Backstage, the manager's office.
Before Peter even had a chance to change his clothes, he rushed in excitedly and slapped the flyer onto the desk.
"Three minutes. That guy didn't even touch me. I won."
Behind the desk, a shrewd-looking Manager with a small mustache was counting money.
It was a thick stack of bills, most of which Alice had just won from the bookie.
Because the bookie couldn't afford to pay out, he had no choice but to come to this behind-the-scenes boss for help.
Without even looking up, the Manager pulled a few crumpled bills from a drawer and tossed them onto the table.
"Here, this is yours."
Peter picked them up and looked.
A single hundred-dollar bill.
"A hundred?" The smile under Peter's mask instantly froze. "But the ad said three thousand. You guys promised."
"The ad said to last three minutes."
The Manager blew a smoke ring and pointed at the clock on the wall with a rogue-like expression.
"You knocked him out in two minutes. You fought too fast; the audience hadn't seen enough yet. This cost us a lot in advertising revenue. That counts as a breach of contract, understand, kid?"
"That's not fair! I need that money!" Peter, who never imagined that winning too quickly could be considered a mistake, became frantic. "I need to buy a car, I need to..."
"I don't see how that's my problem."
The Manager interrupted him coldly and waved his hand.
Several brawny bodyguards immediately surrounded him, clenching their fists and looking down menacingly at the scrawny Peter.
"Take the money and get lost, kid. Don't look for trouble here, or I'll make you spit out that hundred dollars you just got."
Peter clenched his fists.
He wanted to fight.
With his current strength, with just a flick of his fingers, all these bodyguards combined wouldn't be enough to handle him.
He could easily snatch all the money on the table; it was what he deserved.
But Uncle Ben's constant reminders suddenly flashed through his mind.
"I can't become a Robber."
Finally, Peter gritted his teeth and grabbed the hundred dollars.
The anger and grievance in his heart burned like a fire, making him want to destroy something, or watch something be destroyed.
To vent this pent-up rage.
Just as he reached the door.
"Bang!"
The office door was suddenly slammed open with violence.
A fierce-looking man in a leather jacket burst in, holding a revolver.
"Nobody move! Hand over the money, now!"
The muscular bodyguards immediately raised their hands in surrender like frightened quails.
The Manager, who had been so arrogant moments ago, turned deathly pale with fright, and the cigar in his hand dropped onto his pants, burning a hole.
The Robber threw a cloth bag onto the table, the dark muzzle of the gun pointed at the Manager's head.
Ignoring the burn on his leg, the Manager hurriedly stuffed the money from the safe and the table into the bag all at once.
"It's all here. Don't kill me, please don't kill me."
"Smart move!"
The Robber snatched the bag, turned, and ran.
And right in his escape path, Peter stood there, leaning against the doorframe, watching the scene coldly.
The Manager, no longer at gunpoint, shouted: "Stop him! Quick, stop him! He's a Robber! He stole my money!"
The Robber rushed toward Peter, raising the butt of his gun to smash his way through.
Peter only had to stick out a foot or shoot a strand of web to easily subdue this guy.
But he didn't.
The resentment in his heart found an outlet at this moment.
So he simply stepped aside, like a five-star hotel doorman, and politely cleared a path for the Robber.
The Robber didn't seem to expect things to go so smoothly; he then grinned at Peter: "Thanks, pal."
Then he rushed into the elevator and pressed the close button.
"What are you doing?"
The Manager rushed over in a rage, pointing at Peter's nose and roaring, "You could have stopped him! He was right in front of you! Why didn't you stop him?"
Peter turned his head and shrugged.
The look in his eyes behind the mask carried the satisfaction of revenge, cold and mocking.
"He had a gun. Besides, it's none of my business. It wasn't my money he stole."
With that, he strode out of the office and toward the stairwell next to the elevator, leaving the Manager fuming in a rage.
...
42nd Street, on the outskirts of the Shipyard.
Ben Parker sat in the driver's seat, wearing his reading glasses and looking at the somewhat tattered map in his hand, anxiously waiting for Peter.
"The library should have closed long ago. Why hasn't this boy come out yet?"
Uncle Ben sighed and checked his watch.
It was already almost nine-ten.
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