Carol eventually took the money and found herself a hotel room, putting thoughts of mask figures aside. She might be a little ditzy, but she wasn't oblivious—she'd come to New York with a mission, not a vacation. She was a soldier. Staying sharp and combat-ready was non-negotiable.
She didn't say much to the strange Spider-Man, didn't even offer her name. A quick thank-you, and she walked away clutching her beloved merchandise.
Maya didn't take it personally. People hadn't gotten used to superheroes yet. Spider-Man had only made one public appearance—tonight. The fact that Carol had thanked her at all and stayed calm throughout was actually pretty impressive.
After that, Maya activated shadow stealth and bolted home.
Her main body had already gone to bed—it was almost eleven, and she'd only gone out to catch the fire coverage on TV. Half of Manhattan had seen that fire, and Hell's Kitchen was only a few avenues away. The shadow clone slipped silently to the bedside, murmured a quiet apology, and dissolved.
"Mmnngh—" The sleeping President jolted awake, clutching her head and hissing through her teeth.
"There's a reason the Third Hokage listed Shadow Clone Jutsu as a forbidden technique," she muttered, pressing her palms to her temples. "This mental data-dump is no joke. You'd need at least jonin-level neural resilience to handle it regularly. An average genin doing this a handful of times would end up with legitimate psychological trauma."
She lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling.
"And I've figured out Naruto's real secret weapon. It's not the Nine-Tails' chakra. His body is tough and his nerves are absurdly resilient—that's his actual trump card."
The information surge had killed any interest she had in checking her Influence Point earnings. She flopped back onto the pillow and was asleep within seconds.
The next morning at school, her classmates were still buzzing about the Frank Gardes incident from earlier in the week. The new Spider-Man sighting hadn't even managed to knock it off the top of the conversation pile.
"Maya," Nana said, dropping into the seat beside her, "that was such a horrible way to die."
"What was horrible about it? One bullet, instant death. Painless."
"That's not what I mean." Nana leaned in. "Don't you think the manner of it is worse than being tortured? If Frank got to choose, he'd rather be shot a hundred times, bleed out over hours, than die like that—so pathetically, so... theatrical."
"Nana. He was a mob boss. You're in elementary school. Should you really be sympathizing with him?"
"Did you see this morning's paper? George Stacy was cleared of all charges. More than that—he got promoted several ranks. He's a full inspector now, with the bars to prove it. And meanwhile Frank's the laughingstock of the entire city. I'm just saying—it's a lot."
"Honestly, you should be paying attention to Spider-Man. He's a real hero. Saved a lot of people last night."
Liz Black, who had been cramming at a library table nearby in a last-ditch bid to survive her graduation exams, looked up with a snort. "Are you serious, Maya? That Spider-Man dresses like a clearance bin reject. He's probably some kind of psychological case. And you like him? I didn't know your taste ran that weird."
That did it. Maya lowered her book. A mere cheer captain, daring to talk back to the President.
"Liz. I heard you failed your re-exam last week. At this rate you're looking at repeating the year. I'd skip the school dance if I were you—just stay home and study. Otherwise you might still be graduating in your twenties—practically an old maid."
"I will be at that dance, and I won't be held back!" Liz snapped, face scarlet. Clearly terrified Maya had more ammunition loaded, she snatched her bag and relocated to a table across the room.
"I mean... I kind of agree with her," Nana said carefully, sliding the morning paper across. "A lot of people are saying stuff. You should read it."
Maya scanned the column:
"We applaud Spider-Man's heroism. That said, his appearance invites analysis. The omni-directional mobility device is clearly sophisticated technology—precision-engineered, remarkably powerful, obviously expensive. Someone who developed and owns such a device has both intelligence and resources. Yet the suit itself looks like something you'd find on a clearance rack at a Halloween store. The contradiction suggests a hero with considerable capability and an equally considerable personality disorder. In short: a street vigilante with issues."
Oh, well reasoned. Want a Rasengan with that?
Maya's grip on the paper tightened until the pages creaked.
Bugle columnist James, she noted. You covered the Frank story so seriously last week, and now you're writing this about me. Daring to mock this President like that. Don't think sharing a name will save you. Spider-Man will be paying you a visit.
"Nana," she said, keeping her voice even, "whatever people say about the suit, Spider-Man is a hero. Focus on what matters—his character, his actions. Superficial things like costume choices are irrelevant. Shallow thinking helps no one."
She was mid-lecture when Matt Murdock came through the library door at a near-run.
Genuinely running. Fast. White cane in hand and technically blind, navigating by something other than sight—Maya caught the way his ears moved slightly as he swept the room.
He was at her side in seconds. He scanned the space with sightless eyes, ears tracking.
"President Hansen," he said quietly, leaning in. "Something serious has come up."
Maya clocked the curious glances from Liz and a few others. "Matt, go wait for me in the student council office. I'll be there shortly."
Matt never initiated contact with her in public unless something had genuinely forced his hand. For him to come running—and to look this tense—it had to be real. Besides, his hearing couldn't catch other people's stares; the office would be safer.
She gathered her things and headed over.
"President Hansen," Matt said the moment she closed the door, "over thirty students came to school carrying sniper rifles today. Word is they're planning a shootout after classes."
Maya's stomach dropped. "Why?"
"It's the Frank Gang. Frank was killed a few days ago, and now Hell's Kitchen is seething with unrest—many small gangs are scrambling for position. From what I've... gathered, some of them have already started recruiting students as shooters. I'm told the situation at the neighboring high school is even worse."
He gave her the broad strokes without explaining how he'd obtained the information—leaving the inconvenient question of his source carefully unaddressed.