As Viper spoke, she gripped the edge of the operating table with both hands.
Then he turned his back to Loren and slowly bent down.
Loren turned his face—half-hidden beneath strands of green hair—and glanced toward Viper.
With one hand partially shielding his expression, he met Viper's gaze.
"Master… come?"
"Fuck you…"
Loren stared, momentarily stunned. Just seconds ago, Viper had been screaming for his death; now, the woman was acting as if nothing had happened—flirting, even.
The human heart is as fickle as a needle lost at sea. And this? This isn't a joke.
But there was no time for confusion. The Viper before him had crossed a line—her arrogance, her mockery, even her very presence felt like an assault on Loren's dignity.
This was intolerable.
With a deep, guttural shout, Loren drew his weapon and charged forward.
"You insufferable bastard—you're begging for death! Take this!"
In the VIP ward of Presbyterian Hospital in New York, Peter Parker had finally stabilized after a night of emergency surgery.
But as Alice had grimly predicted, no medical miracle had occurred—his right arm could not be saved.
Lying in the hospital bed with an oxygen tube in his nose, Peter stared blankly out the window, his eyes dull and distant.
A flicker of resentment—and raw, unspoken grief—passed through them.
"Oh, my poor Peter… how could this happen? How will you live now?"
Beside the bed, Aunt May—her hair now fully white, nearing seventy—sobbed quietly, dabbing her eyes with a tissue.
"Aunt May, please don't cry," Gwen said gently. "You need to take care of yourself. Peter will be okay—he'll adapt."
"Yes," Harry added, trying to sound reassuring. "Modern prosthetics are incredible. We'll get him the best one available. It won't hold him back."
Gwen and Harry stood nearby, their expressions somber but pragmatic. Unlike Aunt May, who was lost in sorrow, they'd already begun planning for Peter's future.
The loss of his arm was irreversible. The only path forward was through technology, support, and time.
But in their well-meaning practicality, they failed to see Peter's pain.
To him—still reeling from trauma, still numb with shock—their talk of prosthetics felt like salt ground into an open wound.
He had just woken from a coma. His body was broken. His world had collapsed.
All he wanted was silence—not solutions.
As their voices filled the room, Peter clenched his remaining fist beneath the sheets, his knuckles white, his eyes burning with grief… and quiet fury.
But now he couldn't even get up to pee on his own, let alone express his dissatisfaction to them.
"Aunt May, I… I want to sleep…!" Peter said, summoning every ounce of strength he had left.
Aunt May, who was sitting by the bed, immediately understood what he meant. She quickly wiped away her tears and said in a warm voice, "Gwen, Harry—thank you both for your kindness. Let's talk about the prosthetic limb later! You stayed up all night; it's time to go home and rest."
Hearing this, Gwen and Harry nodded silently, cast one last glance at Peter, and quietly left the ward.
"I think I said something wrong and upset Peter," Harry murmured.
"It would be strange if Peter were happy about you bringing up prosthetic limbs at a time like this," Gwen replied.
"What should I do? Maybe I should go apologize?"
"Forget it. What he needs most right now is some quiet time alone. He'll figure it out."
"By the way… Loren owns so many high-tech companies. Maybe he can help Peter. Why don't we go find him?"
At the mention of Loren, Gwen's mind instantly flashed to the silver-haired woman she'd fought with yesterday.
A look of resentment crossed her face.
Then she shook her head and said, "Go find him yourself! I'm exhausted—I need to go back and rest."
With that, Gwen raised her hand, hailed a taxi, and left in a huff.
"???"
Harry stood there, bewildered. Peter's upset—that makes sense. But why is Gwen suddenly angry too? Did I say something wrong again? This shouldn't be happening!
At a secret S.H.I.E.L.D. base…
Tony Stark, his body wrapped in bandages, stood silently before his damaged Iron Man armor, his expression unreadable. No one knew what he was thinking.
Just then, Natasha entered, pushing a nursing cart. "Time to change your dressing, Mr. Stark."
Tony turned. "I thought the nurse just changed my bandages three hours ago. Why again so soon?"
"You had breakfast three hours ago—and you'll still need to eat lunch later!" Natasha teased as she prepared the medicine.
Tony gave an awkward smile and shifted the conversation to her. "I think your name's Natasha, right?"
"Ms. Natasha… thank you for saving me. Has anyone ever told you you're beautiful?"
"A woman like you—I owe you big time. Just tell me what you want, and I'll give it to you."
As America's most notorious playboy, flirting with every attractive woman he met had long become second nature.
But Natasha didn't respond. Instead, a faint sneer flickered in her eyes.
In one swift motion, she cut the bandage on Tony's shoulder.
Without a word, she took an unfamiliar spray and applied it directly to his wound.
No one knew what the substance was—but the moment it touched his skin, Tony let out a sharp cry of pain.
"Ah!!! Stop, stop, stop—what the hell is this?!"
He tried to pull away, but Natasha ignored him.
She kept spraying as she said dryly, "Didn't you ask what I wanted? I want you to stop screaming. Can you manage that?"
Tony instantly realized she was mocking him. He clamped his mouth shut and said nothing more.
"This is our latest wound-healing agent," Natasha explained, tossing the spray into his hands. "It stops bleeding instantly and accelerates tissue regeneration. For an injury like yours, use it three times a day—you'll be fully healed in about three days."
Tony examined the canister, eyes wide with astonishment. "My injuries could heal completely in three days? If that's true, this is a miracle drug. What kind of organization are you? I've never heard of anything like this."
"We're S.H.I.E.L.D."
Just as Tony asked the question, Nick Fury strode in, clad in his signature black trench coat.
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