"Sorry for the delay," Lyla said with an apologetic smile. Dressed in white lingerie, she closed the door behind her with a soft click.
I shook my head. "No problem."
She had grown used to my presence after a month and settled beside me on the bed without hesitation.
Before she could speak, I raised a hand. "Have you eaten dinner today?" My face remained blank.
"No." She offered a sheepish smile. "Busy day—lots of clients. I'll eat after our session."
I reached into my bag and pulled out the takeout container. "Here. Eat." I passed it to her casually.
Lyla stared at the bag in her hands, visibly stunned.
"I didn't know what you liked, so I just got noodles. They're still hot. You need energy for your work," I said flatly.
Tears welled in her eyes. "Why?" Her voice cracked.
"Because last time you mentioned you couldn't eat on time." I kept my tone matter-of-fact. "We have a stable arrangement. I don't want you to get sick and miss our next transaction."
Lyla let out a soft, watery laugh, tears still slipping down her cheeks. "That sounds ridiculous… but somehow I believe you."
She opened the container, and the savory aroma of noodles filled the room. For a few minutes, the only sounds were the plastic fork scraping and her quiet chewing.
"No one has ever done something like this for me before," she said softly, twirling the fork through the noodles. "Why are you different?"
My expression hardened. "Don't misunderstand, woman. I don't care about you—only the transactions. You're replaceable. It's just less hassle this way. I'm too lazy to find someone else."
Instead of offense, a bright, genuine smile broke across her face.
Neither of us spoke after that. I sat upright against the headboard, waiting in silence while she finished. When she was done, she neatly placed the empty container in the corner of the room.
"Thank you," she said, her gratitude warm and sincere.
I gave a small nod.
Lyla looked as though she wanted to speak but kept hesitating, her fingers twisting in the sheets.
"Spit it out," I said, letting irritation bleed into my voice.
"C-can you… take me away from here?" she stammered.
I met her eyes without flinching. "Why should I?"
Her eyes widened. "W-what?"
"What's in it for me?" I asked flatly.
The color drained from her face.
"I…" Her lips parted, but no answer came.
I waited.
After several seconds of silence, she lowered her head. "I don't know."
I let the silence stretch a moment, watching her shrink. "Let's say I did free you. Then what? Have you thought that far ahead?"
She looked up, lips parting, but no words came out. "I-I…"
"Do you have family willing to take you in?"
"No."
"A place to stay?"
She shook her head.
"A job lined up?"
"No," she murmured.
"How would you eat?"
"..."
I scoffed softly. "You expect me to fund your entire life afterward?"
"N-no," she whispered, her voice trembling. "I don't."
Tears gathered in her eyes again as her head bowed.
"Even if you wanted to leave," I pressed, "have you made any preparations yourself? Or were you simply waiting for some knight in shining armor to ride in and rescue you?" I leaned forward slightly. "Why should I help someone who won't even help herself?"
She had no answer. Fresh tears slipped down her cheeks.
I shook my head and leaned back. "Forget this conversation ever happened."
Lyla nodded timidly and wiped her face with the back of her hand, smearing the tears.
I placed three hundred-dollar bills on the side table. "Give me something good."
Lyla tilted her head up, her voice low after our earlier conversation. "There's a new gang called the Shadow Dogs. Small outfit—five or ten members scraping by on the fringes of Hell's Kitchen. They're careful not to step on the wrong toes."
I nodded. I could use that gang for my main mission. I needed to find a gang to eliminate, and this one could be a good contender. However, new gangs sprouted and died weekly here. There was a strong possibility that by the time I started that mission, Shadow Dogs would've long been annihilated.
"Anything on vigilantes?" I asked.
She nodded. "A new group has appeared. It has three members. They call themselves the Sons of the Tiger. Very strong fighters."
Sons of the Tiger, huh? That meant the White Tiger Amulet had surfaced.
"There's more," she continued. "Two days ago, a huge man came in—called himself Bruto. He was drunk and bragging that the Circus of Crime had joined forces with the Purple Man."
I frowned. Jessica hadn't told me anything related to that. If she knew, she would've told me. Even if Purple Man ordered her not to tell anyone about it, during the time she was temporarily under Kara's control, she could've told us.
That meant either Lyla was lying, she had received incorrect information, or Jessica didn't know about the deal at all. If the information was correct, then that meant Zebediah was suspicious and keeping Jessica in the dark.
I had planned to hunt Purple Man immediately after receiving the kill mission, but Namor's looming threat forced a delay. No one could predict when the Atlantean would launch an assault on the city.
"Thanks," I said with a curt nod, sliding the bills closer to her.
Lyla didn't reach for the money. Once again, she hesitated, words clearly trapped on her tongue.
"What is it?" I asked, annoyed.
"C-can I ask for something else instead of the money?" she stammered.
"What?" I asked, placing the bills back on the side table.
She swallowed hard, cheeks flushed. "You already paid the madam… I could actually do what I'm supposed to. For you. Properly." Her voice dropped. "You've been kinder to me than anyone, and I—I just want to give something back that matters."
"No need," I refused without hesitation. "I made it clear on my first visit—our interactions stay strictly business. I pay the brothel for your time, and I pay you for intel. That's the arrangement."
Her face fell, eyes glistening with fresh hurt. "Do you refuse me because you think I'm dirty? Because of my work… that I'm sullied?"
I kept my voice even. "It's not my place to decide if you're dirty. That's something you have to live with—and decide for yourself."
She flinched as if I had struck her. Her gaze dropped to her hands, fingers twisting the edge of the sheet.
I paused, studying her reaction. Then continued, "Everyone has their circumstances. Some are beyond control. The best you can do is extract whatever value you can from your current situation while searching for an exit."
I looked away, staring at the faded wall across from the bed. Neither of us spoke again. The silence stretched until the allotted time ran out.
I stood and left without glancing back. The three hundred dollars for the intel remained untouched on the side table—a reminder of exactly what this was.
— Gwen Stacy —
As I webbed the last three gangsters to the light pole, I felt eyes on me.
Kraven the Hunter.
He'd arrived in the city only yesterday and was already being treated like some celebrity. They said he'd spent years in the Congo Basin, taking down rhinos, gorillas, and crocodiles with nothing but a spear and nerve. No one knew why he'd come to New York—until he publicly declared he was going to hunt "the two spiders of this wretched city."
I'd ignored him at first. But the way he stood there now—crossbow in one hand, machete in the other, completely still—told me I wasn't making it home early tonight.
I led him to a nearby construction site. It was late at night, so no civilians would be there. He followed without haste.
Is that confidence or arrogance? The voice purred in my head, laced with amusement.
"I was wondering when you would stop," Kraven called out, his voice carrying a thick, rolling accent.
He was built like a brick wall with a panther's deadly grace. Tactical pants, belt, combat boots, and an open vest that looked like it had been skinned from an actual lion—complete with a wild mane for a collar. Nothing underneath. The man clearly wanted the world to see every scar.
"Most prey runs until their legs give out," he said as I dropped from the steel beam and landed lightly on the concrete. His eyes studied me like I was already mounted on his wall. "You chose the battlefield. Interesting."
He thinks you're prey, Gwenny, the voice said, amused.
He started to circle me, slow and patient. "I had hoped to find the male first. But the hunt provides what it provides."
He said "male" like Spider-Man is the main event and you're the opening act. The voice laughed. Someone's getting underestimated.
"What do you want?" I asked, even though I knew the answer.
"A satisfying hunt," he said, showing a cruel smile.
Seriously, Gwenny? What else did you expect him to say? The voice sounded exasperated.
"Hunting season's over," I said. "Walk away."
He smiled wider and raised the crossbow.
I was already moving.
I spent the first two minutes simply taking his measure.
I fired a web-line and shot upward, claiming the high steel framing of the half-built skyscraper. The night wind whipped across my mask as I swung in wide, erratic arcs, forcing him to track me through three dimensions. Kraven didn't falter. His eyes followed every twist of my body before I committed. His boots were gliding over rebar and concrete with the silent precision of a predator on familiar ground. There were no wasted steps. No hesitation.
When I dropped like a hammer from above, legs coiled for impact, he didn't retreat. He stepped forward into the descent, powerful arms reaching to seize my momentum and turn it against me.
Almost.
I twisted mid-air and slipped through his grasp like silk through fingers. My feet hit the concrete behind him with a soft crunch. Before he could pivot, I drove my heel into the back of his knee. The joint buckled with a satisfying thud.
He stumbled—but only for a heartbeat. Turning the fall into a fluid spin, he whipped the machete in a vicious horizontal arc. The blade sang through the air, close enough that I felt the cold steel kiss the top of my mask.
That would've taken my head off.
I backpedaled three quick steps, heart hammering against my ribs. My eyes flicked from the gleaming machete to his face.
You're smiling under that mask, Gwenny. I can tell.
I ain't.
Kraven advanced, crossbow gripped steady in one hand, machete in the other, moving like both weapons had grown from his body over decades of slaughter. "You dart through the air like a frightened bird," he rumbled, thick accent curling around the words. "But every flight ends on the ground. Every trail leads back to the hunter."
The crossbow dictated the dance. Each time I tried to close the distance, he angled the bolt toward my center mass and fired. The bolts hissed past with terrifying accuracy, one splintering concrete inches from my shoulder. The machete waited for the moment I breached his range.
I slung a web-line past his right shoulder, yanking myself into a sharp redirect mid-stride. Coming in from his left—the side he'd been favoring less—I poured on speed. In one smooth motion, Kraven dropped the crossbow onto a stack of pallets and met me with both hands on the blade. I caught his wrist on the third swing.
He's strong. Much stronger than any normal human.
I twisted, broke his grip, and sprang backward, putting breathing room between us.
Hit him, the voice urged, sharp and impatient. Not a love tap. Actually hit him, Gwenny.
I stepped in and drove a controlled jab into his jaw. I held back and used just enough force to stagger him, not enough to shatter bone. The impact cracked loudly across the empty site.
Kraven's head snapped sideways. For a fraction of a second, I thought it landed clean.
Then he rolled with the punch, neck muscles flexing like coiled steel cables, and turned back to face me. His cruel smile widened, eyes bright with feral delight. "Is that the best bite you possess, little spider? I have felled cubs with more ferocity."
That's not what I meant, and you know it, the voice snapped, clearly annoyed.
The fight dragged on.
Every pass taught me something new. The way he shifted his weight before a swing. The slight dip of his shoulder before he fired. The rhythm of his breathing. After a while, the spider-sense stopped feeling like a warning and started feeling like a map.
He caught me suddenly with a chemical dart. Palmed it from his tactical pouch on his belt while the machete kept my eyes occupied, and flicked it at my neck from four feet away. The spider-sense screamed, so I jerked back. The dart struck my collarbone instead. It burned immediately, some kind of animal tranquilizer, because my left arm went heavy and slow for about thirty seconds.
He used those thirty seconds well. The machete nearly opened my ribs twice. A third swing nearly took my wrist. Even so, he couldn't quite seize control of the fight.
I took the machete away. Webbed his hand mid-swing, yanked, sent it skittering thirty feet across the concrete. He reached for a hunting knife from his boot without missing a beat. It bought him a few more seconds.
I had him cornered against an incomplete wall, nowhere to go, web lines covering both retreat angles. The hunting knife was still in his left hand, but the arm holding it had developed a fine tremor he was trying very hard not to show.
"Drop the knife," I said.
A long pause. He was still calculating, even now, and still looking for an angle. I respected it and also found it exhausting.
The knife hit the floor.
"I yield," he said, calm and measured.
It was the voice of a man who understood exactly what the word meant, had said it before under his own terms, and was saying it now for the same reason: survival to hunt another day.
"Get out of New York," I said.
That's it?! the voice snarled in my head with barely suppressed rage. Are you believing him just like that?
He yielded, I thought back. It's finished.
He looked at me for a long moment. Then: "Understood."
I held his gaze one more second. Then I turned away.
One step. Two. Three. Four.
My spider-sense detonated. I leaped right on pure instinct as a flash-bang grenade erupted behind me with a deafening crack and blinding white light. The world spun. Ears ringing, vision swimming with afterimages, I barely registered the next warning spike.
I snapped my head sideways. A hunting knife sliced past my ear, close enough to kiss the fabric of my mask before embedding in a wooden support beam with a solid thunk.
"Hah!" Kraven barked a short, harsh laugh. "The spider's sixth sense saves her again. No matter. A true hunt requires worthy prey."
I ignored him. My mind kept replaying the flash of the grenade, the knife aimed at my skull. Not my shoulder. Not my limbs. My head. I glanced down at my hands. They trembled faintly under the moonlight filtering through the scaffolding.
But why did he attack? He had yielded. Then why?
How dare he?
How dare he?
HOW DARE HE?!
Yes, let it out. Let out all your suppressed rage. The voice said in a low, seductive, and encouraging tone. Show this fool that spiders aren't prey—we are the hunters.
I ignored the voice and turned around.
I hadn't turned completely; Kraven lunged towards me, his fist aimed at my head. I calmly met his fist with mine. Bone crunched under the impact. My fist kept going, shearing through muscle and snapping his arm. Kraven screamed in agony.
He swung desperately with the other hand. I caught the fist mid-air, twisted, and felt the joint pop out of place. When I released him, the arm hung at a grotesque angle.
I kicked him in the chest. The impact caved his sternum with a sickening crunch. Ribs shattered. He flew backward, smashed through the incomplete wall in a spray of concrete dust and rebar, and kept tumbling.
I had held back my strength while kicking him. However, this time I didn't hold back because I didn't want to hurt him, but because I didn't want him to die so soon. A quick death would be mercy. And I refused to grant him any.
The moment he hit the ground, I webbed his ankle and dragged him through jagged concrete and twisted metal. Then I hurled him into another wall. It exploded on impact.
Kraven staggered to his feet, eyes wide with genuine fear for the first time. He tried to crawl away, but his body wouldn't obey. Blood streaked his lion-mane vest.
"M-mercy," he rasped as I loomed over him.
I stomped down on his leg. Bone snapped with a sharp pop, the jagged end punching through skin. His scream echoed across the empty site.
With one hand, I pulled him up by the scruff of his neck like a misbehaving cub.
"P-please," he begged again. The earlier arrogance had vanished from his face.
I clutched his throat and bashed him into another wall. Then drove my fist into his face. Once. Twice. Over and over. I held back just enough not to pulp his skull in a single blow, but each strike deformed flesh and bone. His features turned into a bloody, swollen mask.
"P-pl… ea…" The words dissolved into wet gurgles.
But as I heard his broken plea, I suddenly felt as if a bucket of cold water had been dumped on me.
What am I doing?
I couldn't believe what I had just done in a fit of rage.
I let go of him as he slid down the wall.
Oh, Gwenny, the voice said, disappointed.
The disappointment felt almost physical. It felt as if the specific weight of someone who had believed in you and had that belief quietly, thoroughly fail.
But I had no time to dwell on its disappointment.
I took a stumbling step back. Debris crunched beneath my boots. Horror clawed up my throat as I stared at what I'd done: the mangled body of the half-dead man, the blood, the ruin.
I turned and ran. I didn't look back.
—
No Stain Laundromat:
"How are the preparations?" Frances asked calmly, but Lucia could tell that a simmering fury lurked beneath the calm exterior, ready to erupt at any moment.
"All preparations are complete, Boss," Lucia replied. "We are ready to strike on your command."
Frances nodded. "What about the traitors?"
Lucia's jaw tightened at the word "traitors," but she kept her expression neutral.
"There were two more traitors. One was a member of Mike's crew. Mike discovered him when the bastard tried to kill Paul to cover his tracks. The other was a recruit who sold us out for the promise of money and women," Lucia said.
Frances's fingers drummed once on the table, the only outward sign of the storm brewing inside her. The Neon Kings' slaughter yesterday still burned fresh—the bodies of their people left as a message, a warning to submit. And it had all started with Paul.
Paul, who had hated taking orders from a woman. Especially a mutant. He'd been looking for a way out for months. When the Neon Kings came demanding tribute, he saw his opening. As a member of Mike's crew, he knew too many of their secrets. He traded every last one for promises of territory and status, even if it meant becoming their lapdog. Along the way, he'd dragged another crewmate and that recruit down with him.
"It was Paul who guided the hit squad," Lucia continued, voice low. "They were only supposed to take out three fresh faces. But Daniel changed his patrol route on a whim. He and the two members with him walked straight into the ambush." She swallowed. "The Kings fled, spraying bullets everywhere. Daniel and Nina… they barely made it to Dr. Linda. Nina regained consciousness just long enough to call you and name Paul as the traitor before she lost consciousness again."
"How are Daniel and Nina now?" Frances asked.
"Out of danger and resting," Lucia said, a small smile tugging at her lips. "That idiot brother of mine still wanted to join the operation, so Dr. Linda sedated him before he could do something stupid."
Frances nodded and rose from her chair. "Call everyone. We move shortly. After tonight, the Neon Kings will no longer exist in Hunts Point."
Lucia nodded. "Yes, Boss."
—
In a dark basement, three men sat bound to separate chairs.
Blood soaked their clothes. Bruises covered their faces. Their bodies sagged against the ropes, broken by hours of fists and questions.
Mike stood before them, his knuckles split and stained red. His face was cold, but his eyes carried something worse than anger.
Betrayal.
He walked toward one of the bound men and grabbed him by the collar.
"Why, Jeremy?" Mike asked, his voice low. "Why did you betray me? Why did you betray the Boss?"
Jeremy lifted his swollen face and smiled through bloodied teeth.
That smile twisted something inside Mike's chest.
They had known each other since they were kids. They had bled together, starved together, fought together. Mike could almost understand Paul. Paul had hated Frances from the beginning. He had never hidden it.
But Jeremy?
Jeremy had smiled at her, shown her respect, followed her orders, and called her Boss without hesitation.
"Betray?" Jeremy laughed, then winced as pain tore through his ribs. "You're the one who betrayed us, Mike. We followed you. We bled for you. Then you bent your knee to her and expected the rest of us to crawl after you." His face twisted with disdain. "You expect me to call that thing Boss?"
Mike's grip tightened around his collar.
Jeremy's mocking smile widened. "A woman. A mutant. A stranger. And you made her our Boss as if she'd earned it."
"She did earn it," Mike said.
"No," Jeremy said, his smile fading. "She scared you. There's a difference."
For a moment, no one spoke.
Then Paul stirred in the chair beside him.
"Mike," Paul rasped. "There's still time. Join us. Help us take her down. You can rule these streets. The Neon Kings will back us."
Mike turned toward him.
His face went blank.
Then his fist slammed into Paul's chest.
Paul's breath burst out in a strangled grunt as the chair rocked beneath him.
"Mike! Mike, please!"
Carlos, the newest recruit, twisted desperately against his ropes.
"I'm sorry! I swear I'm sorry! Paul made me do it! He said we'd die if we didn't help them. Please, just forgive me this once. I'll never do it again!"
Even Paul and Jeremy looked at him with disgust.
Mike stared at Carlos for a few seconds, then took one step toward him.
Before he could do anything, the basement door opened.
Two men entered. They were the last two members of Mike's crew.
Their eyes moved from Paul to Jeremy, and the weight of more than ten years passed silently between them. Brothers. Friends. Men they had trusted with their backs. Now traitors tied to chairs.
"Mike," one of them said quietly. "Boss is calling everyone. It's time."
Mike stopped.
The fury in his eyes dimmed, replaced by something heavier.
He nodded. "Then we go."
The other man hesitated.
"Mike…" he said, glancing at Paul and Jeremy again. "Do you think the Boss blames us?"
Mike's expression darkened. He had been asking himself the same question since the moment Paul's name left Nina's mouth.
"Her trust in us is damaged," Mike said. "There's no avoiding that."
The two men lowered their eyes.
Then Mike looked toward the basement stairs.
"But Daniel is injured. He can't fight tonight." A hard light entered his gaze. "That means there's an opening. We perform better than anyone else. We bleed more than anyone else. We prove that Mike's crew still belongs at her side."
The two men straightened.
"Yes."
Mike gave the three bound traitors one last look.
"Leave them," he said. "The Boss can decide what happens to them after the war."
Then he walked out with the last loyal men of his crew.
—
For years, the Neon Kings had ruled their territory like feudal lords.
Smuggling through the docks. Laundering money through their nightclub. Beating tribute out of anyone small enough to bleed and scared enough to kneel.
Their throne was an abandoned fish-processing warehouse on Pier 17.
On a moonless night, Frances came to tear it down.
The Neon Kings never saw it coming.
They had expected fear. After yesterday's slaughter, they believed the new gang would crawl back into its territory, tails tucked, and eventually come begging to discuss tribute.
Instead, three cars rolled to a stop outside their warehouse.
The two guards at the entrance barely had time to turn before shotgun blasts tore them off their feet.
Doors opened.
Frances's people stepped out.
Then they hit the front door like a storm.
The first two Neon Kings who rushed out with weapons drawn were cut down before they could fire. The rest scattered behind crates, rusted machines, and concrete pillars as bullets filled the warehouse.
For ten minutes, the old fish-processing plant became a cage of muzzle flashes and screaming metal.
The Neon Kings fired from behind cover, shock written across their faces. They still could not believe it. This was their home. Their territory. Their throne.
And this new gang had kicked in the door.
Three Neon Kings went down. Frances lost one of her own. Another of her people screamed and staggered back, clutching his shoulder as blood poured between his fingers.
Frances watched him. Her face remained stone, but the air around her tightened like a drawn bowstring.
The gunfire broke for a heartbeat. That was all she needed. Frances stepped out from behind cover.
"Boss!" someone shouted.
She ignored him. She inhaled.
For one terrible second, the warehouse went silent.
Then Frances screamed.
It wasn't just her mutant power. Sound Manipulation shaped the scream, the Lion's Roar martial art gave it deadly structure, and her own fury gave it teeth.
The sound did not spread. It charged forward. A visible shockwave tore through the warehouse.
Crates exploded into splinters. Rusted hooks swung wildly from the ceiling. Gangsters were ripped from cover and hurled backward like dolls. Some smashed into walls. Others struck machines hard enough for bones to crack beneath the sound.
Those closest to her fared worse. Their eardrums burst. Blood ran from their ears and noses. They collapsed screaming, clutching their heads as the world inside their skulls shattered.
Behind Frances, her own people stood untouched.
For a moment, no one moved.
Then Lucia raised her weapon.
"Kill them."
Frances's gang surged forward.
They fell on the broken Neon Kings with knives, bats, and bullets. No mercy. No hesitation. The old rulers of the dockside warehouse died one by one beneath the people they had expected to tame.
Mike fought like a man trying to carve his loyalty into the floor with blood. His two remaining crewmates stayed close, just as savage, just as desperate to prove they still belonged.
Mary fought too.
A month ago, she had looked like a girl waiting for the world to hurt her again. Tonight, she moved with gritted teeth and wild eyes, swinging until her arms shook, refusing to be the coward her past had tried to make her.
When the last Neon King fell, silence reclaimed the warehouse. It reeked of blood, gunpowder, rotten fish, and the sharp tang of fear.
Frances surveyed the bodies once, then turned and walked out into the night.
Behind her, Pier 17 no longer had kings.
Frances left the bloody aftermath to her subordinates. Some were dispatched to hunt down any Neon Kings who had missed the slaughter at the warehouse. Others moved quickly to secure the newly conquered territory before rival scavengers could smell weakness.
Frances returned to her office with Lucia and two guards flanking them.
An hour later, someone knocked on her door.
"Come in."
Lucia entered, her expression tight.
Frances raised an eyebrow. "What happened?"
Lucia hesitated.
That hesitation alone was enough to narrow Frances's eyes.
"Boss," Lucia said carefully, "the X-Men are here to meet you."