Chapter 19
Classes followed one another. Math, Physics… Finally, it was time for P.E.
A lively chatter already filled the locker room. The main topic of discussion was the new teacher.
"Did you see her? God, she's fire!"
"I'm definitely going to be dreaming about her tonight!"
And everything in that vein. Teenage hormones were in full swing.
When the students filed into the gym, they all saw her. A sharp whistle silenced everyone and forced them to line up. To the disappointment of many of the boys, she wasn't wearing a tight tracksuit, but a simple T-shirt and slightly baggy track pants—which, however, couldn't completely hide her athletic figure.
"Alright, listen up!" Her voice was clear and ringing, without a hint of flirtation. "My name is Nellie Romanova. As of today, I am your new P.E. teacher. I know Midtown High emphasizes academic knowledge, but that's no excuse to let your bodies go. Physical conditioning is just as important as integrals and chemical formulas. Today we start with a warm-up, followed by strength training: pull-ups, push-ups, and weight work. Any questions? No? Excellent."
Thirty minutes of P.E. felt like three hours of hard labor. Lungs burned, and muscles refused to obey. It was impossible not to notice how Ms. Romanova approached each student, carefully monitoring their technique, pointing out mistakes, and adjusting the load. She demanded exactly as much as a person could handle, squeezing out every drop of effort without pushing them to total failure.
"Thompson, excellent!" she noted, passing by Flash, who was performing pull-ups with ease. "Your technique is nearly perfect."
She moved on, stopping by other students to give short, precise instructions.
"Parr, not like that," her voice sounded right by my ear. "You're putting too much strain on your shoulders. Keep your back straight, shoulder blades together. Like this…"
She reached out to adjust the position of my elbows. My personal barrier wouldn't have let her touch me, which would have revealed the existence of my ability. To allow her to touch me, I would have to consciously deactivate the defense. But what if I had to do that every single time there was an accidental contact? Constantly creating and removing gaps in my armor? What if someone took advantage of that split-second vulnerability? No, that wasn't the answer. I had to act differently.
The moment her fingers almost touched my arm, I sharply shifted my position, dodging the contact.
She raised an eyebrow in surprise.
"What's wrong, Diego?"
"I can't stand being touched by strangers," I had to answer flatly, looking her in the eyes.
She thought for a second, then smiled.
"I'm sorry. I'll keep in mind that you're a 'hands-off' kind of boy."
Immediately, Flash's laughter erupted from the bench where the students with medical exemptions were sitting.
"Ha-ha-ha! Parr's afraid of women!"
His sycophants immediately joined in the laughter.
I had to turn toward him.
"By the way," I said loud enough for the whole gym to hear, "they found a penis pump in Thompson's school locker."
The laughter cut off instantly. Silence hung in the gym.
"THAT'S NOT TRUE!" Eugene shrieked.
"I have a photo," I added calmly. "I can forward it to everyone after class."
Now every eye was glued to Flash. The girls looked at him with blatant disgust, while the guys who had been laughing with him a second ago instinctively moved further away.
"Great work today!" the teacher's voice rang out briskly, though a bit tensely, breaking the awkward silence. "But don't relax yet; now we need to stretch to release the tension and let your muscles cool down."
---
At the school exit, as the stream of students flooded onto the street, Peter Parker, who had skipped P.E., materialized beside me.
"Listen," he hesitated slightly, "I need some advice."
I had to stop.
"From me?"
"What do you do if… well… someone confesses their feelings to you, but you can't reciprocate? How do you say no without hurting them?"
"I don't think I'm competent enough to give advice on those matters."
"I think an outside perspective helps," he insisted. "It'll be a more objective view."
I had to think about it, trying to put myself in his shoes.
"I suppose you should start with respect," I said slowly, choosing my words.
He waited silently for me to continue.
"Confessing your feelings, especially if a girl does it first, is a significant act. Imagine the internal monologue. How many times she probably replayed that conversation in her head, practicing the words hundreds of times, imagining your reaction, all the possible outcomes—from happy to humiliating. Think of all the doubt, the fear of rejection, the mockery from friends she had to overcome before she decided to do it. That requires more than just courage; it requires a willingness to put her ego and vulnerability on the line. The very fact that she went through with it deserves respect. And the only decent thing you can do in response is to acknowledge that... courage. Show understanding for what it cost her, and then answer honestly. Without unnecessary pity, which would only be condescending, and without false hints or hopes that will only hurt more later. Just as it is."
Peter remained silent, clearly processing what I had said. Seeing that the conversation was over, I had to move on, leaving him alone with his thoughts.
---
Wilson Fisk's penthouse was the embodiment of ostentatious luxury. Wall-to-wall panoramic windows offered a breathtaking view of nighttime Manhattan, expensive sculptures adorned the spacious halls, and the air was thick with the scent of rare flowers. In this gilded cage, a group of mutant teenagers was trying to pass the time.
Pietro Maximoff had set up a personal gastronomic marathon for himself. He darted between the kitchen and the living room, consuming delicacies at the same superhuman speed with which he ordered them via Fisk's tablet. Albino beluga caviar, aged over a hundred years, was disappearing by the spoonful. Rare white truffles from Piedmont were being crumbled onto freshly baked focaccia. The total bill for his "snack" had already surpassed several million dollars, but he didn't seem to care in the slightest.
His sister, Wanda, had found her sanctuary in the massive rooftop jacuzzi. The warm bubbles pleasantly massaged her body, and in her hand, she held a glass of 1945 Romanée-Conti Grand Cru—the jewel of Fisk's wine collection. Of course, she could have used her mind to recreate the taste of this wine or any other drink. But why bother, when you can enjoy the original, and for free at that?
Jean Grey was settled in a massage chair that gently kneaded her tired muscles. A book on quantum physics was open before her, but her thoughts were far away. It all came down to the deal struck between Professor Xavier and Nick Fury. Officially, she and her companions were the core of Wilson Fisk's new initiative called "The Guardians of New York"—a team of mutants meant to protect the city. However, that was merely a cover. In reality, their true mission was to work for Fury, using Fisk and his program as a facade. While the world believed in their alliance with the future mayor, their task was to maintain order in the city and await further instructions from the Director of S.H.I.E.L.D. Furthermore, Jean herself had a personal, secret task from the Professor: to keep a discreet eye on Fisk. Fisk only knew her as a powerful telekinetic and had no suspicion of her telepathic abilities, which gave her an advantage for observation. She felt that the negotiations were over, and three people were about to enter the room.
The doors opened, and three men entered the penthouse. In the center, predictably, towered Wilson Fisk. At his shoulder stood his faithful bodyguard with a dead, unblinking gaze. The third was someone they hadn't seen before—a slightly plump man in an expensive but somewhat eccentric suit, wearing glasses with fashionable frames.
Fisk swept the living room with his gaze. His eyes lingered for a moment on the chaos Pietro had created—mountains of plates with remnants of fabulously expensive caviar and truffles—and then slid over to Wanda, relaxingly soaking in the jacuzzi. There was neither judgment nor anger in his eyes. To him, all of this was merely temporary expenditure, nothing more.
"I hope you are satisfied with everything?" His voice was slightly jovial.
"You bet," Wanda tossed back boldly from the water, raising her glass of Romanée-Conti.
Pietro, his mouth full of yet another snack, merely nodded vigorously.
"Good," Fisk made a barely perceptible gesture toward the new man. "Allow me to introduce Mr. Gladly. He is a top-class professional. From this moment on, you are at his complete disposal. He will be responsible for your… public image."
The plump man in glasses immediately stepped forward, radiating an inappropriate, almost deafening enthusiasm. He spoke loudly, clearly, and with a broad, permanent smile, as if addressing a group of schoolchildren rather than mutants.
"Hello, hello! My young, uncut diamonds! What an honor!" he proclaimed, throwing his hands up. "Starting today, we begin to create magic! We will teach you how to carry yourselves in public, how to answer tricky questions, and what to wear so that your very appearance inspires awe and adoration!"
Wanda, still in the jacuzzi, measured him with a skeptical look. Scarlet energy enveloped her, and she rose smoothly from the water, hovering in the air above the terrace. Before everyone's eyes, her wet swimsuit was replaced by her usual red-and-black outfit. Already completely dry, she descended to the floor.
"What, do you want to dress us up in Winx Club fairy costumes?" she spat. "I'm not participating in this circus."
Gladly clapped his hands in delight.
"No, no, no! Heaven forbid!" he laughed. "My dear, the fairies stayed in the 2000s! I have no intention of changing you. I intend to emphasize what is already there! Look at yourself!" He took a step back, appraisingly looking her over from head to toe. "That rebellious spirit! That dark, almost gothic charisma! Right now, all the boys are going crazy for 'bad girls,' and you are the quintessence of that image! You are godlessly beautiful! That disheveled dark hair, those heavily lined eyes that look at the world with a challenge! And this outfit… the corset top, the leather bracelets, those deep red and black tones! It's not just clothing, it's a statement! It's a ready-made brand! We'll just add a bit of polish, but the foundation—the foundation is magnificent!"
Wanda froze. She had been ready for an argument, for an order, for anything, but not for this. Being called a "bad girl" and immediately showered with compliments threw her off balance. She didn't know how to react—whether to be offended or proud.
As Gladly continued to enthusiastically describe her "marketing potential," Jean Grey, watching the scene from her chair, noticed that the doors had opened again. Fisk and his bodyguard silently stepped out and disappeared. He had delivered the specialist, set the task, and left, not wasting a single second on the process itself.