Brooklyn, Kun-Lun Trading Company.
Murakami stood before the floor-to-ceiling window, his back to the room full of subordinates. Outside the window was the night view of New York, bright with lights, but there was not a trace of expression on his face.
Behind him, Takeuchi Azuma hung his head, not daring to even breathe loudly.
"A bunch of useless trash."
Murakami's voice was calm, chillingly so.
"So many people," he turned slowly, his gaze sweeping over everyone in the room, "and you still can't beat one spider-freak?"
No one dared to answer.
Takeuchi Azuma bit the bullet and spoke: "Boss, should we send more men to capture her? Those Chinese immigrants—"
"Idiots." Murakami interrupted him, his tone still calm. "Those Chinese immigrants are already under the protection of George Stacy. You go out there now, and you're just complaining that the Police don't have enough evidence?"
Takeuchi Azuma lowered his head, cold sweat seeping from his forehead.
"But the client..." he whispered, "urgently needs to exchange those..."
Murakami was silent for a few seconds.
"That Spider-Man has superpowers," he said, "Ordinary ninjas are indeed not her match."
Takeuchi Azuma looked up, a glimmer of hope flashing in his eyes: "Boss, do you plan to take action yourself?"
Murakami did not answer.
He just looked at the night outside the window, the corners of his mouth curling slightly.
That arc was faint, but everyone in the room felt a chill.
Old Shu Capital Hot Pot Restaurant.
Gwen landed lightly on the roof, her movements lighter than a cat. She squatted down, removed a tile, and looked down.
The hot pot restaurant was steaming and noisy. But her attention was not on the diners, but on that room on the third floor.
She raised her wrist and pressed the button on the side of her lens.
Thermal imaging activated.
Red light spots were clearly displayed—four people. Two black men, two Asian men. From their posture, they were all sitting, probably chatting or playing cards.
"Unarmed," Gwen whispered.
"Are you sure?" Peter's voice rang in her earphone.
"Thermal imaging doesn't show weapon outlines. They should just be ordinary lackeys."
"That's easy then, just catch them."
The corners of Gwen's mouth curled slightly.
She leaped lightly, landing silently on the third-floor windowsill. The window was not locked; she pushed it open a crack and slipped in.
The corridor was quiet, with only voices coming from Room 304. Gwen pressed against the wall to the door, took a deep breath—
Then kicked the door open.
"Who is it—?!"
Before the people in the room could react, Gwen had already rushed in.
"It's the spider-freak!"
A black man grabbed a chair to smash at her, but Gwen slid between his legs, flicking her wrist simultaneously, Silk wrapping around his ankle. The man lost his balance and fell heavily to the ground.
Another black man tried to run, but Gwen approached silently from behind, a hand blade striking his neck—crouched and approached, one-hit kill.
The two Asian men were stunned, not understanding the situation, before being plastered to the wall by two globs of Gwen's Silk.
Less than ten seconds in total.
Gwen clapped her hands, looking at the four people wailing on the ground, nodding with satisfaction.
"Is that all?"
"Spider-Man," Peter's voice suddenly became urgent, "I've detected the enemy's reinforcements arriving. Two cars, about eight people, rushing towards you. Retreat quickly!"
Gwen frowned.
So fast?
She looked at the four lackeys tied up like zongzi—if she left now, these people would definitely be silenced.
"I have to take them." She said.
"No time—"
"There is time."
Gwen flicked her wrists repeatedly, several strands of Silk shot out, stringing the four people together. She dragged this string of "human zongzi" to the window, preparing to jump out—
Spider-Sense suddenly exploded.
That feeling was hard to describe. It was like ten thousand needles piercing the back of her head, or like someone ringing an alarm in her ear. Gwen's movement paused for a second, instinctively rolling to the side.
A cold light grazed her shoulder, "clink" pinning to the wall.
It was a shuriken.
Gwen looked up at the window.
In the night, a figure was slowly descending.
Black ninja suit, gray short hair, expressionless face.
Murakami.
Gwen's pupils shrank sharply.
"Gwen! Run!" Peter's voice screamed in the earphone.
But Gwen did not run.
It was not that she didn't want to run, but she couldn't.
Murakami's landing speed was too fast. So fast that just as she stood up, he was already on the windowsill.
"Spider-Man." Murakami looked at her, his gaze as calm as if looking at an ant, "We finally meet."
Gwen did not speak.
She was observing.
Murakami's stance—feet shoulder-width apart, center of gravity slightly forward, a posture ready to explode at any moment. His hands hung naturally at his sides, but Gwen knew those hands could draw the short blade at his waist in under a second.
An old monster who had lived for hundreds of years.
One of the five leaders of The Hand.
Gwen's palms were slightly sweaty.
But she did not retreat.
Behind her were the four tied-up people. If she ran now, they would die.
"Will you come with me yourself," Murakami said, "or should I break your legs and drag you away?"
Gwen took a deep breath.
Then she smiled.
"Is there a third option?" She said, "Like me tying you up and throwing you at NYPD headquarters?"
Murakami's eyes narrowed.
The next second, he moved.
Gwen's Spider-Sense exploded again. She had no time to think, her body instinctively lunging to the side—a cold light grazed her face, cutting off a few golden hairs.
Too fast.
Gwen rolled after landing, flicking her wrist, a strand of Silk shooting toward Murakami's face. But Murakami just tilted his head slightly to dodge it, while taking a step forward, the short blade thrusting straight at her throat.
Gwen kicked off the ground, leaping backward, doing a somersault in the air, and landing on the other side of the room.
She panted, staring at Murakami.
This old thing, had he really only lived a few hundred years?
This speed, this reaction, this combat instinct—far stronger than those ninjas by more than a notch.
"Good reaction." Murakami retracted the short blade, tone still calm, "But having just reaction isn't enough."
He pressed forward again.
This time, Gwen saw his movements clearly.
Not fast, but accurate.
Every angle of every blade strike was extremely tricky, forcing her to dodge in specific directions. After three strikes, Gwen found herself backed into a corner.
Murakami's fourth strike came, heading straight for her heart.
Gwen dropped into a deep squat, flicking her wrist upward, a strand of Silk shooting to the ceiling. Using the pulling force, she slid along the ground, passing between Murakami's legs.
This was a move she had learned in a game before—the crotch slide.
Murakami clearly didn't expect this move, pausing for a moment. In that moment, Gwen had already slid behind him and kicked at his knee pit.
It connected.
But Murakami's knee only bent slightly, then straightened.
Gwen felt as if her foot had kicked an iron pillar.
"Good power." Murakami didn't look back, sweeping a blade backhanded.
Gwen jumped back, dodging the blade, but the edge still cut her suit, leaving a shallow gash on her abdomen.
It hurt.
But the wound stopped hurting quickly—the spider serum healed her wounds rapidly.
Murakami turned, looking at her, a hint of interest flashing in his eyes.
"Self-healing ability?" He said, "Interesting."
Gwen panted, staring at him.
She couldn't beat him.
This was the first time she had faced an opponent of this level head-on, and the first time she had realized the gap so clearly.
Murakami's strength was far above hers.
"Gwen!" Peter's voice rang in the earphone, anxious to the point of crying, "Run! Stop fighting! You can't beat him!"
Gwen gritted her teeth.
She glanced at the four tied-up people behind her—they were huddled in the corner, faces full of terror.
If she ran—
"Are you worried about them?" Murakami followed her gaze, smiling, "Don't worry, I won't kill them. They are still useful."
He looked back at Gwen.
"But you, I must take away today."
Gwen took a deep breath.
She knew Peter was right; if you can't beat them, you can't beat them, and holding on would only get herself caught.
But she wasn't willing to give up.
Just then, Police sirens sounded downstairs.
Murakami's brow furrowed slightly.
"Called the Police?" He looked at Gwen, "You did it?"
Gwen was stunned.
It wasn't her.
It was Peter.
"Spider-Man," Peter's voice rang in the earphone, "I've called the Police anonymously. Your dad's men will be here soon. Run! While he's hesitating!"
Gwen looked at Murakami.
His expression indeed showed a hint of hesitation.
The Police were here. Even if he was one of the five leaders of The Hand, he couldn't kill people in front of so many Police officers—at least not blatantly.
Gwen seized this moment.
She flicked her wrists, two strands of Silk shot toward Murakami's face. Murakami tilted his head to dodge, and when he turned back, Gwen had already dragged the four people toward the window.
"Trying to run?"
Murakami thrust with his blade.
Gwen's Spider-Sense exploded. She had no time to think, instinctively pushing the four people out the window while dodging to the side herself—
The blade pierced her shoulder.
Gwen grunted, blood splattering.
But she didn't stop. Using the force of the blade, she flipped backward out the window, flicking her wrist, a strand of Silk sticking to the wall of the building opposite.
Murakami stood at the window, watching her swing away into the night sky, not pursuing.
Because he saw the Police cars already filling the street below.
George Stacy was leading his men up.
Murakami retracted his gaze, looking at the blood on his hand—Gwen's blood.
He licked it lightly.
"Interesting." He muttered.
Then he turned and disappeared into the darkness.
Gwen didn't know how long she had swung.
The wound on her shoulder was bleeding, hurting so much her vision was going white. But she dared not stop, dared not look back, only swinging forward with all her might.
Until Peter's voice came through the earphone, with a crying tone.
"Gwen! Are you still there? Gwen!"
"Here..." she struggled to speak, "Here..."
"Are you hurt? Where are you hurt? Is it serious? Do you need to go to the hospital—"
"No... not going to the hospital..." Gwen landed on a rooftop, stumbling a few steps, sitting down against a water tank, "Go home... just go home..."
"But you—"
"Peter." She interrupted him, her voice very light, "Trust me."
Peter was silent.
After a few seconds, he said softly: "Okay. I'll watch the route for you. Be careful."
Gwen nodded, realizing he couldn't see, and said: "Mm."
She took a deep breath and stood up.
The shoulder still hurt, but the bleeding had slowed down. The spider serum was working, and the wound was healing rapidly.
She looked at the distant New York night view, thinking of Murakami's calm eyes.
An old monster who had lived for hundreds of years.
One of the five leaders of The Hand.
The first time she had truly clashed, she had almost died at his hands.
"Gwen," Peter's voice rang again, "Next time... don't be so reckless next time."
Gwen smiled lightly.
"Got it, Alfred."
"You're still cracking jokes!"
She laughed and leaped back into the night. But in her heart, she had carved Murakami's face deeply into her memory.
Next time they met, she wouldn't be this pathetic.