The image that appeared in Rook's hologram was of a middle-aged man, with neatly cut black hair, wearing a simple but elegant suit. He had a kind face, marked by a deep, almost serene calm. It was an expression that contrasted violently with the monstrous and chaotic figure Peter knew as Mister Negative—the alter ego charged with negative energy and hatred that had terrorized New York and personally hurt many people Peter loved.
"Mister Negative," Peter murmured, the name coming out like a sigh heavy with bad memories. "He's… helping a street gang?"
"The financial records we managed to intercept—and that withstood basic cross-checking—show regular transfers from a shell account linked to one of Li's NGOs, 'F.E.A.S.T.,' to accounts controlled by the Crawlers' leaders," Rook explained, his fingers dancing over the hologram to highlight money trails. "The amounts aren't huge. Enough to buy secure communications, basic weapons, and bribe a few crooked cops. It's not funding for a power grab. It's… seed capital."
Karai narrowed her eyes, analyzing the data. "Li has always been a puzzle. The philanthropist who helps the homeless and the monster who turns them into zombie soldiers. This fits. Is he using the Crawlers as a decentralized observation network? Or is he testing a new recruitment method outside Hell's Kitchen?"
"F.E.A.S.T. has shelters and food distribution centers all over the city, including the Bronx and northern Brooklyn," Peter recalled, his mind connecting the dots. "He has access to dozens, maybe hundreds of desperate, vulnerable people. People traditional gangs recruit. But instead of fighting them or ignoring them… he's funding one of them. Giving them structure, a bit of power. Making them… stable."
"Stable isn't the word I'd use to describe a gang that's aggressively expanding," Kenji observed, reentering the room with a tablet in hand.
"Stable by his standards," Peter argued, feeling a growing discomfort. The logic was perverse, but it made sense. "If the Crawlers control low-level trafficking in an 'orderly' way, without excessive violence that draws attention, they keep an area calm. They take business away from more violent, unpredictable competitors. And in the process, Li gains influence over them. He creates a network of eyes, ears, and people indebted to him."
"A low-grade cancer," Karai summarized, her tone cold. "Less immediately destructive than an aggressive tumor like Tombstone, but harder to eradicate because it blends with healthy tissue. And if you try to cut it out, you risk hurting the civilians it supposedly protects."
Exactly. It was a classic Fisk move, but with Li's particularly insidious touch. Wilson Fisk corrupted institutions. Martin Li corrupted hope.
"What do we do with this information?" Kenji asked, looking at Peter. "Do we ignore the Crawlers for now and focus on the Maggia? Or do we go after the source?"
Peter closed his eyes for a moment, thinking through the best course of action. Delaying the Maggia was crucial to the containment plan. But Martin Li… Li was a threat that was hard to ignore. A ticking time bomb that could explode at any moment. Leaving him unsupervised was dangerous.
"We adapt," Peter decided, opening his eyes. "The plan against the Maggia continues. It's our tactical priority. But we can't ignore Li. Kenji, keep the infiltration team on the Crawlers. I want to know every move, every new 'aid' they receive. I want a complete profile of how Li operates through them. Whether he's using this to recruit for his army or if it's some sick new social experiment. But no direct confrontation. For now."
"Understood," Kenji nodded, committing it to memory.
POV Wilson Fisk
The silence of my office atop Fisk Enterprises is absolute. It is not an empty silence. It is a dense silence, heavy with contained power. The lights of Manhattan glitter below like diamonds scattered over black velvet. Each point of light represents a business, a property, a life that, one way or another, orbits my influence.
Until recently, Brooklyn was a blot of chaos on my map. A noisy, unprofitable region, controlled by brutes like Tombstone. I left it to him. It was useful to have a barbarian doing the dirty work on the edges of my empire, keeping smaller gangs in check and absorbing the attention of… irritating heroes.
Now, Lincoln is broken. He fled like a rat into a sewer. And in his place, something new has grown.
Shadow-Step Solutions.
I set the heavy brandy glass down on the table, the crystal making a soft clink that echoes through the vastness of the room. I analyzed the data. Vanessa, with her keen eye for opportunity, was the first to notice. "Wilson, look at this. A private security company with 400% growth in two months in Brooklyn. And violent crime rates in the sectors where they operate dropped by 60%. That's not normal."
She was right. It wasn't normal. It was an anomaly.
I investigated. Clean corporate records, but… too clean. Licenses obtained with suspicious speed. Employees with backgrounds that look like they came off an assembly line: no families, no digital past before a few months ago. It's a front. A very, very good front.
And behind it… a leader I know nothing about.
He removed Tombstone. Now, he's containing the Maggia with erosion tactics I almost admire. He's intelligent. Efficient.
He's a threat.
Not a threat of force, like Daredevil or the Punisher. You know where they are, you know how to hit them. The person who controls this company… he is a virus. He infiltrates. Creates goodwill. Offers a service. And people—small business owners, ordinary citizens… they accept. They pay. They are grateful.
That is power in a form more dangerous than any machine gun.
POV Normal
The operation on Navy Street was a success. As Kenji predicted, the two Maggia guards were more interested in a mobile game and an old coffee thermos. Hana and Ren, dressed as utility technicians, went in and out in eleven minutes and forty-three seconds. The crawler was deployed. In seventy-two hours, on the next synchronization cycle, the Maggia's master server in Brooklyn would suffer a catastrophic and subtle data corruption.
Meanwhile, Akari's surveillance network flagged the first signs of unusual agitation in the Maggia's ranks. Goons being reassigned, street leader meetings happening at odd hours. It seemed Fisk's anonymous message—or someone mimicking his style—was already having an effect. Silvermane was getting paranoid.
Peter watched the data streams on the command center screen, Meta-Vision helping identify anomalous patterns. The calm before the storm was becoming electrifying.
That was when a discreet alert blinked in the corner of Rook's monitor. It wasn't from the city's surveillance system. It was from Shadow-Step's personal monitoring system.
"Mr. Parker," Rook's voice echoed in the quiet room. "One of our contingency protocols has been activated. Low level, but specific."
Peter turned. "Which protocol?"
"Dependent Protection. The stress sensor in Mrs. Clara Henderson's apartment has been triggered."
Clara Henderson. An elderly widow who ran a small antique shop in Brooklyn Heights. Her grandson, Leo, had been recruited by the Crawlers months earlier, before Shadow-Step existed. Karai, during the vetting of potential clients, discovered the connection. Instead of refusing the contract, she accepted it with one condition: a discreet panic button and an environmental sensor in Clara's apartment. Her shop was a useful observation point for the Crawlers, and Clara a potential lever against them. And, in a gesture Peter approved of, also a person to be protected.
"What did the sensor register?" Peter asked, already standing.
"Sharp elevation in heart rate, labored breathing pattern, and… the sound of low male voices, unidentified in the voice database. None of the recordings match the grandson or known visitors." Rook zoomed in on the data. "Environmental mics captured fragments: '…where is he…,' '…we don't want to hurt you…,' '…you just need to make a call…'."
"They're using her as bait," Karai growled, coming to Peter's side. "That's not the Crawlers' style. They're more direct than that."
"It was probably Fisk," Peter concluded, his blood running cold. The Kingpin had moved faster than he anticipated. And with surgical precision. Not a frontal attack. Pressure applied at the exact point where their ethics would force a response. "He's testing us."
"The standard protocol would be to dispatch a silent extraction team," Kenji suggested, appearing in the doorway.
Peter shook his head. "No. They'll be expecting that. They're monitoring the shop, the apartment. They want to see how we react. They want to see our method, our faces." He took a deep breath, a fast and risky plan forming in his mind. "They want me to show up? Then they'll get that. But not the way they expect."
He looked at Karai. "You take command here. Keep surveillance on the Maggia. If they move, contain them, but don't escalate."
"Peter, it's an obvious trap," she warned, her face tense.
"I know."
The street where Clara Henderson's apartment was located was quiet, a corridor of well-kept brownstones in Brooklyn Heights. The night was calm, slightly humid, and the silence was broken only by the distant hum of traffic from the Brooklyn Bridge. A scene of perfect suburban normalcy disguising a trap.
Peter did not approach as Spider-Man. Nor as Peter Parker. He decided to use his newest identity: the head of Shadow-Step. Meta-Vision, combined with Spider-Sense and his new telluric sensitivity, painted a frighteningly clear picture of the perimeter. Six men. Two in a parked car across the street, pretending to have a casual conversation, but their heartbeats were slow and controlled—professionals. One on the roof of the neighboring building, with night-vision equipment. Two on the fire escapes of Clara's own building, positioned to cover exits. And one inside the apartment.
The last one was the real danger. The man's heart inside beat with sinister calm. Not the adrenaline of a nervous goon. The serenity of an enforcer who knew exactly what he was doing.
Peter materialized on Clara's building roof not with a leap, but as an extension of darkness. So far, the suit was working perfectly.
Inside the apartment, the scene was controlled but tense. Clara Henderson, a woman with gray hair pulled into a tight bun, sat in her green velvet armchair, her hands firmly clasped in her lap. Her eyes, however, were dry and filled with silent anger, not fear. Standing before her, his back to the window overlooking the inner courtyard, was a man wearing an impeccably cut gray suit. He held no weapon. His hands were empty, relaxed at his sides. He was the one speaking, in a soft, polite voice that sounded even more threatening for its lack of emotion.
"…it's a shame, Mrs. Henderson. Your grandson, Leo, showed so much… potential. But loyalty is a rare commodity these days. Our boss believes his organization can offer a more structured future for young men like him. All we need is a small demonstration of good faith. A call. A meeting. No one needs to get hurt."
"My grandson is trying to get out of that life," Clara replied, her voice trembling but firm. "I will not help him sink deeper."
The man in the suit gave a thin smile. "Life rarely gives us such clear choices, unfortunately. Sometimes, helping is simply… choosing the lesser evil."
That was when Peter acted.
He didn't come through the door or the window. He emerged.
In the corner of the room, where a large fern in a ceramic pot sat near the exterior wall, the floral wallpaper seemed to ripple. The surface of plaster and paint didn't break; it silently parted, like a curtain being drawn aside, and the black-and-gray form of Spider-Man—wearing the new Shadow Suit—simply grew out of it, as if materializing from the very structure of the building.
The man in the suit had no time to react. One instant he was facing Clara, the next, a shadow emerged from the wall behind him. His heartbeat spiked for the first time—a surge of genuine shock.
Peter gave him no time to process. A fluid motion, a hand emerging from the shadow and applying a precise pressure strike at the base of the neck. The man in the suit let out a dull thud and slid to the floor, unconscious before he could understand what had hit him.
"Don't be afraid, Mrs. Henderson," Peter said, his voice modulated to sound calm and low through the suit's filter. "I'm with Shadow-Step. I'm getting you out of here."
Clara Henderson blinked, her anger giving way to absolute perplexity. She looked at the smooth, perfect hole in the wall, then at the dark, sinister figure before her. "You… you came out of the wall."
"I took advantage of an old moisture infiltration," Peter lied easily, extending a hand. "More discreet than the front door. Please, come with me."
As he helped the elderly woman stand, his Meta-Vision and other senses mapped the exterior response. The two men on the fire escapes were already moving, alerted by the sudden silence of their inside man. The shooter on the neighboring roof adjusted his aim. The two in the car started the engine.
"Rook," Peter whispered into the built-in communicator. "Total signal blackout on this block. Now. And prep extraction at point B."
"Activating. Frequencies blocked in 3, 2, 1…"
An almost imperceptible hum hung in the air. All cell phones, radios, and Wi-Fi signals in the area died.
"Now, Mrs. Henderson, close your eyes and take a deep breath," Peter instructed.
He didn't take her through the door. Instead, he carefully wrapped an arm around her, turned to the opposite wall—the one facing the inner courtyard—and extended his other hand. Earth Domination responded with a fluidity he had once only dreamed of. The plaster and brick didn't shatter—though the wood did—they opened, yielding like a thick liquid and forming a smooth, arched passage directly into the dark courtyard. It was a far more precise and less destructive use of force than anything he had done before—less like a hammer, more like a scalpel.
In the courtyard, away from prying eyes, a silent delivery van—one of those acquired by Karai—already had its rear doors open. Akari was there, in civilian clothes, holding a blanket and wearing a calming expression.
"It's all right, Mrs. Henderson. You're safe with us," Akari said, helping the elderly woman inside. "We're taking you to a safe location. Your grandson, Leo, is already on his way."
Clara merely nodded, still in shock, but her shoulders relaxed slightly at the mention of her grandson.
Peter didn't enter the van. He turned back toward the building. The trap had been dismantled, the victim rescued. Now it was time to send a message back.
In that situation, Peter couldn't help but think about what kind of personality the leader of a ninja militia should have. Probably not one that cracked many jokes. Thinking quickly, he decided the head of Shadow-Step would be an amalgam of the various leaders he had known.
Captain America's unshakable posture, Cyclops' focused and methodical strategy, King T'Challa's silent dignity and cold calculation, and yes, a touch of Doctor Doom's absolute presence. Yes, that would do nicely.
The five remaining men of Fisk were now disoriented. Their communications cut, their primary asset vanished from a locked room with no sign of forced entry or exit. They began to withdraw, contingency protocols kicking in.
Peter watched them from above the courtyard, blending into the shadow of a large tree. He wouldn't attack them. They weren't worthy. Instead, he had another idea.
Fisk's men retreated with the efficiency of well-trained soldiers. The shooter on the roof packed up his equipment. The two on the fire escapes descended silently, covering each other. The two in the car kept the engines running, ready to leave. It was a clean withdrawal, without panic. Professionals.
But Peter didn't want them merely to retreat. He wanted them to carry a message. A clear, unmistakable message that couldn't be rationalized as "bad luck" or "incompetence."
He focused on the car, a discreet black sedan with a powerful engine. Through his feet, he felt the vibrations of the running motor, the weight of the chassis on the tires, the composition of the asphalt below.
With an almost imperceptible movement—a slight twist of the wrist, as if turning an invisible doorknob—he activated Earth Domination in a new way. Not to lift or break. To disconnect.
The asphalt beneath the sedan's four tires didn't crack. It simply lost cohesion, instantly turning into a fine, loose powder, like extremely dry beach sand. The tires, still spinning, sank smoothly down to the hubs, burying the car up to the doors in a bed of asphalt dust. The engine roared impotently, the wheels spinning furiously without traction, throwing up a cloud of gray powder.
The two men inside the car jumped out, coughing, completely disoriented and now exposed. They stared at the buried tires, then at the silent houses around them, trying to understand what kind of non-conventional weapon could cause that.
Peter then turned to the shooter on the neighboring roof. The man was already moving toward the edge, likely to use a rappel line. Peter extended his hand, closed it into a gentle fist, and pulled downward.
The brick chimney on the roof where the shooter stood didn't explode. It disintegrated, from top to bottom, as if it were made of sugar in contact with rainwater. The bricks turned into a flow of grains of clay and cement that slid down the roof, forming a slope of fine, unstable debris directly in the shooter's path. The man lost his balance, slipped, and rolled across the roof, being covered by the dust of his own firing position, until he fell heavily—but alive—into a side garden, coughing and immobilized with a likely fractured ankle.
This was extremely exhausting; minimal movements for such complex dominations were rapidly draining Peter, but the show had to go on. He had to stay in character and deliver the message. Besides, it was good training.
Now only the two men from the fire escapes remained. They had witnessed the other events in terrified silence. They stopped retreating. They were cornered in the alley between the buildings, looking around in all directions, weapons drawn, but with no target.
That was when Peter finally revealed himself. Not with a dramatic leap. He simply walked out of the tree's shadow, stepping into the pool of light cast by a broken lamppost in the courtyard. His Shadow Suit drank in the light, making him a hollow silhouette with faintly iridescent edges.
He stopped ten meters from the two men, motionless.
They raised their weapons, hesitant. The older of the two, a man with scars on his face and cold eyes, spoke, his voice a forced growl: "Stay where you are! Who are you?"
The voice that emerged from Peter's suit filter was low, flat, emotionless, carrying a subtle metallic resonance. It sounded like a combination of the voices he had imagined—the calm authority of Rogers, Scott's logical coldness, T'Challa's impenetrable dignity, and Doom's calculated omnipotence. It wasn't perfect yet, but it would work on these men.
"I am the consequence." The words echoed softly in the silent alley. "You violated my territory. You brought violence to a place of peace. You used an innocent as leverage."
The scarred man swallowed. "We were just following orders. Making a business offer."
"Business." Peter's head tilted slightly, an almost robotic gesture of analysis. "The man who sent you understands business. He sees you as assets. Tools. I see you as… a bad investment."
Before they could react, Peter took a step forward. Not a fast step, but firm and inevitable. The instant his boot touched the ground, the concrete beneath the two men's feet changed. It didn't sink. It hardened suddenly, trapping their boots as if they'd been dipped in instant-curing concrete. They grunted, trying to free themselves, unsuccessfully.
Peter walked up to them, ignoring the weapons aimed at his torso. He stopped right in front of the scarred man, staring into his widened eyes through the white, empty lenses of his mask.
"Tell your boss," the voice echoed, lower now but carrying absolute weight, "that we know. We know about the meeting on the fourteenth. We know about the man who arrived from Madripoor. And we know about the silence he values so much. That silence… can become a very loud echo, very quickly. He understands numbers. Do the math. The cost of touching what is mine far outweighs any profit he imagines gaining."
The words were vague, intentional. Meeting on the fourteenth—a random date. A man from Madripoor—a place notoriously associated with dirty business. Silence—something a man like Fisk, surrounded by lawyers and lobbyists, certainly prized. The threat wasn't about something specific; it was about the possibility that Shadow-Step knew something. Anything. In a world of secrets like Wilson Fisk's, doubt was a sharper weapon than certainty.
The scarred man went pale. His eyes widened, not with fear of the supernatural force he had seen, but with the terror of having failed in a way that couldn't be explained. He had no idea what "the fourteenth" or "Madripoor" meant in this context, but the icy conviction in the voice of the figure before him was unquestionable. They knew. And if they knew that, what else did they know?
Peter stepped back, his posture still relaxed but radiating imminent threat. "Now, get your men out of this neighborhood. Never come back. And deliver the message. In full."
With another almost negligent gesture, the concrete binding the men's feet returned to being just concrete. They staggered back, grabbing their fallen comrade and dragging him away, their professionalism shattered by pure survival instinct. The buried car was abandoned.
Peter remained in the alley for a few more seconds, listening to the sounds of retreat fading away. The exhaustion now hit hard—using Earth Domination with such refinement was a massive mental and physical drain—but the satisfaction was greater. He had protected Clara, extracted his team without unnecessary violence, and, most importantly, planted a seed of unease in the most calculating mind in New York.
Over the communicator, Karai's voice came through, dry. "Extraction complete. Clara and her grandson are safe in a safe house upstate. The van is clean. I heard the transmission. 'The fourteenth'? 'Madripoor'? Since when do we have that information?"
"Since never," Peter replied, a tired smile forming beneath the mask as he prepared to leave. "But he doesn't know that. And now he'll spend time, resources, and energy trying to figure out what leaked, who betrayed him, which meeting was compromised. He'll look at his own ranks, not ours."
"Risky," she mused, but there was a note of approval in her voice. "But elegant. Fisk hates uncertainty more than he hates declared enemies. You bought time."
"And time is what we need most right now," Peter whispered.
POV Wilson Fisk
The report did not come by phone, nor by email. It came in person, in the form of Carl Bendix—"Cutter" to those close to him—one of my most discreet problem-solvers, standing in the middle of my office with the immaculate back of his suit smeared with brick dust and his ankle in a cast. His face, usually a mask of professional coldness, was pale, the cold sweat of pain mixed with a deeper fear. Fear of me.
He recounted the events with clinical precision that almost concealed the tremor in his voice. The impossible extraction. The wall yielding like water. The car buried in asphalt sand. The chimney dissolving. And the words. The words were what interested me most.
As he spoke, I turned toward the window, my fingers interlaced behind my back. The office's silence amplified every syllable. "…consequence… my territory… bad investment." And then, the crucial part. "The fourteenth. Madripoor. The silence he values so much."
My hands, normally steady, clenched slightly. Anger was a distant thing, a dormant volcano beneath an ice cap. What simmered on the surface was something sharper: interest and deep suspicion.
The fourteenth. There was a meeting on the fourteenth. With a Swiss accountant to discuss laundering profits from the floating casino. An extremely private meeting, known to only four people besides myself. Madripoor. A delivery channel for certain… pharmaceutical specialties… was being reevaluated that week, with the arrival of a high-level intermediary.
They knew. Or pretended to know. The difference was academically irrelevant at the moment. The effect was the same.
"The man who spoke," my voice came out low, making the air vibrate. "Describe him."
"Honestly… I'm not sure it was a man, Mr. Fisk," Bendix replied, swallowing hard. "It was a shadow. A void with shape. The suit… drank the light. The voice… it was as if several people were speaking at once, but calmly. Coldly. There was no… emotion. Just fact."
A persona. Carefully constructed. Intimidating, supernatural, impersonal. Designed to cause confusion and fear. It worked on Bendix. It would not work on me.
"They rescued the elderly woman without violence. Attacked property, not the men," I observed, turning to face him. "They left you alive to deliver the message. To test me."
"They… they said to do the math. That the cost outweighed the profit."
Intelligent. They spoke my language. They weren't raging idealists like Daredevil. They were pragmatists. Dangerously pragmatic.
"Leave," I ordered. Bendix limped out, relieved to still be breathing.
I remained alone with the hum of the air conditioners and the weight of possibilities.
Shadow-Step was not just a company. It was a statement. And its leader… this "Master," or whatever name he used… was a tactician. He didn't want a war. He wanted a bargain. A non-aggression pact, established through a show of force and subtle infiltration of my information network.
The problem was the infiltration. How? Bendix and his team were loyal professionals, tested. The meeting on the fourteenth took place in a soundproof room, in a building I owned. Madripoor… very few knew of that contact.
Unless… unless the infiltration wasn't human. Technological. Shadow-Step had hacking expertise, according to my informants. They had specialists in hacking and data theft. Could they have penetrated my firewalls? Possible. Likely, even, considering their efficiency against the Maggia.
But the specific mention… was it a shot in the dark? A polite guess meant to sow paranoia? If so, it was well done. Because now I couldn't ignore it. I had to act. But act how?
A direct attack would be costly and uncertain. They had demonstrated anomalous capabilities—the matter manipulation described by Bendix went beyond ninja training, into the realm of superpowers. It would involve Spider-Man and other vigilantes, without a doubt. And possibly draw the Avengers' attention if the scale became too large.
No. Open war was a last resort.
I needed information. A crack. Every castle had one. Every leader had a weakness. This "Master" was cold, calculating, but protected civilians. He rescued a useless old woman out of principle. That was a weakness. A leverage point.
And he liked information games. Spreading doubt.
Very well. We would play.
I picked up a secure phone, dialing a memorized number. It answered after one ring.
"Cristiny," I said, my voice softening automatically. "Change my plans for tomorrow's dinner. Instead of the 'Palazzo,' let's go to 'Sakura Dreams,' in Brooklyn Heights. Yes, I know it's a simpler neighborhood. There's… a new restaurant I wish to evaluate. Personally."
I hung up. 'Sakura Dreams' was three blocks from Clara Henderson's apartment. And two blocks from an antique shop now under Shadow-Step protection.
I wouldn't send goons. I would go personally. As a citizen. A businessman. A king visiting contested territory. To see with my own eyes. To feel the ground. And, perhaps, to offer… a counterproposal.
Meanwhile, I ordered a full digital and physical security audit of all my operations. And I put one of my best investigators—not a brute, a forensic accountant with a mind for patterns—to analyze every transaction, every contract, every movement of Shadow-Step Solutions since its registration. Everything leaves a trail. Money, energy, supplies. I would find it.
The game had changed. From pest extermination to high-level chess. And I had never lost a game of chess.
POV Normal
Back at the Web, Peter's exhaustion was deep, but the adrenaline of the performance and the mission's success kept him alert. He was in his small office attached to the lab, the Shadow Suit now hanging on a special rack, looking little more than a dark, matte jumpsuit under the fluorescent light.
Karai entered without knocking, closing the door behind her. She carried two cups—one with steaming green tea for herself, the other with a thick, bluish liquid that Peter recognized as the Muscle Recovery Supplement with a dubious flavor.
"Drink," she ordered, placing the blue cup in front of him. "You look like you just ran a marathon carrying a truck."
Peter grimaced, but drank. The taste of radioactive mint flooded his mouth, but almost immediately a cool sense of relief began to spread through his aching muscles. "It works. But the taste is still a crime against humanity."
"Didn't you create it with that flavor? Deal with it," Karai replied, sitting in the opposite chair. "Mrs. Henderson and her grandson are settled in the safe house upstate. Leo is shaken, but grateful. He confirmed the men weren't Crawlers. They were… professionals. Disciplined. He'd never seen anyone like that in the underworld."
"Fisk," Peter confirmed, rubbing his eyes. "He tested our response. And now he knows we have teeth."
"And that we have 'information,'" Karai added, a wry smile on her lips. "The fourteenth, Madripoor. Creative, Peter. Vague enough to be credible. He must be turning his organization upside down right now, looking for the leak that never existed."
"That's what I'm hoping. But we can't underestimate him. He's not Tombstone. He won't attack with an army. It'll be something more subtle. A lawsuit, a media scandal, economic pressure on our clients."
"We're already prepared," Karai said, her confidence unshaken. "Rook and Akari have protocols to protect our digital and financial network. Our contracts with merchants are legal and bulletproof—literally. And if he tries to use force against one of our protected…" She didn't finish the sentence. The threat was clear in her eyes.
"We don't want a war with the Kingpin, Karai," Peter warned, serious. "Not now. Not when we're trying to build something stable. The plan is containment. Deterrence."
"And we deterred," she argued. "Today was a powerful statement. But statements need to be sustained. He'll test us again. In another way."
Peter nodded. She was right. The game with Fisk would be a long, dangerous dance. Every move had to be calculated.
At that moment, Rook appeared at the door, his bluish face serious. "Mr. Parker. I've detected unusual activity."
"Beyond what we expected?" Peter asked, already bracing for bad news.
"Yes. Over the last twenty minutes, there's been a significant spike in digital searches and accesses to public databases related to Shadow-Step Solutions. The sources… are sophisticated. The pattern doesn't match reporters' curiosity or normal competitors. It looks like an audit. Professional, comprehensive, and very, very discreet."
"Fisk," Karai and Peter said at the same time.
"He's really investigating us now," Peter murmured. "Looking for our trail. Our weak point."
"Our trail is nearly nonexistent, thanks to the protocols we established," Rook reported. "However, no system is perfect. The original lease of this building, the initial equipment purchases, the cryptocurrency transactions we injected… there is a logical chain that, with enough resources and time, can be followed."
"Time is what we can't give him," Karai said, standing up. "We need to disrupt this investigation. Create noise. False data. Leads that go to dead ends."
Peter looked at her, then at Rook. A plan began to form, risky, but fitting with the strategy they had been using: information manipulation.
"Rook, can you and Akari create a… digital persona for the 'Master'? Something plausible, but impossible to trace back to me? A ghost with a history?"
Rook tilted his head, yellow eyes gleaming with the challenge. "A papyrus identity. Layers upon layers of fabricated data, linked to ghost servers, transactions in extinct digital currencies… yes. It's labor-intensive, but possible. We can create the illusion that the leader of Shadow-Step is a former agent of a dismantled Western intelligence agency, or an off-grid cyber-mercenary with resources."
"Do it," Peter ordered. "And plant a story in places where Fisk's investigators will find it—nothing with a name or origin, but something that shows resources. Keep it subtle. Like a gift he thinks he discovered himself."
"Understood," Rook nodded, turning to leave. "I'll coordinate with Akari. We'll weave a ghost to haunt his searches."
When Rook left, Karai looked at Peter. "It's a good move. But it's reactive. We're just defending against his investigation. We need to keep the initiative."
Peter thought for a moment, recalling the conversations with merchants he'd overheard, the sense of fragile peace beginning to spread. "The initiative… is consolidating what we've gained. Making the 'territory' I claimed today so solid, so beneficial to ordinary people, that any move by Fisk against it seems… not just evil, but stupid. Economically stupid."
He stood, walking to a screen on the wall that showed a map of Brooklyn and Queens with Shadow-Step's areas of influence highlighted in soft blue. The blue stain was growing, but still irregular.
"We need to expand. Not with violence, but with service. Karai, identify the next three neighborhoods most affected by extortion crimes or gangs after Tombstone's fall. Offer our basic packages at symbolic prices, or even pro bono for the first ones. Use the funds we 'recovered' from the Maggia to subsidize it. I want Shadow-Step to become synonymous with security and normalcy. Something people will defend."
Karai studied the map, a spark of understanding in her eyes. "Make him invest against popular will. If he attacks a company the community sees as protective, he loses the little public legitimacy he builds with his philanthropic fronts. It's social armor."
"Exactly," Peter said, a tired but determined smile on his face. "We're not going to defeat the Kingpin in a gang war. We're going to smother him in a web of goodwill and boring stability. And if he tries to cut the web…" Peter glanced at the Shadow Suit hanging there. "…he'll find he's trying to cut the city itself."
Karai smiled, a genuine and rare gesture that lit up her face. "Peter Parker, the herald of safe boredom. Who would've thought."
"Boredom is underrated," Peter joked, sitting back down and picking up the awful blue drink. "Now, about that Maggia operation… the data crawler should activate in, what, forty-eight hours?"
"Forty-six," Karai corrected, resuming her professional posture. "And the Crawlers? With Martin Li's connection confirmed…"
"Continuous monitoring," Peter decided. "But no intervention unless we see signs that Li is using them for something bigger than territory control. Forced recruitment, experiments with his negative energy… then we act. But for now, they're a lesser problem."
It was a delicate balance. Contain the Maggia, monitor the Crawlers and Li, dissect Fisk's investigation, and expand their civil protection network. All at once.
Peter felt the weight of responsibility, but also a strange clarity. For the first time since becoming Spider-Man, he wasn't just reacting to crises. He was building something. Planting seeds.
And, as his Uncle Ben used to say, with great power… came great opportunities to truly, genuinely make a difference.
Looking at the map on the wall, at the blue stain of influence representing safer lives and dreams not crushed by crime, Peter Parker felt that maybe, just maybe, the Parker luck was finally giving him a break.
Eight days later
"Good afternoon, New York!" Peter exclaimed, swinging between the city's buildings.
Though the feeling of building something, instead of just putting out fires, was new and addictive to Peter, helping little old ladies cross the street and rescuing kittens from trees still had their own merit.
In the days following the rescue of Clara Henderson and his "encounter" with Fisk's men, the Web operated with the focused intensity of a beehive.
Rook and Akari dove into the depths of cyberspace, weaving the ghost identity of the "Master." They created an elaborate fictional backstory: a former agent of the British organization MI13, declared dead on a mission in Krakoa that "officially" never existed. The agent, codename "Griffin," supposedly defected after an ethical disagreement, taking with him a small fortune in untraceable crypto-assets and deep knowledge of asymmetric warfare and cutting-edge technology. The story was peppered with plausible details—names of real declassified operations, intelligence jargon, references to exotic technologies that groups like S.H.I.E.L.D. actually investigated—and planted in obscure deep web forums, compromised server records of defense corporations, and even in a fragmented "leaked" report from an internal Pentagon audit.
Meanwhile, Karai implemented aggressive yet peaceful expansion. Three neighborhoods on the southern edge of Queens, where small merchants still trembled at the memory of Tombstone and now suffered from the disorganized incursions of leftover gangs, received Shadow-Step's "Safe Neighborhood Initiative." Teams of two "consultants"—ninjas in impeccable civilian attire, with irreproachable manners—visited shops, restaurants, and even residential buildings, selling security. They offered free security assessments, installed subsidized basic alarms, and, most importantly, left that discreet sticker, which quickly became a symbol of inverse status in the communities: a sign that the establishment was under an umbrella that worked.
In the days that followed, Shadow-Step's selective containment strategy began to yield visible results. The Maggia's data corruption caused chaos in their Brooklyn operations. Lost inventory, unprocessed payments, disorganized distribution routes. Silvermane, already paranoid about possible betrayal instigated by Fisk, began retaliating internally, detaining and "firing" several subordinates. The organization began bleeding resources and loyalty.
Meanwhile, infiltration of the Crawlers, aided by Leo's information, allowed Shadow-Step to orchestrate a series of unfortunate events for the gang. A drug shipment was intercepted by the police (thanks to an anonymous tip). Two of their smaller "financiers" were visited by very persuasive "tax consultants." The gang, lacking strong central leadership, began fragmenting into smaller factions that fought among themselves over what territory remained.
And through all of this, Shadow-Step Solutions prospered. New contracts were signed daily. Their presence on the streets was felt not as an occupation, but as a guarantee. Merchants spoke in hushed tones about the "ghosts" who kept the peace. Violent crime rates in neighborhoods under their protection fell to record lows.
[Ding! Long-Term Development Mission: "Stabilize the Brooklyn region." Progress updated: 42%]
Peter, for his part, divided his time. During the day, he was Peter Parker, the genius at Horizon Labs, refining the gravitational engine and, in secret, using the resources and cover of the "containment suit project" to mass-produce Shadow-Step's tactical uniforms. A few more weeks and they would be available to everyone.
The night air in Queens smelled of recent rain and cheap pizza. Peter balanced on the ledge of a low building, watching the street below. A group of teenagers chatted in front of a diner, lit by the red neon glow of the sign. No crimes. No screams. Just… normalcy.
It was strange. A good kind of strange, but strange nonetheless.
"System, show my status, please."
The translucent screen floated before his eyes, blending with the city lights.
[Ding! Host Status:
Name: Peter Parker (Spider-Man) / The Master (Shadow-Step Solutions)
System Level: 2 (Progress: 50/1000 GP spent)
Current GP: 283]
[Skills:
Spider Sense (Rank ? – Specialist): 45%
Earth Domination (Rank Bronze – Intermediate): 69%
Meta-Vision (Rank Iron – Intermediate): 88
Persuasion (Rank Iron – Novice): 73%
Basic Carpentry (Rank Iron – Novice): 15%
Cooking (Rank Iron – Novice): 5%]
[Synergy:
Karai: 75%
[Kenji: 30%
Rook Blonko: 40%]
Peter smiled beneath the mask. The progress was tangible. Meta-Vision was on the verge of evolving, and his connection with the earth deepened with each training session with the Ghost Mentor. His synergy with Karai increased naturally, a reflection of the trust and efficiency they shared.
The calm on the street below was broken by a familiar yet unexpected sound: the distinct thwip of a web, followed by a brief, muffled cry. It wasn't a scream of panic, but of surprise. Peter leaned forward, his senses stretching.
A block ahead, on the flat roof of a convenience store, two figures danced in silence. One, agile and dark, moved with the fluidity of a cat — Daredevil. The other, heavier and clumsier, tried to defend himself with brutal swings that the man in red deflected with ease. The aggressor was a known thug: Ox, one of the Kingpin's occasional strongmen, with a history of random violence and enough strength to bend steel bars.
But that wasn't what caught Peter's attention. It was the pattern.
Ox wasn't attacking civilians or robbing the store. He was… retreating. Being chased. And Matt Murdock wasn't merely neutralizing him; he was guiding the brute, with precise, non-lethal blows, away from the main street and toward a dark, isolated alley.
It was a deliberate maneuver. Isolation.
Peter didn't think twice. He launched himself into the air, swinging silently on his webs until he landed on the edge of an adjacent building, with a perfect view of the alley. He crouched, becoming a shadow among the chimneys.
In the alley below, Daredevil finished the job. One last spin of the baton, a strike to a pressure point, and Ox collapsed like a sack of potatoes, snoring loudly. Matt stood over the unconscious body, his head slightly tilted. He wasn't out of breath. He seemed… to be waiting.
"You can come down, Spider," Matt's voice echoed through the damp alley, clearly directed at the rooftop where Peter was. "Unless you're afraid of getting dirty."
Peter sighed. Matt's hearing really was annoying. He jumped, landing without a sound a few meters from the vigilante.
"Afraid? Of you? DD, I've seen my aunt take on termites with more ferocity," Peter joked, though his stance was alert. "But thanks for the show. Is Ox trying to become a ballet dancer now?"
"He was delivering a message," Matt replied dryly. He didn't turn, keeping his "attention" focused on Peter. "To a police informant who lives in the building across the street. A message from Fisk. One that I intercepted."
Peter felt a chill. "Well, that's worrying, but bringing Ox into it isn't a bit much?"
Finally, Matt turned. Even through the red mask, Peter could feel the intensity of the blind stare. "Because the message wasn't just for the informant. It was a test. For me. And, I suspect, for you."
"Explain."
"Ox was instructed to be loud. Clumsy. To get caught. The message itself was generic — a vague threat. But the fact that it was so easy to intercept… Fisk wanted me to intercept it. He wanted me to know he's pulling strings in this area. Your area."
Peter scratched the back of his neck. "And what does that have to do with me?"
"Because the informant he was threatening," Matt continued, his voice low and weighted, "was the one who leaked to the press, three weeks ago, the details of the shutdown of Tombstone's floating casino. Details that only someone with access to the Shadow-Step operation files — or with very close contacts to it — could know."
The air in the alley seemed to drop ten degrees. Peter stood still. The leak to the press about the casino… Karai had mentioned, in passing, that an investigative reporter from the Bugle had published a surprisingly precise article. They had assumed it was a corrupt cop trying to stir trouble. But if Fisk had linked that leak to a specific informant, and was now using that informant as bait…
"He's trying to draw a line," Peter murmured, more to himself. "From the leak, to the informant, to you… and to me."
"To the Shadow-Step," Matt corrected. "He knows Tombstone was taken down by a new force. He knows that force is organized, efficient, and has access to information. He suspects that force may have leaked the casino details to sow chaos during his fall. Now he's testing to see whether that force will protect the informant who made the leak possible. To see if it bites."
Peter processed the information quickly. It was a move within a move. Fisk wasn't just investigating; he was setting a stage. If the Shadow-Step intervened to protect the informant, it would confirm its connection to the leak and its direct involvement in Tombstone's downfall. If it didn't intervene, the informant could be killed or silenced, and Fisk would gain leverage — and demonstrate that the Shadow-Step was selective in its protection.
"I'm the variable he can't control," Matt said, a trace of bitterness in his voice. "The stubborn vigilante who protects Hell's Kitchen and hates when people like him play with human lives. He threw me into the equation to see how I'd react. To see if I'd run to protect the informant alone… or if I'd seek help."
"And you? Where do you fit into this?" Peter asked.
"I'm the variable he can't control," Matt repeated, that same edge in his voice. "The stubborn vigilante who protects Hell's Kitchen and hates when people like him play with human lives. He threw me into the equation to see how I'd react. To see if I'd run to protect the informant alone… or if I'd seek help."
"And you came to me."
"You… and the organization you're connected to are the only other players on the board with the power to do something. And, considering you seem to have a genuine interest in protecting civilians, I thought a warning was worth it." Matt tilted his head. "The informant's name is David Kleiner. He's a contract data analyst for the Police Department. He lives alone, apartment 4B, in the brown building on the corner. Fisk won't send another Ox. He'll send someone who doesn't make noise. Maybe tonight. Maybe tomorrow."
Peter studied the motionless figure of Daredevil. It was an offer of truce, but also a trap. Matt was giving them valuable information, but also placing them in a position where they'd have to act, revealing their methods.
"Why help?" Peter asked directly. "You don't trust them. You think they're a dangerous militia."
"I don't trust them," Matt admitted without hesitation. "But I trust Fisk far less. And as disturbing as what you're building may be, so far you've protected people. David Kleiner is a person. One who's in danger because of a power game he doesn't even fully understand." He paused. "And maybe… maybe it's a test for me too. To see if I'm capable of prioritizing a life over my distrust."
There was a raw honesty in that statement that resonated with Peter. It was the same conflict he felt every day.
"We'll protect him," Peter stated, his voice firm. "But we won't fall into the trap in an obvious way. And you, DD? Staying out of it?"
Matt let out a sound that could have been a dry laugh. "Staying out of it has never been my style. But I won't interfere. I'll observe. And if the Kingpin's shadow stretches too far into this alley… well, the Devil of Hell's Kitchen has his own methods."
He took a step back, melting into the darkness of the alley. "Good luck, Spider. And be careful. Fisk isn't playing."
And then he was gone, leaving only Ox's snoring and the smell of wet garbage.
"Karai. Rook. Emergency meeting. We have a new asset to protect and a test from the Kingpin to pass."
Web, 23:17
The command room was bathed in the bluish glow of screens. The image of David Kleiner's building, along with his digital dossier — compiled in minutes by Akari — was projected at the center of the room.
"David Kleiner, thirty-two years old," Akari recited, her voice monotone like an intelligence report. "Contract analyst for the NYPD, mid-level access to logistics and finance systems. No criminal record. History of minor debts. Single. Hobby: collecting miniature trains. He was the one who processed the seizure data from Tombstone's floating casino. A coworker, bribed by the Maggia, saw Kleiner copying files onto an unauthorized flash drive. That coworker, in turn, sold the information to an intermediary… whom we traced to a shell company linked to Fisk."
"So Fisk has proof of the leak," Kenji summarized, his arms crossed. "And now he's using Kleiner as bait. If we protect him openly, we confirm our guilt and our method. If we let him die, we lose a principle and give Fisk a win."
"And if we protect him without being discovered?" Rook asked, his fingers flying over a holographic keyboard. "A ghost protection. The man would never know he was in danger."
Karai shook her head, studying the floor plan of Kleiner's apartment. "Not enough. Fisk doesn't just want to kill Kleiner. He wants to see the reaction. He wants to see who shows up to stop it. If no one shows, he assumes we're weak or that Kleiner wasn't important to us. If we show up as 'ghosts,' he may not get the visual confirmation he's looking for, but he'll know we have the resources to interfere invisibly in his operations — which could make him even more aggressive."
Peter, who had remained silent, watching the data, spoke: "He wants a confrontation. He wants to measure our strength, our resolve. But we can't give him a direct confrontation. That's what he expects."
All eyes turned to him.
"We give him a confrontation," Peter said. "But not with us."
David Kleiner's Apartment, 01:48 AM
David was awake. He hadn't been able to sleep for three nights. Ever since he'd seen that big, quiet man watching him at the bakery, a constant chill had settled along his spine. He knew he'd done something stupid. Leaking those data to the Bugle reporter. He'd wanted to be a hero, to expose corruption. Now he just wanted to disappear.
He was in the living room, trying to assemble a complicated miniature steam locomotive, when he heard the sound.
It wasn't at the door. It was at the bedroom window, which faced the ventilation shaft. A soft, almost imperceptible scrape of metal on metal.
David's heart froze. He had no weapon. Not even a baseball bat. Just his trembling hands and a model train.
The bedroom window opened silently. A figure dressed in black, slender and deadly, slipped inside. It wasn't a brute like the one from the bakery. This one moved with the efficiency of a predator. David froze, clutching the plastic locomotive as if it were an amulet.
The intruder stopped at the threshold of the living room, his eyes glinting in the darkness behind a black mask. He held something long and sharp.
"David Kleiner," a voice hissed, without accent, without emotion. "You have something that doesn't belong to you."
David swallowed hard. "I-I don't… I gave everything back…"
"Information," the intruder cut in. "You copied it. Sold it. Disrupted very delicate operations. My employer requires… compensation."
The man in black took a step forward. David backed away, tripping over the coffee table. The miniature fell from his hands, shattering on the floor with a pathetic crack.
That was when the hallway lights outside the apartment came on, flooding the gap under the door with a yellow glow. And an authoritative, rough voice echoed from outside.
"Police! Open up! We've received a report of a disturbance!"
The intruder froze. His head snapped toward the door, then to the window he'd entered through. The decision was instant. He hadn't come for a confrontation with the police. With a fluid motion, he turned and leapt back out the window, disappearing into the shaft.
David stood panting, pressed against the wall, staring at the door. The police? How? Who had called?
Heavy knocks on the door. "Mr. Kleiner! Police! Open up, please!"
David, with trembling hands, unlocked the door.
Two uniformed officers stood outside. One older, mustached, with tired but alert eyes. The other younger, his hand near his holster.
"We received an anonymous call," the older officer explained, peering into the apartment. "Said there was an intruder. Are you alright, sir? Are you hurt?"
"H-he… jumped out the window…" David stammered, pointing.
The younger officer immediately went to the window, looking out into the empty shaft. "Nothing, Sergeant."
The sergeant studied David, then the messy apartment, the broken mini locomotive on the floor. His gaze was penetrating. "Mr. Kleiner, have you been involved in anything that might have… displeased certain people?"
David nearly collapsed with a mix of relief and fear. "I… maybe. I think so."
"Hm." The sergeant gestured to his partner. "We'll take a look around the building. And sir? I suggest you don't stay alone the next few nights. And consider… talking to someone about what you know. Officially." His tone made it clear that "officially" meant Internal Affairs or a prosecutor.
While the officers swept the building, David sat on the couch, trying to understand what had happened. The anonymous call. The police arriving at the exact moment. Was it luck? Or…
From the rooftop of the opposite building, Peter watched through a pair of long-range zoom goggles. He saw the officers leave, saw the lights in Kleiner's apartment go out, the man likely locking himself in the bathroom, shaking.
In his ear, Akari's voice sounded: "The recording of the 'anonymous call' was planted in the 911 system. The officers' credentials are legitimate — they're from the night shift in this area. Sergeant O'Reilly has a clean record, known for being tough but fair. He'll file the report, but he'll keep an eye on things."
"And our 'intruder'?" Peter asked.
"Kenji is already back at base," Karai replied, a note of satisfaction in her voice. "The outfit was generic, the voice distorted. Even if Fisk has the place under surveillance, all he'll see is a masked assassin being chased off by a routine, perfectly legal police intervention."
Peter smiled. The plan had worked. They'd protected Kleiner not with shadows and ninjas, but with the very institution Fisk so despised and tried to corrupt: the police. A legitimate, public intervention that couldn't be traced back to the Shadow-Step. Fisk would know his attempt had failed, but he wouldn't be able to prove who had interfered. Just an unfortunate coincidence — a timely anonymous call.
And at the same time, they had sent a message to David Kleiner: you are not alone. The law can protect you, if you have the courage to use it.
It was a clean move. And one that kept the Shadow-Step in the shadows.
"Good work, everyone," Peter said, backing away from the ledge. "Rook, keep discreet surveillance on Kleiner for the next few days. If the police aren't enough, intervene — but as a last resort. Karai, continue the expansion into the other neighborhoods. Let's make this 'normality' so boring and widespread that Fisk will need an earthquake to get attention."
He prepared to leave, but a system notification flashed in his vision.
[Ding! Mission Completed: "Safeguard the Informant".
Objective: Protect David Kleiner without revealing the Shadow-Step connection.
Reward: 40 GP.]
[Current Total: 323 GP.]
[Note: Actions that strengthen legitimate institutions and empower civilians increase overall stability and resilience against organized crime.]
Peter felt a wave of satisfaction.
Meanwhile, in a small apartment in Brooklyn, a man named David Kleiner, emboldened by the unexpected intervention of the law, began writing an email to the District Attorney's office. His hands still trembled — but now with determination, not just fear.
In his office at Fisk Tower, Wilson Fisk received the failure report. His face remained a granite mask. The police intervention… too convenient. Too clean. It wasn't Daredevil's style. Nor Spider-Man's. It was bureaucratic. Efficient. Impersonal.
Like the Shadow-Step.
He had no proof. Only suspicions. And a reluctant, growing respect for the mind operating in the shadows.
The game continued. And the Kingpin was in no hurry. He simply adjusted his strategy. If they wanted to play with institutions, he would play too — but on a level few could follow.