Manhattan. Fisk Tower.
The emperor of New York's underworld, Kingpin himself, stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, looking down at the people below as if they were insects.
And he couldn't believe those insects were trying to resist him.
The last few days had been disaster after disaster. The operation had failed. Gargan had been captured. A major weapons route had been blown up. More factories were now being searched by police task forces. And what frightened him most was this:
According to Gargan's statement, there was another extremely powerful figure involved.
Someone who had used heat vision of some kind to vaporize his men on the spot.
Fisk had no idea who it was.
That uncertainty made him furious.
And, under that fury, genuinely uneasy.
"Boss."
There was another man in the office.
He wore a blue bodysuit, with a bullseye on his forehead so blatant he looked like someone's target board had come to life.
Bullseye.
Kingpin's deadliest assassin.
A killer so skilled he could turn almost anything into a murder weapon.
"How's the investigation going?" Fisk asked without turning around.
"The mechanic, Eddie Brock, got lucky. He survived," Bullseye replied. "He's in the ICU at New York General. Two SWAT teams are guarding the floor around the clock. Also, the Daily Bugle received a package. Ben Parker is already in contact with George Stacy. Supposedly, he now has the full video of Gargan and Sal's deal."
Fisk clenched his fist.
"Ben Parker..." he said softly. "That reporter just won't die. Shocker failed, so this time I'm sending you. Make sure he never speaks again."
Fisk turned and looked at Bullseye.
"As for those three little freaks in spandex, and the unknown monster behind them, I'll have Osborn dig into them. Your job is simpler."
He stepped closer.
"Go to the hospital. Kill the mechanic. Then go to the Daily Bugle and bring me Ben Parker's head. I want every newsroom in New York to understand what happens when they provoke me."
Bullseye grinned, all teeth and cruelty.
He bent one finger and flicked the paperclip in his hand.
Tssst.
It crossed the room in an instant and pinned a fly, mid-flight, dead against Fisk's desk.
"As you wish, Mr. Fisk. I'll make their deaths... artistically memorable."
Then Bullseye turned and disappeared from the office.
Now let's return to what New Yorkers currently loved most, and watched most eagerly:
The Daily Bugle.
Ben Parker was still at war, just in a different form.
There was simply too much news now. He could barely organize half of it. He'd already been working at full intensity all morning.
He would never bow to corruption.
He was a journalist.
This was the job.
Then the office door slammed open with a violent bang.
J. Jonah Jameson stormed in, an unlit cigar clenched in his teeth, one hand waving another newspaper's front-page layout, the other reaching straight for the television remote.
"Damn it, Ben! Look what those morons at the other papers are doing today!" Jameson barked, slapping the rival paper down on Ben's desk before turning on the TV and jabbing a finger toward the screen.
Ben looked up and followed the gesture.
The television was broadcasting breaking news.
A global one.
At some New York airport, a U.S. military transport plane had just landed.
The cargo door opened, and out came Tony Stark, the missing CEO of Stark Industries, billionaire, playboy, and weapons magnate, who had been presumed dead in the desert for months.
He walked unsteadily down the ramp, one arm in a sling, and when the reporters surged toward him, he said only one thing:
"I'd like a cheeseburger."
"Tony Stark came back alive?" Ben said, clearly surprised.
He hadn't expected the playboy to make it back at all.
Though in a strange way, his return might actually improve the situation in New York. At the moment, black-market Stark tech was moving through the city even more aggressively than Oscorp's.
"Yes! Not only did he come back alive, he stole every headline we had today!" Jameson began pacing around the office, chewing on the cigar so hard it clicked between his teeth.
"The whole world is watching the return of a billionaire arms dealer! Our building was nearly blown off the map by hired thugs, and now who cares? Who cares about what happened to us? Who cares about your report on the New York underworld? If Stark burps on camera, it gets better ratings than we do right now!"
Ben gave a tired smile.
That was reality.
Stark was exactly the kind of CEO who generated headlines just by breathing.
"Jonah, isn't that actually what we want?" Ben said. "Stark is drawing the attention of the entire country. That gives us cover. If we release the Fisk story tomorrow while the whole city is focused on Stark, George Stacy can move on those shell companies with much less public resistance."
Jameson stopped pacing and gave Ben a suspicious look.
Then he snorted.
"You'd better be right, Parker. Ever since Stark disappeared, the streets of New York have gone insane. You think it's just us? Their company's leadership has been a disaster. Frankly, their CEO's an idiot. He let the weapons division run wild. Half the time I think this whole mess started because of him."
Jameson was a lot closer to the truth than he knew.
He dropped into the couch and rubbed a hand through his hair.
"One of my informants dumped a mountain of craziness on me this morning. You would not believe how many freaks are crawling around New York right now. I didn't believe it either, not until Spider-Man practically landed in front of me."
Ben stopped typing and looked up with genuine curiosity. He'd heard the rumors too, but had dismissed them as urban legend territory.
"Besides the spider-themed masked kids who saved us last night, what else is there?"
"A lot," Jameson said, now fully locked into rant mode. "Hell's Kitchen, for one. Supposedly there's some guy out there at night dressed like a red devil, carrying two short batons, and beating drug dealers into the pavement in alleyways. And people are saying he's blind. Blind! Dear God, are New York gangs really losing to blind men now?"
Jameson clearly didn't buy it.
It was too ridiculous even for him.
"And then there's Harlem!" He was getting more animated by the second. "The underground fight scene up there is falling apart. Supposedly there are two kids, around Peter and Clark's age, one with glowing fists who can punch through support walls, and another built like a bull, with skin so tough bullets can't leave a mark. The gangsters running those betting rings are practically going broke because of the two of them."
He threw up both hands.
"What I don't understand is, why don't the police just recruit these people and make them cops?"