Speak of the devil, and he shall appear. While Wilson Fisk, the Kingpin of the underworld, sat in his impenetrable penthouse of white marble and glass, lazily sipping a vintage wine of some obscenely expensive year and musing over "annoying inconveniences" like the nocturnal vigilante—that very vigilante was already dispensing justice twenty blocks below, in the heart of Hell's Kitchen.
Night had draped the old Hudson docks in a thick, damp shroud. Rare streetlights carved the rusty flanks of shipping containers and stacks of rain-soaked crates out of the darkness. The air was heavy, saturated with the scent of salt, fish, rotting wood, and something chemical and acrid—likely the contraband reagents that had sparked this midnight operation. To an ordinary person, this was merely a grim, unwelcoming industrial zone. But for Matt Murdock, Daredevil, it was an entire world—a symphony of sounds, smells, and sensations.
He moved across the roof of a warehouse as silently as a shadow, a creature of the night itself. His heightened senses painted a picture far more detailed than eyes ever could. He heard the nervous pitter-patter of raindrops against rusted tin, the creak of unloading winches at a distant pier, and the hum of cars passing on the West Side Highway. He felt the vibration of a running generator inside the warehouse beneath him and distinguished the accelerated heartbeats of a dozen men inside—a cocktail of boredom, nervousness, and poorly hidden fear. He caught the scent of cheap tobacco, sweat, gun oil, and that same pungent chemical from the containers. And he heard their conversations—muffled, clipped phrases about the cargo, the boss, the cursed rain, and whether "that horned bastard" would show up tonight.
"He will," Matt smirked to himself, landing on the fire escape with the grace of a predator. His suit—dark red, almost burgundy, made of thick but elastic fabric reinforced in key areas—blended perfectly with the shadows. The mask with its small horns concealed his face but did nothing to hinder his unique perception. In his hands, he gripped his trusty combat staff—a multi-functional weapon of his own making, capable of splitting into two batons, connecting by a cable, or serving as a grappling hook.
He glided down the ladder, landing on the wet asphalt so quietly that even a rat scurrying nearby into a pile of trash didn't notice him. His Radar Sense instantly scanned the perimeter. Two men outside. By the massive warehouse gates. Both were armed with assault rifles, judging by the characteristic scent of gunpowder and oil, and were talking quietly, huddled in cheap jackets. Their hearts beat steadily but with a hint of anxiety—typical mercenaries doing their job without much enthusiasm. Easy prey.
Matt moved along the wall, using every protrusion and shadow for cover. He was invisible, silent. The first guard stood with his back turned, looking toward the river. Matt slipped out of the shadows like a panther. A short, precise movement—a ridge-hand strike to the carotid artery. The guard went limp without a sound. Matt caught him before he hit the ground and carefully laid him in the deepest shadow by the wall, first taking the rifle and clearing the chamber.
The second guard, hearing a faint rustle or perhaps just sensing something wrong, began to turn slowly. But it was too late. Matt's combat staff, launched on its cable, coiled around the man's legs. A sharp jerk, and the second mercenary hit the asphalt with a short cry. Before he could raise his head or shout, Matt was already there. A short, precise strike with the staff's handle to the temple, and the second guard joined his partner in the realm of Morpheus. His weapon suffered the same fate.
Now—inside. The door was locked, but for Daredevil, that was no obstacle. His heightened sense of touch allowed him to "read" the lock mechanism, and a few deft manipulations with a thin metal rod from his staff opened it in seconds. He cracked the door just enough to squeeze through and froze, scanning the space again with his unique senses.
Ten men. Four with automatic weapons, stationed at the corners of the massive warehouse, controlling the main aisles between the racks and containers. Their hearts beat slightly faster than those outside—they were clearly on alert. The other six were without firearms. Matt didn't catch the scent of gun oil or metal, but he sensed metal differently—as a dense, tight shadow in his radar perception. Knives, brass knuckles, maybe a machete or short clubs.
They were huddled in the center around an open container, the source of the acrid chemical smell, lazily bickering and tossing packets to one another. Likely the primary "labor force."
"The plan is simple," Matt decided. "First—the shooters. Quietly, quickly, one by one. Then—the rest."
He became a shadow once more. He slipped behind a high rack and waited. The first shooter stood about fifteen meters away, looking around nervously. His heartbeat was slightly elevated. Matt waited for the moment the man turned away and threw his staff. Not as a weapon, but as a distraction. The staff hit a metal container at the opposite end of the warehouse with a loud clang.
[CLANG!]
The shooter flinched, snapping his rifle toward the sound. That second was all Matt needed. He launched from behind the rack, covering the distance in three silent leaps. A kick to the back of the knee made the shooter lose his balance; simultaneously, Matt disarmed him and delivered a short, stunning elbow strike to the base of the skull. Number one, down.
The other shooters were startled by the sound of the body falling and the clatter of the weapon.
"What was that?!" one of them shouted, aiming his barrel into the darkness.
"Pedro? Answer me!"
But Pedro could no longer answer. Using the second of confusion, Matt had already shifted positions. This shooter was more experienced; he didn't fire blindly into the dark but pressed against the wall, trying to identify the source of the threat. But Matt's Radar Sense saw him as clearly as if he were in broad daylight. Matt pushed off the floor, flipped through the air, landed directly behind the shooter, and applied a chokehold. Within seconds, this thug also went limp.
The two remaining shooters panicked. They opened erratic fire toward the shadows from which the threat had come.
Bullets whistled through the warehouse, ricocheting off metal and concrete. The six thugs in the center instantly hit the floor, hiding behind crates and the container.
"Idiots! Cease fire! You'll hit your own guys!" one of them yelled, apparently the leader.
The shooting stopped as suddenly as it had begun. But Matt had already used the chaos. While the shooters were firing at nothing, he managed to throw his staff, which ricocheted off a wall to strike one of them across the hands, forcing him to drop his gun. He lunged at the second himself, delivering a series of rapid strikes to pressure points, neutralizing him before he could react.
Four shooters out of commission. Six left with melee weapons. They slowly rose from behind their cover, their eyes darting fearfully into the dark corners of the warehouse. They knew he was here. They just didn't know where.
"Come out, freak!" shouted the largest of them, a brute with a machete. "Show your devil face! We'll hack you to pieces!"
Matt smirked. "To pieces? Try it." He stepped out of the shadows into the center of the warehouse, into the circle of dim light from the single working lamp. In his hands, he held his staff, now split into two short Eskrima sticks.
The six bandits surrounded him, slowly closing the circle. Knives, brass knuckles, a machete, a length of pipe... a motley crew of thugs used to solving problems with brute force. Their hearts beat fast, but it wasn't just fear—it was the anticipation of a fight.
"Get him!" the brute with the machete roared and was the first to rush forward, raising his heavy weapon for an overhead strike.
Matt didn't dodge. He stepped into the attack, blocking the strike with crossed batons right at the base of the blade. Sparks flew in golden rings from the collision... or rather, from the impact of steel against the durable composite of his batons. Simultaneously, he delivered a short, sharp kick to the attacker's knee. Crack. The brute howled in pain and collapsed, dropping the machete.
In that same instant, two others attacked from the sides. One with a knife, aiming for the ribs. The other with brass knuckles, targeting the head. Matt spun in place like a top. The left baton parried the knife away; the right met the brass knuckles. He used the momentum of their own attack to turn them and slam their heads together. A dull thud. The two heavies collapsed unconscious.
Three left. They froze for a moment, seeing how easily he had dispatched their comrades. The fear in their eyes now outweighed the anticipation. But there was nowhere to run. One, with the pipe, lunged forward, trying to sweep his legs. Another, with a knife, circled behind. The third, the smallest but quickest, just stood his ground, waiting for an opening.
Matt easily hopped over the pipe's swing, while simultaneously parrying the knife thrust behind his back with a twist of his torso and a blind backward strike with his baton (his Radar Sense pinpointing the opponent's exact position). Upon landing, he threw one of the batons at the man with the pipe—the strike hit him square in the solar plexus, knocking the wind out of him. He doubled over, coughing. With the second baton, Matt disarmed the knife-wielder and immediately followed up with a series of rapid strikes to the torso, forcing him back.
Then the third, the quickest one, decided to act. He lunged at Matt's side, trying to drive a knife upward into an unprotected flank. But Matt was ready. He shifted sharply off the line of attack, grabbed the attacker's knife arm, twisted it, and struck the man's own elbow into his jaw. Click. The third went limp.
Only the knife-wielder Matt had pushed back remained. He stood there, breathing heavily, looking in horror at his fallen comrades and the red devil approaching him. He dropped his knife and raised his hands.
"I give up! I give up! Don't hit me!"
Matt stopped. He didn't kill. Only neutralized. He picked up his second baton and reconnected them into the staff.
"Who is your boss? Where was this cargo going?" he asked in a steady, cold voice.
The bandit trembled.
"I... I don't know! Honestly! They just told us to guard it! The boss... his name is... Fisk. Wilson Fisk. And the cargo... I don't know, some chemicals... for... for pharmacists, they said..."
Fisk. The name sounded like the strike of a gong. Matt knew that name. The man who pulled the strings in many of the city's darkest dealings. The man he had wanted to take down for a long time. So, this warehouse belonged to him. And these "chemicals" were hardly for aspirin.
And then, something Matt didn't expect happened.
Apparently, the noise of the fight and the gunfire had attracted attention from outside. Or the bandits had an escape plan. The heavy warehouse gates, which opened onto a neighboring, busier street, began to screech open. The bandits Matt had stunned earlier (evidently not as hard as he thought) came to and, seeing an escape route, bolted for the gates, firing back at Matt to cover their retreat.
Bullets began clicking against the warehouse interior again. Matt took cover behind a container. The bandits, including the one who had surrendered, ran out into the street.
The street, where at this time ordinary people were walking home from work, hurrying to their families. Why hadn't they run when they heard the initial shots? Who knows...
Screams of terror. Panic. People scattered, trying to take cover from stray bullets. The bandits, crazed with fear and adrenaline, tore down the street without looking, shoving pedestrians aside, firing into the air or at anyone who seemed like a threat. One of them, trying to stop a car to hijack it, fired through the windshield. The car swerved and slammed into a lamp post. Another bandit tripped and fell, only to be trampled by the fleeing crowd.
Chaos. Total chaos.
Matt cursed under his breath. This wasn't what he wanted. He wanted to neutralize them quietly inside. But the situation had spiraled out of control. Innocent people were in danger. He couldn't stay on the sidelines.
He burst out of the warehouse onto the street, ignoring the risk of being seen. His Radar Sense was exploding with signals—screams, gunshots, the screech of brakes, the pounding hearts of dozens of terrified people, and several fleeing bandits.
Sirens. The police. Close. Good. But he had to act immediately.
He saw one of the bandits aiming a rifle toward a running woman and child—likely just to clear his path. Matt lunged forward with incredible speed. His staff hissed through the air. The strike hit the bandit's hands precisely, sending the weapon flying. The next strike—to the head. The bandit collapsed.
Another bandit tried to climb into a parked car, smashing the side window. Matt leaped over, hauled him out by the collar, and knocked him out with a single punch.
A third was firing at approaching police cruisers. Matt threw his staff, using the cable. The grappling hook caught the assault rifle; a jerk, and the weapon flew from the bandit's hands. While the man stared in shock at his empty palms, Matt was already on him. A short series of strikes—and another one down.
Police cars screeched to a halt, blocking the street. Officers leaped out, taking positions behind their doors with weapons drawn. Among them was Captain George Stacy—Matt recognized him by his steady, confident heartbeat and the familiar scent of cheap coffee and tobacco. He acted decisively, professionally, barking orders to his men.
"Everyone down! Police! Drop your weapons!" he shouted into a megaphone.
The remaining bandits (there were two) were caught between a hammer and an anvil—the police on one side and the red devil on the other. They opened fire in both directions.
Bullets whistled overhead. The police returned fire. One of the bandits fell, struck by a police bullet. The second, seeing things were going south, tried to bolt into a nearby alley, but Matt blocked his path. A short, fierce struggle—a dodge of a point-blank shot, a disarming maneuver, a strike from the staff—and the last bandit hit the wet asphalt.
Everything went quiet. All that remained was the wail of sirens, the sobbing of a wounded woman somewhere nearby, and the heavy breathing of those involved in the shootout. Matt stood in the middle of the street, surrounded by the bodies of the fallen bandits, his staff at the ready.
And then, every police barrel turned toward him.
"Freeze! Don't move! Hands behind your head!" Captain Stacy's voice was firm and held no mercy. He and his men approached slowly, keeping Daredevil in their sights. "You're under arrest, whoever you are!"
Matt froze. That choice again. Fight the police? Stupid and wrong. Surrender? Even stupider. His identity would be revealed, his mission over. Run? The only way out.
But he hesitated. Something in Captain Stacy's calm confidence, the way he held himself under fire, commanded respect.
At that moment, one of the bandits—the one Matt had knocked out first by the car—regained consciousness. He lay on the asphalt, his eyes burning with hatred. He saw the red figure surrounded by police. He saw the pistol that had fallen from his partner's hand just a meter away. Quietly, overcoming the pain, he reached for the weapon. He propped himself up on an elbow. He aimed his trembling hand at Daredevil's back.
Matt's Radar Sense exploded with an alarm signal a split second before the shot. Danger! Behind! Below! He instinctively lunged to the side, twisting in an incredible pirouette.
The shot rang out, deafeningly close. The bullet intended for him missed, but it didn't hit empty air. It struck the shoulder of the nearest policeman, who had just stepped forward. Captain George Stacy.
"Agh!" The Captain gasped, clutching his left shoulder. Blood instantly soaked his blue uniform. He staggered but stayed on his feet, his face contorted in pain.
The reaction of the other officers was instantaneous. Multiple barrels snapped toward the shooter.
A short burst—and the bandit jerked and went silent forever.
"Captain's hit! Captain's hit!" one of the officers shouted, rushing to Stacy. "Call an ambulance! Stat!"
"I'm fine, Johnson," Stacy hissed through gritted teeth, trying to maintain his composure, though his face was pale. "Hold the perimeter! Don't let him get away!" He nodded toward Daredevil.
But the moment was lost. While all attention was on the wounded Captain, while his partner shouted into the radio for backup and medics, Daredevil was already moving. A dash to the wall of the nearest building. A cable shot from his staff. The grappling hook caught the roof cornice. A short flight upward—and he vanished into the darkness between the buildings, leaving behind only chaos, a wounded officer, and a mountain of questions.
George Stacy watched him go, grimacing from the pain in his shoulder.
December 24, 2008. Early morning. John's Apartment/House.
I woke with a start, as if from a jolt.
Beside me, still pressed trustingly against me in her sleep, breathed 2B. Her silver hair tickled my neck, and the faint scent of vanilla and flowers enveloped me, creating a strange but already familiar island of calm amidst my internal chaos.
I carefully disentangled myself from her embrace, trying not to wake her. She only murmured something incoherent in her sleep (data analysis, no doubt) and turned onto her other side, pulling up the blanket. I smiled. She was definitely becoming... more human.
First thing—thoughts on status. I remembered that last night, after starting the Quicksilver assimilation, progress was only at one percent, and the sensory overload was colossal. After yesterday's training, the percentage rose to 3%. Overnight, while I slept and my brain passively processed the data, something should have changed. I mentally summoned the interface.
In progress:
[Pietro Maximoff (Quicksilver) (Template)] - 5%
Five percent. Only five. That meant passive processing overnight had only added two percent. Not much. It seemed my theory from yesterday was holding up—Epic templates assimilate much slower than Rare ones, even after full integration of other templates. And certainly slower than Common ones like Kyon, who settled in almost instantly, leaving behind nothing but knowledge of Japanese kanji at a "See Spot Run" level and a faint aftertaste of universal melancholy in my internal monologues. This meant that to master Quicksilver's speed by the Unity Festival (with less than a month left!), I'd have to sweat. My combined training method from yesterday was the only chance.
I dressed quickly in athletic gear—light pants, thermal base, a windbreaker. It was still dark and cold outside, but the pre-dawn frost was bracing. While putting on my sneakers in the hallway, I glanced at the status again. Five percent. Too low. I needed more.
Stepping into the backyard, I took a deep breath of the freezing air. The snow had melted slightly overnight, leaving a wet slush on the ground. Not the best conditions for running, but I didn't have a choice.
"Alright, training plan," the internal Coulson kicked in.
"Phase 1: Warm-up, activation of base speed, synchronization of perception. Phase 2: Interval sprints with maximum acceleration and controlled braking, working on maneuverability. Phase 3: Combined load—running while simultaneously activating Radar Sense to scan the environment and my own body, Technopathy to analyze the template's energy flows, and Engineering Savvy to find ways to optimize movements."
I started with a light jog around the perimeter of the yard. The world "slowed down" slightly again, but now it was expected and controlled. I focused on my breathing, the rhythm of my steps, the sensations in my muscles. Quicksilver's energy felt like a tightly coiled spring inside.
Then—sprints. A push—and the yard flashes by in an instant. Hard braking, almost on the verge of falling. Another sprint. A turn. Another. I tried to move not just fast, but precisely, predictably for myself. I "saw" the trajectory with my Radar Sense, calculated the inertia, felt the limit of my sneakers' grip on the wet earth.
Then the hardest part began—the combined load. I ran while simultaneously scanning everything around me with the Radar—every sound, every smell, every change in air pressure. Simultaneously, I tried to use Technopathy to "feel out" the Quicksilver template itself, to understand how it interacted with my body, where this energy came from. I used Engineering Savvy to analyze the biomechanics of running at super-speed—how the muscles worked, how the load was distributed, how to minimize air resistance.
It was like trying to solve three complex equations in your head while piloting a fighter jet and playing the violin all at once. My brain was boiling. Sensory channels were overloaded. I felt the strain not just in my muscles, but in every nerve cell. Sweat poured off me, my breath hitching despite the accelerated metabolism. But I pressed on, teeth clenched. I knew—this was the only way to force the System to speed up assimilation. I wasn't just using the power; I was dissecting it, studying it, trying to hack its code.
After an hour of this torture, I literally collapsed onto a wet bench, breathing heavily. My body hummed, my head throbbed. But when I checked the status...
In progress:
[Pietro Maximoff (Quicksilver) (Template)] - 7%
Seven percent! Another two percent for an hour of intensive combined training! It was grueling, exhausting, but it worked! Much more effective than just running or waiting for passive assimilation. This meant by the Festival, I had a chance to reach... well, maybe 35–45%? Certainly not enough for full control, but enough to get a serious advantage in speed and reaction.
I smiled satisfied despite the fatigue. There was a plan. A methodology. A goal. And of course, he trained in an area without cameras—and if there were any, Pod had long since hacked them.
Returning to the house, the first thing I did was hit the shower. The hot water washed away the exhaustion and tension. When I came out, breakfast was already waiting for me in the kitchen—this time, an omelet with herbs and toast. And coffee. Perfect.
"Analysis of your morning training shows increased calorie expenditure and dehydration," 2B announced, placing a plate in front of me. She was back in her "human" form, wearing a simple grey dress I'd bought her a few days ago along with other basic clothes (using some of the money from the gold and diamond sales—the antique sales were still on hold). "Increased nutrition and fluid intake is recommended. This breakfast is optimized for your current needs."
"Thanks, 2B. You're a... lifesaver," I thanked her sincerely, digging into the omelet. It was delicious. She was definitely making progress in "optimizing support functions."
She sat opposite me with her cup of hot water and... picked up a comic again. This time—Wonder Woman. It seemed she had decided to conduct a comparative analysis of all the major superheroes.
Breakfast passed in a cozy silence. I ate, she read. I habitually turned the TV to a news channel for background noise. And then a report caught my attention. Footage of a night street, police cars, flashing lights, a cordon... A familiar neighborhood—Hell's Kitchen, the docks. The anchor was talking about a shootout between police and unknown bandits, the seizure of dangerous contraband chemicals. They mentioned civilian casualties and a wounded police officer. They didn't name him, but they showed a brief shot of medics wheeling someone in a police uniform away on a stretcher... The face wasn't visible, but something inside me gave an anxious jolt.
"I have to get to school," I said, finishing my coffee and trying to shake off the bad feeling. "The protocol is the same: stay here, keep quiet, don't open the door for anyone. If anything happens—contact me through the Pod."
"Acknowledged, Commander John," she nodded, setting aside the comic. "Record your estimated time of return?"
"Probably around four or five in the evening, as usual. Unless there are... unforeseen circumstances."
"Understood. I will wait. Be... efficient in obtaining knowledge."
I smirked at her phrasing, grabbed my backpack, and left the house.
School greeted me with its usual bustle. The hallways hummed with voices, laughter, and the slamming of lockers. I quickly found Peter at his locker. He was digging through his backpack, muttering something to himself about polymers and pressure.
"Hey, Pit," I called out. "How goes the world of gadget-building? Haven't blown up your room yet?"
Peter looked up, adjusting his glasses. His face was a mix of exhaustion and excitement.
"Oh, John! Hey! No, everything's still in one piece. But I was thinking... about the electro-webbing. Remember we talked about the power source?"
"Yeah, the weight and capacity issues?"
"Exactly! Well, I stumbled onto an article... an old one, from Oscorp's R&D before they switched to military... about piezoelectric fibers! Can you imagine? Fibers that generate current when they're deformed!" His eyes sparkled behind his lenses. "If I weave them into the suit itself... or even the webbing! I could generate a charge just by moving! No heavy batteries! Pure kinetic energy converted into... well, a means of persuasion for the bad guys! It's almost like a perpetual motion machine... well, as long as I'm moving."
"Piezo-fibers... kinetic energy recovery... Pit, you're a walking idea generator!" I shook my head in admiration. "It sounds... elegant. Very much your style—finding the most high-tech solution possible."
"Well, I try," he smiled modestly, though it was clear he appreciated the praise. "Though getting those fibers won't be easy... prototypes, classified developments..."
"We'll handle it," I said confidently. "The funding for our 'science project' allows for some liberties. We'll discuss it in the 'lab' after school."
Just then, the bell rang. We headed to history class. It was only after sitting down that I noticed Gwen's seat was empty. Strange. She never missed class without a good reason. The anxiety that had started this morning after the news flared up again.
"Pit," I whispered to my neighbor. "Where's Gwen?"
Peter also looked at her empty seat with surprise.
"Huh, I don't know. Usually, she's right on time. Maybe she overslept? Or... you know how it is, a sudden urge to rewatch all of Doctor Who in one night? She gets those."
I huffed. Typical Peter—finding room for a reference even when worried. But my intuition (or the paranoia amplified by Coulson) and the morning news report told me it wasn't the Doctor. A shootout at the docks... a wounded officer... Gwen missing... My heart gave a nervous thump.
History class dragged on forever. I couldn't concentrate; my thoughts were on Gwen and her father. Could that wounded officer from the news be Captain Stacy? Why hadn't she said anything?
As soon as the bell rang for the break, I bolted out of the classroom, pulling out my phone. Peter followed. I quickly dialed Gwen's number. Ringing... long, agonizing rings...
"Hello?" her voice finally came through. It was quiet, raspy, and incredibly tired.
"Gwen! Hey! It's John. Are you... are you okay? You're not at school... What happened? I saw the news this morning... about the shootout..."
"John..." sadness hung in her voice. "Hey. Yeah... I saw you were calling... I'm... I'm at the hospital. With my dad."
"What?! With Captain Stacy? So it was him?! How is he?!" I felt my hands go cold. Peter, standing next to me, froze too, his face turning pale.
"He... he was shot yesterday. During... that shootout at the docks, yeah..." she confirmed my fears.
"How is he? How serious is it?" I asked, trying to keep my voice steady, though everything inside was tightening.
"The bullet hit his shoulder... Thank God, it missed the vital organs. But... he lost a lot of blood. The surgery went well; the doctors say he'll recover. But... he's still weak. And... it was so scary, John..." her voice broke.
"Gwen..." I struggled to find the words. I wanted to comfort her, to support her, but I felt helpless. And a little guilty—not because of any specific event, but because of the simple fact of living in this dangerous world where things keep happening to my friends, and I, knowing about many upcoming threats, still can't fully protect them. "I'm so sorry... Why didn't you call? Right away? We would have come!"
"Sorry..." she sobbed. "There was so much going on... the police, the doctors... and then... I just didn't want to bother you. You've got enough of your own stuff to deal with..."
"Nonsense!" I said firmly. "We're friends! Family!" Damn it, not the Toretto again! But this time, it was appropriate. "We have to be there for each other in moments like this! I'm coming. Right now. After school. Which hospital are you at?"
"Metro General... Room 307... But John, really, you don't have to..."
"I do, Gwen. I'll be there. Hang in there. And tell the Captain... that we're worried about him."
"Okay... Thank you, John. Really... thank you."
"Don't mention it. See you soon."
I hung up, a heavy weight on my soul. Peter was looking at me with anxiety.
"Captain Stacy... shot? Oh, Gwen must be a wreck... This is terrible. We have to... we have to support her!"
"Yeah," I nodded. "I'm going to her after school."
"I'm coming too!" Peter said resolutely. "Gwen is our friend. Captain Stacy... he's always been good to us. I can't just go work on gadgets knowing she's there alone."
I looked at him in surprise. There was no usual hesitation in his voice. Only firmness.
"You sure, Pit? What about... the work?"
"Work can wait," he shrugged. "Friends are more important. Besides, maybe Gwen needs our brilliant company to distract her? We'll tell her a couple of jokes about radioactive spiders or... well, okay, maybe not about spiders. But we'll think of something."
I smiled. That was the real Peter Parker.
"Alright, Pit. We'll go together."
The break ended. We returned to class, but our thoughts were far away. The upcoming hospital visit, Captain Stacy's condition, Gwen's suffering... and the shadow of the Kingpin hanging over the city.
The last lesson ended. I packed my things quickly. Peter was already waiting for me at the door.
"Ready?" he asked.
"Always ready," I replied.
We headed for the school exit. As we walked down the hall, someone called out to us.
"Hey, Smith! Parker!"
We turned. Flash Thompson. He was leaning against the wall, without his usual entourage. He looked... strange. Not as cocky as usual.
"What do you want, Thompson?" I asked warily.
He hesitated, looking away.
"Listen... I, uh... I heard about Stacy's dad. You know... the Captain. Is it true he was shot?"
Peter and I exchanged a look and nodded.
"It's true," I answered.
"Damn..." Flash ran a hand through his short hair. "That's... that sucks. He's... he's a good guy. Sometimes he'd come to our practices, talk to us... I feel for him. And Gwen too... Tell her... well... tell her I'm sorry. Okay?"
We looked at each other in surprise again. Flash Thompson showing sympathy? Unexpected.
"Alright, Thompson. I'll tell her," I said.
"Yeah, thanks, Flash," Peter added, also surprised.
Flash nodded and quickly walked off in the other direction, as if embarrassed by his outburst.
"Well, how about that," Peter whispered in my ear. "Maybe he does have a heart? Or maybe he's just afraid Captain Stacy won't be around to look the other way on his antics anymore?"
"Who knows," I shrugged. "The world is full of surprises. Let's go."
Outside the school, we hailed a taxi.
"Metro General Hospital, please."
The ride passed in a tense silence. We were both thinking about Gwen and her father. Captain Stacy's wounding was a serious matter. Finally, the taxi stopped at the large hospital building. We paid and went inside. The smell of antiseptics, quiet conversations, people in white coats... the hospital atmosphere was always depressing. We quickly found the right floor and Room 307.
The door was slightly ajar. I peered inside cautiously. Captain Stacy lay in bed, hooked up to an IV. His left shoulder was bandaged, his face pale, but his eyes were open, and he was speaking quietly. Gwen sat on a chair next to him. She was holding her father's hand and listening intently, her face a mixture of exhaustion, anxiety, and tenderness.
I knocked softly.
"Can we come in?"
Gwen looked up. Seeing Peter and me, she gave a weak smile.
"John! Peter! Come in..."
We left Metro General Hospital behind us, leaving the sterile smell of antiseptics and the heavy atmosphere of anxiety that hung around Room 307. The conversation had been... tense, but important. Captain Stacy, despite the paleness and the pain in his bandaged shoulder, was holding up well, even trying to joke, though his eyes carefully studied Peter and me. Gwen was glad for our support, but her exhaustion and worry for her father were obvious. We assured them everything would be fine, passed on Flash's regards (which surprised both Stacys), and promised to visit again. The main thing was—the Captain was stable; the surgery had been a success. Seeing Gwen so upset was hard. If we were alone, I probably would have just...
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