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***
The first thing Peter did when he left the Bugle building was crumple up the New York Times exclusive contract and toss it into the first trash can he found.
The paper made a perfect arc before disappearing into the bottom of the bin, joining fast-food wrappers, old newspapers, and other bits of trash. Peter watched it for a second with a small, tired smile on his lips before continuing to walk. There was no reason to keep it anymore now that it had served its purpose.
Peter had, in fact, gone to the New York Times before going to the Bugle. The exclusivity contract was real, signed by the editor-in-chief and valid as soon as Peter signed it. But the numbers were far more modest than what he had claimed — and what he had gotten — from Jameson. Waaay more modest.
It had all been nothing more than a bluff. A very risky bluff.
Peter reflected on this as he walked through the streets of Manhattan, his footsteps making noise against the asphalt still wet from a brief rain that had already passed.
If Jameson had asked to see the contract up close, he would have seen the real numbers—ridiculously low compared to what Peter was claiming, exposing the lie on the spot. Jameson would probably have laughed in his face and called him an opportunist, a con artist, and every variation of "liar" that his vast repertoire of insults could offer.
But Jameson didn't ask.
And Peter already expected this to happen, because he had known his "boss" long enough to understand three fundamental things about J. Jonah Jameson.
The first was that Jameson was impulsive. The man made decisions before even hearing the full arguments, acted on instinct and then came up with a rational justification for what he had already done.
The second was his pride. The idea that the Bugle could lose something — a story, a photographer, an exclusive — to a competitor was more than a professional defeat. It would be an open wound that would never heal, a humiliation Jameson would feel every morning while reading rival newspapers. And losing the only photographer who could capture Spider-Man in action to the New York Times? Peter didn't even want to imagine what the man would do.
And the third — and perhaps the most important — was that Jameson hated admitting defeat. Asking to see the contract would be an admission that the competitor might, in fact, have something the Bugle couldn't surpass. An admission that Jameson needed to check, confirm, and make sure that what was being said was true because he couldn't match it. His pride would never allow that. Jameson would rather pay double, triple, whatever was necessary, than have to admit that another newspaper could be ahead of him.
Peter had bet on that. He had bet that anger, pride, and impulsiveness would win out over common sense. And he had won.
He stopped at the crosswalk, his eyes fixed on the passing cars, the memory of the scene still fresh in his mind — Jameson with his face flushed, his hand trembling as he added a zero to the check, the silence after Peter slipped it into his pants pocket.
The feeling in his chest at having succeeded wasn't exactly pride, but it wasn't regret either. It was something in between, an uncomfortable mix of victory and guilt.
What he had done was wrong. There was no denying it. Peter had lied, manipulated, and taken advantage of someone's weaknesses to get what he wanted. It was nothing compared to killing someone, but it would definitely land him in court if anyone found out.
But on the other hand, Jameson had already been getting rich off Spider-Man's image for months. The man had practically built a career on defaming someone who only wanted to help.
So, was there really anything wrong with taking a small cherry off that cake?
***
After stopping by the bank to withdraw the money, Peter swung between buildings toward bustling Chinatown, passing by neon signs, wires stretching across alleys, and the constant smell of food coming from the small restaurants packed along the streets, until he finally stopped on the roof of a building in front of the Chikara Dojo, the place where he had been training over the past few days.
The dojo itself was located on the second floor of an old building at the edge of Chinatown, wedged between a herb shop that gave off a strong smell of dried ginger and a butcher shop that sold things Peter preferred not to identify. Everything about it screamed old and decrepit, from the façade to the entrance door. Even the dojo's sign hung slightly to one side, held up by screws that had clearly seen better days, and the kanji characters had faded so much from the sun and rain that they were almost impossible to read.
At first glance, it looked like the kind of place that had been shut down years ago. And, as it turned out, it had.
From what Peter had managed to gather through casual conversations and some research, the Chikara Dojo had existed for many years, but had been closed for a significant period before recently reopening — three weeks ago, to be more precise.
And honestly, the whole place desperately needed renovation. Those years sitting idle had not been kind to it, both outside and inside.
There were leaks that turned certain corners into small slippery traps. The tatami, which should have been firm and even, was uneven, warped by time and use, with areas so worn that the fabric fibers were already showing.
The wooden pillars that supported the ceiling were infested with termites, and Peter had seen more than once the sensei looking at them with an expression he had learned to recognize as poorly concealed concern. And to top it all off, the training equipment was falling apart, some with cracks that threatened to split open on the next strike.
In short, under normal circumstances, Peter would never have signed up for a place like that. Not because he was picky—far from it—but because everything there screamed improvisation and risk of collapse.
Still, he signed up.
Part of that was, without a doubt, the price. The monthly fee was absurdly low, probably the cheapest you could find in New York. Which made sense, after all: the dojo had just reopened, the place was a mess, and, well... he was the only student so far.
But the price wasn't the main reason he chose that place. Not at all. The main reason was her, the sensei and new owner of the dojo, Colleen Wing.
She was a monster.
Peter remembered very well the first time he saw her. He had found the dojo by accident, after another one of his not-so-glorious routines of digging through trash for electronic parts, drawn by a simple, handwritten poster taped to the building's entrance.
The low price was what caught his attention, but it was curiosity that made him go up the stairs. When he walked in, Peter came face to face with a thin girl sweeping the tatami with a straw broom, wearing a gray hoodie far too big for her body, black leggings, and her hair tied up in a loose bun that looked like it was about to fall apart.
She visibly tensed upon noticing his presence, quickly adjusting her posture and clothes. It was kind of funny—Peter had to admit. She didn't seem like the most sociable type, which led him to assume she was just another student — or maybe someone helping with the cleaning.
Peter almost laughed when she said she was the sensei. It couldn't be, right? She was only two years older than him and... didn't these martial arts things take decades to master? Years of dedication, sweat, and blood?
Apparently not. Colleen was indeed the sensei of the dojo, which left Peter somewhat disappointed—she was young, with a slim body, a relaxed posture, and an expression that didn't convey the intimidating presence he expected from someone who ran a dojo. There were no exaggerated muscles, no visible scars, and none of that classic aura of an "invincible master."
However, after the first class—one he decided to take since he was already there—one thing became very clear: without his powers, he didn't stand a chance against her. None. Zero.
Colleen didn't just know how to fight — she had mastered combat in a way Peter had never seen before. Not even Sable moved like she did. Her movements were precise, economical, without waste, as if every action had been calculated in advance. Colleen seemed to see the fight a few seconds ahead.
Peter couldn't understand how someone so young could have reached that level. As far as he knew, masters took years, decades, a lifetime to get close to that. So where did that come from? Who trained her? What had she lived through to become that way? Why was someone with that level of skill there, in that run-down dojo?
The questions piled up, growing along with his curiosity, but he never asked them. There was something in the way Colleen spoke — or more precisely, in the way she avoided speaking — about her past that made it clear that it wasn't a casual subject. Not something you asked about in your second week of training.
Even so, Peter observed, learned, and kept every detail.
People like Colleen Wing didn't just appear for no reason.
And sooner or later… he would find out why she was there.
***
Disclaimer: This story and its characters belong to Sony Pictures and Marvel Comics (Disney). This is merely a fanfiction written by a fan, with no intention of infringement.