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The crowd was already on its feet when the bell rang again.
Goliath, the six-foot-eight, three-hundred-pound human wall, slammed both fists into the steel cage hard enough to rattle the posts.
The impact made the lights above flicker, dust sifting down like rain. He was furious humiliated by the scrawny teenager who kept slipping through his reach like smoke.
Inside the ring, Peter crouched lightly, the springs of his sneakers squeaking against the mat. His mask hid his grin, but his breathing was steady.
He could feel the rhythm of the fight in his bones the way every motion in the air whispered a half-second before it happened. His spider-sense was singing, and it made this fight feel… unfairly easy.
"Come on, you overgrown meatloaf," he muttered under his breath. "I don't have all day."
At ringside, one of the organizers panicked at Goliath's tantrum and shoved a folding chair through the bars.
"Use this!" he shouted.
Goliath's grin widened. "Appreciate it, buddy." He gripped the chair in both hands and turned it over, admiring its weight like an artist about to swing a brush. His voice boomed through the microphone clipped to the cage:
"Hey, little bug! Time to go cry to Mommy!"
He swung the chair overhead and brought it down like a hammer.
Peter flipped backward, his feet skimming the mesh just long enough to vault to the other side.
Whang!
The chair struck empty steel. Sparks flew, the crowd gasped, and then roared with laughter and fury.
Peter couldn't help himself. "Missed me!"
He called, perched upside-down from the wall.
The giant whirled, red-faced. "Stand still!"
"You first," Peter said and dropped like a stone, driving a kick across Goliath's jaw.
The man crashed to one knee, shaking his head like a bull that had just taken a tranquilizer dart.
For a second, the crowd went dead silent. Then the booing began again, louder, angrier. Most of them had bet on Goliath. Their wallets were bleeding.
"Finish him!" someone shouted.
Peter sighed. He didn't want to hurt the guy. But Goliath lumbered to his feet again, veins bulging, eyes glassy with rage. He roared and swung the chair like a discus thrower.
Peter ducked, stepped in, and fired three quick punches left, right, and a crisp uppercut that snapped Goliath's head back.
The man hit the mat with a seismic thud and stayed there.
The referee hesitated, then started the count. "Three… two… one!"
He grabbed Peter's wrist and lifted it high. "Ladies and gentlemen your new champion!"
The boos doubled.
"Fix!"
"Rigged!"
"Blackmail!"
Beer cans bounced off the cage. Peter winced as one exploded near his head.
He'd won, sure but it didn't feel like victory.
---
Backstage smelled of sweat and oil and cheap cologne. The fluorescent lights buzzed like insects.
Peter stood in front of the pay table, mask pulled back, hair matted with sweat. The man behind the table counted bills with leisurely indifference and stacked them neatly before sliding five hundred dollars across the surface.
Peter blinked. "Wait. Thought the prize was five thousand."
The cashier didn't even look up. "You heard wrong, kid. It's five grand if you last three minutes. You knocked him out in under two."
"So… I get less because I won faster?"
The man shrugged. "Rules are rules. Take the five hundred and beat it."
Peter's jaw clenched. "That money's important. I—I need it."
"Cry somewhere else," the man said, curling his lip. "Keep yapping, and I'll take it back."
For half a second, Peter saw himself reach across the table, shove the guy, and demand fairness. But the image of Aunt May's kind face, of Uncle Ben's tired eyes, held him back. He took the money and turned away.
As he walked toward the elevator, a nervous-looking man brushed past him, clutching a canvas bag tight to his chest. Their shoulders grazed. Peter glanced back, frowning. The man's eyes darted everywhere guilty, scared.
The moment passed.
Then shouting erupted behind him.
"Stop him! He stole the cash!"
The same man burst from the hall, sprinting straight toward the elevator.
Peter stepped instinctively aside.
The thief dived through the open doors, slammed the closed button, and managed a crooked grin. "Thanks, kid."
The doors sealed.
A security guard came running. "Why didn't you stop him?!"
Peter's tone was cold. "Not my problem."
The guard's nostrils flared. He wanted to argue, but the thief was gone. He spat on the floor and stomped away.
Peter hit the elevator button again, almost defiantly. For a moment, a sharp satisfaction flickered in his chest. Serves that jerk behind the counter right.
But as the elevator dinged open, the satisfaction twisted into something else something hollow.
---
Queens — Evening Streets
Across the borough, Sylas Parker moved across the rooftops like a shadow unspooling. The wind cut around him, carrying city sounds sirens, chatter, the heartbeat thrum of traffic. Somewhere below, his uncle's old sedan turned into a small strip-mall parking lot.
Sylas crouched, adjusting the view through his mask lenses. "What are you doing, old man?"
Ben Parker stepped out, straightened his jacket, and walked toward the liquor store. His shoulders sagged under the kind of tiredness that came from years of trying to stay hopeful on a shoestring budget.
Sylas sighed, watching him vanish inside. "Please don't let tonight go sideways."
It did.
He heard the shouts first distant but sharp, filtered through the enhanced acoustics in his suit. "Stop him! Somebody stop that man!"
Sylas turned toward the commotion. A man was barreling through the crowd, clutching a bag, the same description that reached his ears a few blocks earlier over police radio chatter. A petty thief, desperate and cornered.
And running straight toward Uncle Ben.
Ben saw it too. The pedestrians scattered. There was nowhere to hide, nowhere to duck. He scanned the street, found nothing useful no cover, no police in sight.
"Damn it," he muttered, grabbing the only thing he had: the glass bottle in his hand. He hurled it with surprising precision.
The bottle smashed against the thief's thigh. The man screamed, tripped, and crashed to the pavement.
And fired.
The shot split the night open.
Sylas reacted before the sound reached him. A flick of his wrist, a glint of metal, and a throwing spike met the bullet mid-air.
The two collided with a shriek of sparks before the projectile ricocheted harmlessly into a mailbox.
Ben froze, wide-eyed. For a moment he thought he was dead. Then he saw the figure drop from the building above black armor, white-eyed mask, the air itself bending around him like smoke.
Sylas landed between Ben and the gunman. One fluid motion and he kicked the pistol away, sending it clattering across the street.
The thief howled, clutching his shattered wrist.
"Please—don't—" he stammered.
Sylas loomed over him, a shadow with a heartbeat. "You tried to shoot my family."
He drew another spike, flipping it in his hand. One throw would end it cleanly.
"Wait!" Ben's voice trembled but firmed. "Thank you—but let the police handle him. Don't… don't cross that line."
For a moment, the only sound was the thief's ragged breathing. Then Sylas exhaled through his mask. The tension in his shoulders eased.
"Your call," he said quietly. With a blur of motion, he struck the man's neck, knocking him out cold instead.
Police sirens wailed closer. Patrol cars slid to a stop, tires screeching. Officers jumped out, weapons raised straight at Sylas.
"Freeze! Hands up!"
Ben shouted, "No! He saved me! Don't shoot!"
But the suspicion was instinctive. The black-suited vigilante was an unknown, and unknowns in New York usually meant trouble.
Sylas didn't argue. He turned, vaulted up the nearest wall, and vanished onto the rooftops as effortlessly as a shadow fading at dawn.
Ben watched him go, chest heaving.
"Thank you," he whispered.
The cops swarmed the scene, cuffing the unconscious robber and securing the weapon. One of them bent to examine the twisted bullet lodged in the curb. "What the hell stopped this?"
Ben just shook his head. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."
---
Moments Later
"Uncle Ben!"
Peter came running up the sidewalk, panting, still in street clothes. Relief flooded his face when he saw Ben standing. "You're okay!"
"I'm fine," Ben said, trying to keep his voice calm. "Late from work, that's all. You?"
"Club meeting," Peter lied automatically. "But—what happened here?"
Ben hesitated. He didn't want to worry him. But one of the nearby officers was already explaining the story to another, and Peter caught fragments of it "robbery… armed… vigilante in black."
His stomach sank. "Uncle Ben…"
Ben sighed. "It's handled. Just… don't mention it to your aunt, alright? She'll worry."
Peter nodded slowly. Then he looked past the flashing police lights and saw the robber being loaded into a cruiser. His breath caught.
It was the same man who had brushed past him earlier the one he'd let go.
For a second, the world tilted. His mouth went dry.
'I could have stopped him.'
That single thought hit harder than any punch.
He hugged Ben tightly. "I'm just glad you're safe."
Ben returned the embrace, then leaned back to study his nephew's face.
"Peter," he said, his voice steady, almost gentle, "listen to me. You have a gift whatever it is, whatever you can do. Don't waste it, because—" he paused, eyes searching Peter's "—because with great power comes great responsibility."
The words hung there, simple but immovable.
Peter swallowed hard, unable to answer. Something deep inside him shifted a quiet, painful understanding that this wasn't just advice. It was true.
---
The Rooftops Above
From three stories up, Sylas crouched on a ledge, watching them framed in the pulsing glow of the police lights.
The night breeze tugged at his hood. In his ear, the System's neutral tone chimed:
[Aided in apprehending a robber — Justice +1]
[Prevented a death — Justice +1]
Two points. Two tiny numbers in a ledger that balanced morality like a stock market.
Sylas exhaled. "Two points for saving a life, Figures."
He looked down again at the pair below the honest uncle, the guilty nephew, and wondered which of them the world would remember years from now.
"With great power…" he murmured, echoing Ben's words. "Yeah, sure. Great responsibility. But not everyone's cut out for sainthood."
He turned away, the city skyline blazing around him like an endless circuit board of light. Being a hero didn't pay. Justice Points trickled in like pocket change; Sin Points, on the other hand, came fast, hot, and plentiful.
He needed leverage, He needed scale. Big moves.
Sylas straightened, shadow stretching long behind him. "Guess it's time the Dominion earned its name."
Below, Ben and Peter climbed into the sedan, driving toward home.
Above, the masked figure melted into the dark an echo between two worlds.
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