The wind screamed past Amanda's ears. She'd stopped screaming "help." She'd stopped praying. Somewhere in the fall she had simply accepted it—gone quiet inside, the way people do when there's nothing left to fight.
Then her collar yanked backward so hard she thought her neck might snap. Her arms flew out involuntarily. She grabbed onto whatever was in front of her—something solid, warm, and undeniably present—and held on.
The descent slowed. The city stopped rushing toward her face.
Amanda opened her eyes.
She was pressed against a chest—broad and muscular, those strong, powerful pecs radiating the kind of reassurance she hadn't expected from someone this slender. Embroidered on the red fabric right at her eye level was a massive black spider, outlined in gold thread. It was, she had to admit, extremely cool.
She looked around. They were swinging between skyscrapers at speed.
She looked back at her rescuer. The mask was black with silver lines, a little unsettling. The eyes—wide, smooth, almost like peeled eggs—gave nothing away. The figure was slender, but there was a quiet confidence in every movement, the kind that belongs to people who know exactly how strong they are.
He saved me. He must be young. He's probably handsome.
Amanda's face went very pink.
"Ahem." A clear, crisp voice. "We've landed. You can let go now."
The crisp, clear voice snapped her out of whatever indescribable fantasy she'd been drifting into. "Oh—right—sorry—of course, I didn't mean—thank you, really, you saved my life, my name is Amanda, I'm so grateful, I can't even—could I ask your—"
She didn't get to finish. A wall of reporters hit like a wave, shoving her aside without a second glance. Survivors were everywhere; they could interview one anytime. The Spider-person was the story.
"Hi there, Spider-freak!" ABC's Anna pushed to the front. "I'm Anna, ABC News—can I get a quick comment?"
"Are you a mutant? Also—sorry, are you Black? Your costume is red-and-black with gold and silver threading, very cool, very—um—toxic spider energy—"
"Excuse me, you're a hero, you know that? How should we address you?"
"James, from the Daily Bugle—sir, the equipment at your hips, could you tell us—"
"You—did you start this fire? Is that why you showed up to 'rescue' people?"
"Hi—excuse me—please—Alice, Fox News! You saved sixty or seventy people tonight—that's extraordinary! Can I ask—"
"Oh my GOD, that web move—you fired like hundreds of lines at once and just caught everybody—incredible!"
"Hi, I'm from the New York Times. Can I ask—did you experience childhood trauma? Sexual assault, prolonged abuse, witnessing a violent crime—something that would explain this kind of behavior? I ask because you remind me somewhat of Batman—the nocturnal vigilante profile, the costume, the—"
Maya had arrived because the call from above had turned out to be a young girl. By the time Maya reached her, she had already fallen to the tenth floor—far too fast for a Shadow Touch intercept without risking a Gwen Stacy situation, so Maya had gone over and caught her by the collar directly.
(Note from the President: Spider-Man's girlfriend Gwen died because a fast fall plus a thin web equals a bisection problem. It's the same physics as trying to hold a block of tofu with a thin string. Wide contact surface, lower pressure. That's why Maya grabbed cloth instead of using a thread.)
The young woman had immediately locked both arms around Maya's chest and then—somehow—started wandering hands. If Amanda had been a man, Maya would have dropped her from ten stories up without a second thought.
As it stood, she'd just managed to pry herself free when the reporter mob arrived.
Fine. Come on then. I'll just leave.
The last question, though, made something in her temple start to pulse.
"Childhood trauma." "Sexual assault." Comparing me to Batman. You've been reading too many comics, buddy. Your imagination is way too wild.
She could just go. But what kind of story would tomorrow's papers run about her?
President Maya shot a thread to the nearest fire truck and landed on top of it. The reporters surged toward her. She waited for them to close in, then cleared her throat.
"I'm not a mutant. I'm a normal person. You see these two boxes at my hips? I call it a Three-Dimensional Maneuver Gear—I invented a powerful gas, and flying is as simple as that. The fire: I'll leave that to the police investigation. As for what to call me—" She paused just long enough for it to feel deliberate. "Don't call me a freak. I'm New York's friend and neighbor. Call me SP."
A beat.
"That's all. Goodbye."
She was gone in seconds, leaving nothing behind but flash bursts and shouted questions.
Three thousand miles away, in a penthouse garden apartment on the top floor of a thirty-story building on the Los Angeles waterfront, Wilson Fisk stood with his back to the room, watching the television.
"Your assessment?" he asked.
A small elderly woman sat across from him, eyes nearly disappearing into her smile. "I'm not the one trying to become America's underworld king. I'm just an old woman who sells a little flour and tries to make ends meet."
"Madame Gao." Fisk turned slightly—not enough to look at her, still facing the screen. "We're partners now. I'd prefer we speak plainly. New York is the center of everything. Whoever controls New York controls the board."
Even in this setting—private, informal, just the two of them—he was in a pressed suit, tie knotted perfectly. It didn't fit his build. He looked like a bear wearing a boardroom costume. He didn't care.
Because to Wilson Fisk, this entire country was a business. And he intended to be its CEO.
Madame Gao studied him a moment, then let the smile settle into something more genuine. "Very well. Congratulations first—the fire was beautifully executed. It eliminated Frank's real inner circle, and it's set up perfect conditions for his lieutenants to turn on each other. They'll tear apart from the inside now."
Fisk's brow creased slightly. "That's not what I'm asking about."
"I know." She folded her hands. "You want to know if the man calling himself Spider-Man is the same ninja who uses kunai."
"Yes."
Madame Gao tilted her head. "Why don't you go to New York and find out yourself?"
A muscle in Fisk's jaw twitched. "You're here, aren't you? A master of your caliber, choosing to take shelter with me rather than stay in New York—that tells me exactly what I need to know about the threat level. I pulled my people out of New York for a reason."
"Hm." Madame Gao seemed genuinely pleased. "You know, in all my years, Wilson, I've met very few people worth watching closely. You're one of them. Cruel when it's useful. Patient when it isn't. Ruthless in action, careful about when to act. kills without hesitation, yet keeps his subordinates firmly under control."
She let the compliment land, then let her expression settle into something formal.
"Which is why I'm making this official. You've passed. Our partnership begins in earnest."
She paused.
"You know the name of the Hand. You don't know what the Hand is. Tonight I'll tell you everything—our origins, our purpose, and our enemies."