Wilson Fisk's intelligence network had only confirmed what Peter already suspected.
For months, undocumented vagrants and isolated prison inmates had been quietly vanishing from New York's slums and cell blocks. As the undisputed Kingpin of Crime, Fisk had naturally noticed the anomaly in his territory. But after a brief investigation, Fisk had realized the abductions were backed by military-grade logistics and blank-check corporate funding—something on the level of Osborn or Stark. So, Fisk did what any pragmatic businessman would do: he ignored it. To him, the victims were ghosts. If they disappeared, they disappeared.
Peter's raid on Rikers Island had finally provided the missing context. They weren't just being abducted; they were being harvested for Weapon Plus.
Matt Murdock had promised to follow up on the civilian side. Daredevil's private investigator contact was already digging into the impossible disappearance of a wealthy girl named Tandy Bowen. But for Peter, the trail of breadcrumbs had officially gone cold. He had no military bases to infiltrate, no corrupted data to hack, and no faces to punch.
So, with the fate of New York temporarily out of his hands, Peter went back to high school.
"The blood spatter analysis is wrong."
Peter tapped the tip of his pen against the printed case file on his desk. He sat in the center of Midtown High's massive, wildly overfunded Detective Club activity room.
"The killer couldn't have struck the victim from the front and left a perfectly circular blood drop on the victim's left shoe," Peter explained, spinning the pen between his fingers. "The angle of trajectory dictates an elliptical stain. Your killer is either left-handed and standing behind the victim, or your victim was doing a handstand when they died."
Across the table, the club's president Jessica let out a long, theatrical groan and slumped over her desk. She loved writing complex murder mysteries for the club to solve, and she was actually quite good at it. But Peter's enhanced spatial geometry made dismantling her crime scenes entirely effortless.
Peter leaned back in his chair, gesturing around the cavernous room. "I still don't understand something. The school ledger says the Detective Club has over fifty active members. Why we are only us four that always in the room?"
It was a valid question. The only people present were Jessica and the club's entire freshman intake: Peter, Amadeus Cho, and Harry Lyman.
Jessica propped her chin on her hands, pouting. "Alright, freshmen. Time to learn how Midtown really works."
She sighed, waving a hand at the empty chairs. "Those fifty members? They're ghosts. They are mathletes and science-track geniuses who need extracurriculars to pad their Ivy League applications. They sign up, never show up, and spend their afternoons doing university internships. As for the recruitment drive... I was the only one working the booth this year."
Jessica crossed her arms. "If my Vice President hadn't been stuck in Europe, I guarantee we'd have more than three new guys!"
"I'm pretty sure I just heard someone talking trash about me."
The voice came from the doorway. It was smooth, melodic, and carried a lazy, untouchable confidence.
All four heads snapped toward the entrance.
A girl leaned against the doorframe. She wore faded denim shorts and a fitted white t-shirt. Silver hair cascaded down past her collarbones, the ends curling slightly, framing a classic, striking face. A pair of expensive sunglasses rested pushed up on her forehead, revealing piercing, sapphire-blue eyes that casually swept the room.
She was, without a single doubt, the most beautiful girl Peter had ever seen in his life.
The physical reactions in the room were immediate. Amadeus Cho suddenly found the texture of his own shoelaces incredibly fascinating, his face flushing bright red. Harry Lyman's jaw unhinged, a pathetic, half-formed syllable dying in his throat as he openly stared.
Jessica shrieked in delight, vaulting over her desk and throwing her arms around the girl's neck. "Felicia! You finally made it back!"
Peter blinked, his brain catching the name. He looked at Jessica. "Madam President, are you going to introduce us?"
"Oh! Right," Jessica stepped back, beaming. "Freshmen, this is my best friend, Felicia Hardy. She's the Vice President of the club. She was supposed to run the recruitment booth with me, but she took an extended trip to Europe. See? If Felicia had been standing at the booth, we would have recruited half the school!"
Felicia offered a small, apologetic smile. "I'm sorry, Jess. I really got tied up with some... family business."
Peter's eyes narrowed slightly. Felicia Hardy. The name rattled around in his eidetic memory. In the broader Marvel canon, Felicia Hardy wasn't just a pretty high school student. She was the Black Cat. An elite, world-class cat burglar who straddled the razor-thin line between hero and villain.
Peter rested his elbows on the table, a slight smirk playing on his lips. "Actually, Jessica, if you used Felicia as bait, it would've backfired."
Jessica blinked. "Why?"
"Because any guy who joined the club just to stare at Felicia wouldn't have the deductive reasoning skills to pass your entrance exam," Peter pointed out logically. "They'd fail the first murder mystery, and you'd kick them out anyway. It's an inefficient recruitment strategy."
Felicia's sapphire eyes drifted away from Jessica and locked dead onto Peter. A spark of genuine surprise and amusement flashed across her face.
"Well," Felicia purred, stepping further into the room. "Who is the smart one? Your new hires are stepping up, Jess."
"His deduction skills are actually terrifying," Jessica admitted, gesturing to the boys. "That's Peter Parker. And the two currently trying not to spontaneously combust are Harry Lyman and Amadeus Cho."
Felicia offered a lazy wave. "Afternoon, boys. Don't worry, I'll be around more often. If Jessica's murder boards get too tough, just let me know. I can usually talk her into lowering the difficulty."
Jessica grumbled something about artistic integrity, but Peter ignored her. He maintained direct eye contact with Felicia.
"So, Europe," Peter asked casually, testing the waters. "Did you spend much time in London? I've always wanted to check out the Sherlock Holmes Museum at 221B Baker Street. Or the London Eye."
Felicia didn't miss a beat. "No. I skipped London."
"Where did you go, then?"
"Budapest," Felicia said, a small, knowing smile touching her lips. "It's a beautiful city. Then Warsaw. And Vienna."
The hair on Peter's arms stood straight up.
A sharp, static prickle flared at the base of his skull. Spider-Sense. It wasn't a warning of an incoming punch or an explosion. It was the distinct, biological hum of being watched by a predator.
Peter kept his heart rate perfectly steady. Budapest, Warsaw, and Vienna. Three of the largest, most notoriously lucrative underground art markets in Eastern Europe.
Could it be? Did Felicia already take on the mantle of the Black Cat?
Peter didn't push the interrogation any further. He didn't have to. Jessica immediately stepped between them, completely oblivious to the sudden tension in the room, and grabbed Felicia's arm.
"You have to show me the photos from Vienna!" Jessica demanded, effectively breaking Felicia's line of sight and giving Peter the perfect excuse to sink back into his chair.
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