask the underlying scents of human suffering and medical procedures. The fluorescent lights cast harsh shadows that made everyone look sicker than they were.
Gwen stood nearby, wringing her hands and shifting her weight from foot to foot, praying silently with the desperate intensity of someone who'd already seen too much darkness for one night. Please be okay, John. Please be okay. The words repeated in her mind like a mantra, the only thing keeping the fear at bay.
"There are no life-threatening issues," the doctor reported, his voice carrying the professional calm that came from years of delivering news both good and bad. He was an older man with kind eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses, and his scrubs bore the telltale stains of a long shift. "He fainted from sheer exhaustion and blood loss. He'll be fine with some rest. However..."
The word hung in the air like a sword waiting to fall.
"However what?" Gwen asked, her heart skipping a beat as anxiety spiked through her chest like ice water.
"The two wounds on his arm and thigh are unusual," the doctor continued, consulting his clipboard with a slight frown. "They look like they were caused by low-caliber bullets, but we found no projectiles in the wounds. The entry points are clean, almost surgical in their precision, but the lack of fragments or residue is... peculiar. We've cleaned and stitched them up. He should be able to go home after a few days of observation."
Gwen's mind raced, trying to process this information. Bullet wounds without bullets? What could have caused such precise injuries?
"Thank God he's okay," Gwen said, a wave of relief washing over her so intense it nearly buckled her knees. She sagged against the wall, finally allowing herself to breathe properly for the first time since John had collapsed.
"Gwen, I've already called the school and arranged for both of you to have some time off," her father said gently, his voice carrying all the warmth and protection a father's voice should hold. His hand settled on her shoulder, solid and reassuring. "You can stay here with him for now."
"Okay, Dad." The hospital room was small and sterile, but knowing John was safe made it feel like the most comfortable place in the world.
Later, in his office that smelled of old coffee and case files, Captain Stacy received the full report from his lead investigator. The detective was a twenty-year veteran who'd seen everything the city had to offer, but even he looked shaken.
"We found seven bodies at an abandoned warehouse," the officer stated, reading from his notes with a voice that remained steady through years of practice. "One victim looked like he'd been hit by a truck—just pieces left. Four others died from some kind of explosion, and the last two from massive blunt force trauma. The scene was..." He paused, searching for words. "Unprecedented, sir. The destruction was unlike anything I've ever seen."
He flipped through crime scene photos that would haunt the dreams of everyone who'd seen them. "The scene was littered with shell casings, but none of the deceased had any bullet wounds. We also found two strange, scorched patterns on the ground near the center of the warehouse—perfectly circular, like burn marks, but the concrete was actually melted and fused. The heat required for that kind of damage..."
The officer hesitated, clearly uncomfortable with the implications of what he was about to say. "Sir, we believe the seven deceased were Gwen's kidnappers. Their van is missing, and we found rope and drug paraphernalia that matches what was used on your daughter. I think… I think the anomalies at the scene might be connected to the student, John, who rescued her."
Captain Stacy leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking under his weight. He stared at the photographs spread across his desk—images of destruction that defied conventional explanation. "Thank you. I'll take charge of this investigation personally," he said, dismissing the officer with a nod.
Alone in his office, George Stacy allowed himself a moment of complete honesty. He knew what this meant. He was well aware of the increasing number of super-powered individuals appearing across the country—the reports that came across his desk with increasing frequency, the classified briefings from federal agencies, the whispered conversations between law enforcement officials about things that shouldn't exist but undeniably did.
For reasons of his own—reasons that went back to his own youth and encounters with things that officially never happened—he was no longer indifferent to these developments. He was now actively seeking to understand them, to find ways to protect his city from threats both human and otherwise. And now, it seemed, one of these extraordinary individuals had saved his daughter's life.
When John woke up, it was late afternoon the next day. Golden sunlight streamed through the hospital room windows, dust motes dancing in the warm beams like tiny spirits. The first thing he saw was Gwen, asleep in the uncomfortable plastic chair next to his hospital bed. Her head was tilted at an angle that would leave her with a terrible crick in her neck, and her blonde hair had fallen across her face like a curtain.
She looked peaceful despite the awkward position, her breathing slow and steady. There were still faint shadows under her eyes, evidence of the trauma she'd endured, but the lines of stress had eased from her face. Someone—probably a nurse—had covered her with a thin hospital blanket that smelled of industrial detergent.
"Hey, Gwen," he said softly, his voice hoarse from sleep and dehydration. "That was a good sleep."
Before Gwen could reply, a loud voice boomed from the doorway like a cannon blast, shattering the peaceful quiet of the room. "Boss John! You're awake!" Flash Thompson burst through the door with his characteristic lack of subtlety, practically vibrating with excitement that made his entire body seem to bounce. "Tell us what happened! It was so awesome, you actually saved Gwen! How did you beat all those bad guys?"
His voice echoed off the hospital walls, probably disturbing patients three rooms away. Flash's eyes were bright with hero worship and genuine concern, his usual swagger replaced by something that looked almost like respect.
"Seeing your face is already putting me in a bad mood," John grumbled, though there was no real heat in his words. The familiar banter was actually comforting after everything that had happened. "And since when am I your boss?"
"You can't deny it! You said you'd help me become a hero!" Flash's grin was so wide it threatened to split his face in half.
"Whatever," John sighed, deciding not to argue. His head still felt fuzzy, and Flash's enthusiasm was like trying to process sunlight through a hangover. "Where's the motorcycle I rode here? I borrowed it, I need to return it. If it's damaged, I have to pay the old guy."
The practical concern seemed absurd given everything that had happened, but it was easier to focus on simple, solvable problems than the larger implications of what he'd done the night before.
"Boss, is that really the first thing you're worried about?" Flash said, rolling his eyes with exaggerated disbelief. "Don't worry, the bike was returned this morning. The old man was thrilled—I mean, really thrilled. Like, jumping up and down thrilled. He called you a hero and asked me to give you this." He handed John a small business card with the reverence usually reserved for holy relics.
"You have to keep your promises, Flash," John said, taking the card with fingers that still trembled slightly from exhaustion.
On it was a simple, handwritten message in shaky but enthusiastic script: "Thanks for the excitement. That bike's a classic now. You ever need wheels, you call me." — Stan.
How odd, John thought with a small smile. The simple gesture of kindness felt disproportionately warming after the darkness of the previous night.
"Um, John… thank you," Gwen said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. Her face was flushing pink, color creeping up her neck like sunrise. She'd woken during Flash's boisterous entrance, and now she was looking at John with an expression he couldn't quite read—gratitude mixed with something deeper, more complex. "Flash told me everything. Thank you for coming to save me."
The weight of her gratitude was almost overwhelming. She was looking at him like he'd hung the moon, when all he'd done was what anyone should have done. The intensity in her blue eyes made his chest tight with emotions he wasn't ready to examine.
"It was nothing. I just did what I had to do," John said with a shrug that sent a small spike of pain through his injured arm. The casual dismissal only made Gwen's blush deepen, spreading across her cheeks like watercolor on paper.
"And thank you too, Flash," Gwen said, turning to him with genuine warmth. "For calling my dad."
"Haha, no problem! Boss John told me to do it," Flash said proudly, puffing out his chest like a rooster. "You should have seen it! I told him to be careful, and he just got on the bike and gave this awesome thumbs-up before speeding off. It was like a movie! Like something out of an action film, but real!"
His enthusiasm was infectious, and despite everything, John felt a small smile tugging at his lips.
"Alright, Flash," John interrupted, saving himself from further embarrassment. Flash's dramatic retellings had a tendency to grow in the telling, and he didn't need to become a legend in the halls of Midtown High. "By the way, where are my things?"
"Your clothes? I washed them. They're in the cabinet," Gwen said, pointing to the bedside table. Her voice carried a note of pride, as if doing this small service had been important to her. "They were... pretty torn up. I did my best with the bloodstains."
"No, not them. Something else. It's round, looks like a watch."
Gwen opened the drawer of the cabinet with careful movements, her fingers brushing past get-well cards from classmates he barely knew and a small arrangement of flowers that filled the room with the scent of spring. She took out the Knight Watch, holding it up to catch the afternoon light streaming through the window.
"Is this it? I didn't expect you to be into this sort of thing," she said with a curious smile that made her eyes crinkle at the corners. "It's funny, when I touched it this morning, it lit up and made a little toy sound."
The words hit John like a physical blow, his eyes widening with shock so profound it was visible even to Flash. The implications crashed through his mind like dominoes falling—if the watch had responded to Gwen's touch, if it had activated for her...
"What? It made a sound when you touched it?" His voice came out sharper than he intended, cutting through the hospital room's quiet like a blade.
"Ah! What's wrong?" Gwen asked, startled by the sudden intensity in his reaction. She nearly dropped the watch, catching it at the last second against her chest. "Was I not supposed to touch it?"
"No, it's fine," John said quickly, trying to contain his shock while his mind raced through possibilities. His heart was hammering against his ribs, and he hoped the hospital monitors weren't picking up the sudden spike in his vital signs. "Here, try something for me. Press the button on the top."
"Uh, okay." Gwen's voice carried a note of uncertainty, but she trusted him enough to do as he asked.
She held the watch in her palm, and John could see her fingers trembling slightly—whether from nervousness or residual effects from her ordeal, he couldn't tell. She gently pressed the button with her thumb, the small click seeming to echo in the sudden stillness of the room.
The watch flared with a soft, purple light that filled the hospital room with an otherworldly glow. The illumination was different from John's red energy—gentler, more ethereal, like moonlight given form. Even Flash fell silent, his mouth hanging open as the device pulsed with power that seemed to respond to Gwen's very heartbeat.
A new voice echoed from the watch—elegant, feminine, and carrying an authority that made the air itself seem to vibrate with potential.
"KAMEN RIDER—TSUKUYOMI"