Nick Fury assured Skyl that S.H.I.E.L.D. would bring back the kidnapped student, Gwen Stacy, so he hoped Skyl wouldn't do anything rash.
The answer Nick got was: "You still haven't paid."
"I thought… oh. Right. It's already turned back into a finger." Nick had a thousand thoughts tangled up in his head. He pulled out his wallet and absentmindedly scratched his itchy scalp.
"Much obliged." Skyl took the money, made change, and waved goodbye.
The empty soda bottle went into a trash can. The bread got handed out to the homeless people in the park.
Most of them were folks who couldn't find work, not because they lacked ability, but because they couldn't get hired for one reason or another: a record, petty theft, missed payments, things like that. Others simply couldn't keep up with rent, or had paperwork that made landlords slam doors in their faces.
People who'd fallen out of the mainstream and landed on the margins, still a step away from the true underworld.
New York's gangs had a long history. Back when waves of impoverished Europeans crossed the Atlantic by ship to chase a new life on the East Coast, the land often lied to them.
In the mid-19th century, the potato blight devastated Ireland and famine spread. Some fled to the so-called "Great" British Empire. Others arrived in a then-godforsaken United States.
Every day, thousands of starving Irish immigrants stepped off the docks in New York. They took rock-bottom wages, packed into the slums around Five Points, and lived in misery that bred violence and crime. Cheap Irish labor shook the job market and fed unemployment, and their Catholic traditions clashed with local Protestant beliefs. With resentment and exclusion from the locals, Irish gangs quickly flourished.
Later, Italians from the Mediterranean came seeking opportunities too, and during Prohibition they had their moment in the sun—an era of Sicilian crime bosses and godfathers. Immigrants from across the Pacific clustered in Chinatown and formed their own circles. Newcomers from Latin America banded together for warmth and survival. After upheavals in Eastern Europe, even more hard-eyed Russians showed up, carrying the chill and blood-heat of far colder places.
These days, New York's criminal landscape was even more tangled. Ethnic crews held huge chunks of illegal business, and with votes and political donations in the mix, gangsters and politicians stayed knotted together. Underworld and "respectable" society built a polished shade of gray, while the media covered the public's eyes and let evil churn in the dark.
For Kingpin to carve out his wicked empire in the knotted underground of New York really was a legend. If he hadn't been born into that world—if he'd grown up in anything resembling a normal family—he could've made a name for himself in politics.
After Skyl handed out the bread, a few Latino guys nodded at him and chatted, sharing street rumors they'd picked up. They warned him to be careful: last night, someone had broken into the crime emperor's private residence, and the ruler belowground was definitely not in a good mood. The streets might get jumpy for a while.
"When you say jumpy," Skyl asked, "what do you mean?"
"Like opening fire right in the street—bang bang bang!" They laughed. "New York crews all follow the emperor's order: no shootouts out in public. But rules get broken eventually."
Skyl nodded. "Exactly. If the old rules can't fit the new reality, a new order replaces them."
After saying goodbye to the poor guys, he drove back to Stan's villa.
"How'd business go today?" The old man lounged comfortably in a recliner, sipping soda, wearing sunglasses and soaking up the sun.
"Pretty good. Two big eaters showed up, too, but one of them didn't pay. I hate people who eat and skip the bill. Not only did he refuse to pay, he also threatened to go after everyone I know. Stan, you'd better be careful the next couple days."
Skyl's tone was light, but his expression plainly said: I'm not happy, and someone's about to have a very bad time.
Stan asked in horror, "Who's coming after you? Dear God, that sounds like you've stirred up huge trouble. Maybe I should kick you out. I'll say I'm just your landlord. I don't know you. We've barely spoken."
"That's a bold thing to say right before dinner. To the cook." Skyl glanced at Stan.
The old man instantly switched faces. "Who made my good friend angry? I may be old, but justice won't let me stand by. I'll go draw him a tragic life right now."
Skyl shook his head. He'd already learned exactly how unreliable Stan could be.
"Spare me. How's Gali?"
"She's been shut in her room all day."
This morning, when Skyl headed out to run the food truck, he'd caught a glimpse of Gali flickering past the second-floor window. Kids throwing tantrums were always like that—wanting to apologize and make up, but refusing to open their mouths first, waiting for the adult to come over and smooth things out so they could accept the peace offering without losing face.
He went upstairs. A strip of bright light spilled into the hallway from Stan's workshop. Next to it was Gali's room. Skyl's room was across from hers, and she could hear his door perfectly.
So he opened his door, then closed it again, pretending he'd gone inside—while actually staying in the hallway.
Behind him, Gali's door quietly cracked open. She peeked through the gap, saw Skyl, and immediately tried to pull back.
"Wait." Skyl stopped her before she could shut the door. He had no intention of grabbing it—Gali had the kind of strength where a finger twitch could shove him up to first cosmic velocity.
Gali opened the door a bit wider and let him in.
Her room felt warm and cozy, bright with summer-like light, and it carried the mixed smell of instant snacks and laundry soap.
"Gali," Skyl said, staying by the doorway, "a lot of customers asked me today why you didn't show up. I told them the food truck's shutting down. If you're not coming, then there's no point running it anymore."
Gali kept her head down and didn't speak. Her deep chestnut hair made Skyl think of thick hanging moss drooping from a crypt corridor—an association that almost made him laugh. He shifted to the matter of Kingpin. "He's planning to retaliate against me. Until I decide exactly how I want him to die, I want you to stay here for now."
"Skyl…"
"What is it?"
"I can help you." Gali still didn't look up.
"No need. Tonight it'll be just you and Stan for dinner. Don't wait for me."
"Where are you going?"
"To save a kindhearted girl." Skyl lifted a hand and opened a portal leading into the multiverse, then stepped through.
Kingpin brought Gwen Stacy back to his nest—not the luxury commercial tower on the southern edge of Manhattan, but the West Side neighborhood known as Hell's Kitchen, also called Clinton. Down there, he had an underground fortress protected by thick concrete, reinforced steel plating, and excellent gunmen. It was a true stronghold. Even a full military unit would have to brace for heavy losses trying to break in.
Standing high above made you feel like you looked down on all living things. But curling up in the shadows underground had its own comfort—the safe, steady feeling of a spider returning to its web.
Gwen trembled all over. Two suited gang enforcers held her by the arms as they followed Kingpin deeper into the fortress. The farther down they went, the more miserable the decor became. The walls were smeared in greenish putty. Old emergency lights flickered on and off like a dying pulse, making the place feel like an abandoned prison. The people here dressed sharp, but their eyes looked like animals.
They stepped into an opulently finished wooden elevator and continued downward, and Gwen had the dizzy sensation of falling into hell.
"Sir… can I leave?"
"Don't rush, kindhearted girl. If it weren't for you, I'd already be dead on the road today." Kingpin's expression was dark and vicious, but his voice stayed calm. "Don't worry. You'll be very safe here. Safer than at home."
"Sir, I have school tomorrow. If I'm not home by seven tonight, my family will be worried." The student handled herself steadily, at least not collapsing in panic.
"Shh. Miss… what's your name?"
"Gwen. Gwen Stacy."
"Good, Miss Stacy. I need you to do me a favor." Kingpin's voice turned even softer. "Witness how I destroy that little bastard, piece by piece. When he's barely breathing, I want you nearby to treat him—just like you did today. And of course, I have a more serious request. I want you to cooperate and record a short video, read a few lines, and then… contribute one finger you can live without. How about the pinky on your left hand?"
Gwen froze, terrified.
"I'll take that as a yes. See you in the morning."
The elevator doors opened, revealing a surprisingly lively industrial complex underground. Kingpin strode out like a king walking toward his throne and told his men, "Take Miss Stacy to rest."
Gwen was taken to a bedroom that might as well have been a cell.
Once everyone was gone, she finally started to sob.
Crying for her kindness—and for her bad luck.
She prayed to God, begging forgiveness, begging for a savior to arrive soon, begging for pain to stay far away.
"Don't cry." In the empty room, a familiar voice suddenly spoke.
A black-robed wizard stepped out of a portal.
Behind him came a crowd of tight-suited figures wearing spider masks.
"I brought your boyfriend, and I brought you, and I brought a whole bunch of Spider-Men from different worlds to rescue you."
//Check out my P@tre0n for 30 extra chapters on all my fanfics //[email protected]/Razeil0810