"Wait! Hold the door!"
Hearing a familiar voice, Vincent pressed the 'Close' button.
But Gwen Stacy was faster. She slipped through the narrowing gap just as the doors tried to seal her fate.
"Thanks," she breathed, straightening her headband. She looked up to thank her savior, but the sweet smile froze on her face. Her eyes widened in genuine shock.
"Vincent? Why are you here?"
Vincent gave her a cool, detached look. He pressed the button for the garage level (B1) and said nothing.
Gwen pouted slightly. Clearly, yesterday's lecture had made him cold towards her. She shuffled to the right, leaning against the elevator wall and staring studiously at the ceiling, determined to ignore him back.
But the curiosity was eating her alive.
Vincent Hall. In her building.
There were only two penthouses on the top floor. Her family lived in one. The other belonged to Mr. Smith, a Wall Street banker. But her mom mentioned yesterday that Smith had sold the place in a hurry.
So... Vincent was the buyer?
He hadn't rented it. He bought it. That implied a level of wealth that didn't match the "struggling orphan" narrative the school rumor mill had spun.
Gwen tried to recall everything she knew about him. He was quiet. He beat her in grades once. Hannah mentioned his parents were murdered two years ago and that he lived with relatives in Chinatown or maybe Hell's Kitchen.
Hell's Kitchen. The place her father, Captain George Stacy, constantly warned her to avoid.
So how does a kid from the Kitchen buy a Park Avenue penthouse? What was his game? Was he targeting her family? Or was he just... completely different from who she thought he was?
Ping.
The elevator reached B1.
Vincent walked out, a faint smirk playing on his lips.
Yesterday, he had challenged her perception of him. He had planted a seed of doubt: "You don't know me."
Now, by appearing in her safe space—her home—that seed was sprouting into a jungle of questions. By remaining cold, he wasn't just being distant; he was being a puzzle. And Gwen Stacy couldn't resist a puzzle.
She was hooked. She just didn't know it yet.
"Wait, Vincent!"
Gwen realized she had missed her chance to press the lobby button. Flustered, she chased after him into the garage.
Vincent stopped and checked his watch.
"Gwen. If you don't get upstairs to catch a cab, you're going to be late."
Mentioning the commute was a mistake. Gwen's eyes narrowed.
"Oh, don't talk to me about cars," she snapped, crossing her arms. "You owe me an apology for yesterday afternoon."
Vincent raised an eyebrow. "If you mean the Flash situation, save your breath. I stand by what I said. I don't apologize for defending myself."
"No," Gwen huffed. "I mean when you sped past me in your tank of an SUV and splashed dirty puddle water all over my new outfit. Hannah saw the whole thing."
Vincent blinked. The cold mask slipped for a second, replaced by genuine surprise.
"Really? I honestly didn't see you. If that's true... then I am sorry. That wasn't intentional."
Gwen saw him soften and immediately tilted her chin up, seizing the moral high ground.
"Hmph. Just sorry? Do you know how many people stared at me on the walk home? I looked like a swamp monster."
"Alright," Vincent conceded with a charming, easy smile. "My bad driving caused you distress. How about I make it up to you? I'll treat you to dinner. To heal your wounded spirit."
Gwen felt her anger evaporate. He's actually nice when he's not being a jerk. Plus, she wanted to interrogate him about the apartment.
"Dinner is a start," she bargained. "But I'm also hijacking your ride. You're driving me to school. And back home. Since you're going anyway."
"Deal. But just for today."
Vincent unlocked the Lincoln.
"Just today? Stingy," Gwen muttered, but she climbed into the passenger seat with a secret smile.
The drive was quiet. Vincent played it cool, letting the silence stretch. He knew that the more he withheld, the more she would want. Gwen fidgeted, wanting to ask a million questions but finding his profile too intimidating to interrupt.
He's such a block of wood, she thought. I regret agreeing to dinner.
When they arrived at Midtown High, Vincent broke the silence.
"I'll wait for you here after dismissal."
"You're no fun, Vincent," Gwen teased, rolling her eyes as she slammed the door a little too hard.
The noise drew attention. Students turned to see the school's golden girl, Gwen Stacy, stepping out of a luxury black SUV.
And then Vincent stepped out of the driver's side.
The gossip mill went nuclear.
Did they hook up?
Are they dating?
Is she pregnant?
By the time Vincent locked the car, the rumors had already married them off.
"So," Hannah appeared behind him like a ninja. "Is Gwen your date for Homecoming?"
Vincent chuckled. "I hate social events. Even Homecoming."
"What if Gwen asks you?" Hannah pressed.
"Gwen is beautiful," Vincent replied diplomatically. "I can't imagine any guy in this school having a reason to say no to her."
Hannah grinned. "Better get a tux, buddy. Prom invitations are basically marriage proposals in high school."
Vincent waved her off. His mind wasn't on the dance. It was on the market.
Stark Industries had stabilized. It was hovering at the bottom. It was time to re-enter. He needed to position himself for the long haul. His wealth growth depended on Tony Stark's success.
"If I miss this window, I'll have to find other revenue streams," he mused. "Like robbing criminals."
System Query: Does stealing from the mob count as Wealth accumulation? Does beating them up generate Desire Points (Fear)?
That thought led him back to Hell's Kitchen. And Jessica Jones.
She hadn't called in two days. The "morning after" awkwardness was strong. She was probably hiding.
"No," Vincent thought possessively. "I don't let things slip through my fingers. Especially not her."
"Tonight. I'm going back to the Kitchen. I have a score to settle with the Triad anyway."
With his mind made up, school felt pointless.
He walked to his locker. The monkey graffiti was gone, scrubbed clean. Flash Thompson saw him coming and practically dove into a classroom to avoid eye contact.
Good.
Vincent walked to the faculty office, fabricated a family emergency excuse for Mrs. Juliet, and walked right back out of the school gates.
It was time to hunt.