George Stacy stood on the third floor of the Old Shu Capital Hot Pot Restaurant, looking at the kicked-in door, silent for a long time.
Forensics personnel went in and out, some taking photos, others collecting evidence. Several subordinates were interrogating the four guys bundled up like rice dumplings by Silk—the two Black men and two Asians, their faces still showing the terror of having survived a disaster.
"Boss," a young officer walked over, "We've questioned all of them. They said a person in a red and blue bodysuit saved them, dragged them out of that room, and then—"
"And then threw them out the window?" George finished for him.
"...Yes."
George walked to the window and glanced down. The third floor, over ten meters high. The four guys were strung together by Silk, hanging outside the window like grapes, until the Police car arrived and they were let down.
He lifted his head and looked at the wall of the building opposite.
There was a white mark there—a mark left by Silk.
George's gaze followed the mark upward, toward the night sky.
Someone had swung away from here.
Someone had broken in alone, defeated four—no, looking at the traces at the scene, it should have been two batches of people. The first batch of four, the second batch… George squatted down, looking at a mark on the floor.
It was a mark left by a blade.
Very fresh.
He reached out to touch it, his fingertips stained with a bit of dark red.
Blood.
George frowned.
"Boss!" Another officer ran over, "The brothers downstairs found this!"
He handed over a transparent evidence bag.
Inside was a shuriken.
George took the evidence bag and looked at it against the light. There was blood on the blade too.
He stood up, his gaze sweeping across the entire room—traces of the fight, bloodstains, the shuriken stuck in the wall, and the marks left by Silk.
An image slowly formed in his mind.
Someone had saved those four people first, intending to take them away. Then another—or another group—came. They fought. Someone was injured.
That person, carrying an injury, had still taken those four away.
George's gaze fell on the night sky outside the window.
Who was it?
The first one he ruled out was The Punisher. That skull logo on his chest was too conspicuous, and he didn't have a no-kill principle. If it were The Punisher, those four guys would have been dead long ago; they couldn't have been left hanging outside the window alive.
Daredevil? That vigilante wearing a devil mask did indeed operate in the Hells Kitchen area and had the ability to do this. But he usually didn't leave his own turf.
Then that would mean—
A red and blue figure appeared in George's mind.
Spider-Man.
That "freak" whom J. Jonah Jameson scolded on TV every day. That guy who dumped suspects like trash at the Police station entrance. That—
The person who saved that group of Chinese people.
George was silent for a long time.
He remembered the evidence he received last night—a clear video, containing Murakami's face, and the things they said. The video was mailed to the Police station anonymously, without any tracking clues.
Just like tonight's case.
Anonymous report. Anonymous evidence. And that—
George walked to the wall, looking at the remaining marks of Silk.
He reached out to touch it, feeling its toughness and stickiness.
What is this stuff?
He had been a Police officer for over twenty years and had never seen anything like this.
"Boss?" A subordinate walked over, "Those people said they want to see you. They said they know some clues."
George nodded and took one last look at the night sky outside the window.
No matter who you are, he thought, thank you.
But he didn't say these words out loud.
In Gwen Stacy's room, Peter Parker was sitting on the edge of the bed, his face full of anxiety.
He had been waiting by the window for half an hour. From the moment Gwen Stacy said "go home," he had climbed out of his own window—anyway, climbing walls was something he had practiced enough recently—and then sneaked into Gwen Stacy's room, sitting in the darkness waiting for her.
The clock hanging on the wall moved tick by tick, each sound striking his heart.
Then the window was pushed open.
Gwen Stacy climbed in, stumbling as she landed.
Peter Parker stood up abruptly and rushed over.
"You're back! Where are you hurt? Let me see!"
Gwen Stacy was startled by him and subconsciously took a step back.
"No, it's fine, it's almost healed—"
"It still needs to be treated even if it's almost healed!" Peter Parker interrupted her, holding a medical kit—he didn't know where he had dug it out from, "I have medicine! I'll wipe your wound!"
Gwen Stacy's face turned red instantly.
"No need, no need! I can do it myself!"
"Although you have a self-healing ability," Peter Parker looked at her seriously, "but if it's not treated well, what if the wound gets infected? If it gets infected and then self-heals, it will hurt even more!"
Gwen Stacy opened her mouth, wanting to retort, but seeing the genuine anxiety and worry in his eyes, she swallowed the words back.
"...Alright."
She sat obediently on the edge of the bed, facing away from him, and pulled the zipper of her suit down a bit.
The wound on her shoulder was revealed—a deep knife wound, slanting down from the shoulder blade, and it was currently healing at a speed visible to the naked eye. The bleeding had stopped, but the surrounding skin was still red and swollen, looking a bit scary.
Peter Parker gasped.
"This... did Murakami do this?"
"Yeah."
Peter Parker didn't speak again.
He opened the medical kit, took out disinfectant, dipped a cotton swab in it, and then pressed it gently against the wound.
Gwen Stacy's shoulder twitched.
"Does it hurt?"
"...A little."
Peter Parker's hand became even gentler. He carefully cleaned the blood around the wound, his movements so light as if he were touching something fragile.
The room was very quiet. Only the sound of the night wind from outside the window and the soft breathing of the two people.
Gwen Stacy lowered her head, looking at her own fingers.
She could feel Peter Parker's fingertips occasionally touching her skin, carrying a bit of coolness and a bit of trembling. The touch was very light, but she could feel it.
Her face turned red again.
"Peter."
"Hmm?"
"Why are your hands shaking?"
Peter Parker's hand paused.
"...Not shaking."
"Liar."
Peter Parker didn't speak.
Gwen Stacy couldn't help but turn back to look.
Just in time to meet Peter Parker's gaze.
He was looking at her—not at the wound, but at her profile. Those eyes seemed very deep in the dim light, containing things Gwen Stacy didn't quite understand.
Discovering she turned back, Peter Parker moved his gaze away quickly as if scalded, his ears turning red enough to drip blood.
"I, I was looking at the wound!" He explained, his voice changing pitch, "Don't move around!"
Gwen Stacy looked at his bright red ears and suddenly wanted to laugh.
"Alright." She turned back, "You continue."
Peter Parker took a deep breath and continued his work.
Disinfecting, applying medicine, bandaging—he did every step extremely seriously, as if conducting some precision experiment. Gwen Stacy, with her back to him, felt those gentle touches, and a strange feeling welled up in her heart.
Warmth.
The warmth of being cared for.
She hadn't had this feeling for a long time.
"Done." Peter Parker finally tied a knot, "The wound is treated. Although you have a self-healing ability, you'd better not do too strenuous exercise for the next two days—"
"Like fighting?"
"...Yes, like fighting."
Gwen Stacy turned around and looked at him.
Peter Parker felt a bit uneasy being looked at, lowering his head to pack up the medical kit.
"Well... I'm going back." He stood up, "Sleep early."
"Peter."
He stopped.
Gwen Stacy looked at him, suddenly wanting to say something, but not knowing what to say.
Finally, she just smiled.
"Thank you."
Peter Parker was stunned for a moment, then his ears turned red again.
"It's nothing. We're childhood friends after all."
He walked toward the window, just about to climb out—
The door was suddenly pushed open.
Helen stood at the door, draped in a coat, her hair a bit messy, obviously just having climbed out of bed.
All three were stunned at the same time.
Helen's gaze swept across the room—the window was open, Peter Parker stood by the window, the medical kit was still spread on the table, Gwen Stacy sat on the edge of the bed, her clothes a bit messy.
Her gaze turned between the two, and then the corners of her mouth slowly curled up.
"Oh—" she dragged out the sound, "So that's how it is."
Gwen Stacy's face turned bright red instantly.
"Mom! It's not what you think!"
Helen smiled and waved her hand: "It's fine, it's fine, I didn't see anything. You two continue, continue."
She took a step back and closed the door on her way out.
A low laugh came from outside the door.
Gwen Stacy covered her face, letting out a muffled groan.
Peter Parker stood where he was, the whole person as if struck by lightning, motionless.
"I..." He opened his mouth, "I'll head back first."
He climbed out of the window and disappeared into the night outside.
Gwen Stacy heard a slight landing sound from next door—he had climbed back into his own room.
She sat on the edge of the bed, covering her face, feeling like her whole body was about to burn up.
Mom must have misunderstood.
Definitely.
And—
She looked down at the bandage on her shoulder, tied very neatly, even with a butterfly knot.
Gwen Stacy couldn't help but laugh.
Alright.
Let it be a misunderstanding.
Six in the morning, Gwen Stacy was woken up by the alarm clock.
She sat up groggily, discovering she had fallen asleep in her clothes last night. The suit was still on, just covered by a hoodie. The wound on her shoulder no longer hurt; she lifted the bandage to take a look—the skin was as smooth as before, not even leaving a scar.
Self-healing ability is really good.
She changed her clothes and walked out of the room.
Helen was already busy in the kitchen. Seeing her daughter come out, she greeted her with a smile.
"Morning, honey."
Gwen Stacy's face felt slightly warm, but she pretended to be calm.
"Morning, Mom."
She sat at the dining table and picked up a slice of toast.
Helen brought over the milk, sat down opposite her, and still looked at her with a smile.
Gwen Stacy felt uneasy being looked at and lowered her head to eat furiously.
Just then, the door opened.
George Stacy walked in, looking exhausted, with obvious dark circles under his eyes.
"Dad!" Gwen Stacy felt as if she had been granted amnesty and quickly changed the subject, "You're back?"
Helen also stood up and took George Stacy's coat.
"Did you work an all-nighter?"
George Stacy nodded and rubbed his eyebrows.
"That group of Chinese people was saved." He said.
Helen's eyes lit up: "Oh, honey, you're amazing!"
George Stacy looked at her and was silent for two seconds.
"...It wasn't us who did it."
Helen was stunned.
Gwen Stacy kept her head down, pretending to be focused on eating toast, but her ears were pricked up high.
George Stacy walked to the sofa and sat down, turning on the TV.
The morning news had just started.
J. Jonah Jameson's face appeared on the screen, as impassioned as ever.
"Take a look, New York City citizens! Look at what that so-called 'hero' did again last night!"
The screen switched to the entrance of the Old Shu Capital Hot Pot Restaurant—Police cars, Police tape, Police going in and out.
"She broke into private property, attacked civilians, and then walked away! Is this law enforcement? This is a crime!"
Gwen Stacy took a bite of toast, expressionless.
Used to it.
Really used to it.
J. Jonah Jameson continued: "Those people 'rescued' by her, who knows if they are her accomplices? Who knows if this is a self-directed farce? We in New York don't need this lawless masked freak! What we need is a real law enforcer, not—"
George Stacy turned off the TV.
The living room was quiet for a few seconds.
"Let's eat." He said.
Gwen Stacy looked at him and said nothing.
After eating, Gwen Stacy grabbed her school bag and prepared to go out.
"I'm leaving."
"Be careful on the road." Helen replied from the kitchen.
Gwen Stacy opened the door and found Peter Parker was already standing at the door.
He had his back to her, looking at the maple tree across the street, not knowing what he was thinking. Hearing the door open, he turned around, his ears red again.
"Morning, Gwen."
Gwen Stacy looked at his bright red ears and suddenly wanted to laugh.
"Morning, Peter."
The two walked side by side toward school.
When they reached the street corner, Gwen Stacy looked back.
George Stacy was standing at the door, watching them.
That gaze—Gwen Stacy couldn't say what it felt like. It seemed a bit complicated.
She waved at him.
George Stacy also waved, but the expression on his face...
Gwen Stacy thought about it, didn't figure it out, and just continued walking forward.
Behind her, George Stacy stood at the door, watching the two figures disappear around the street corner, silent for a long time.
Helen came out and stood beside him.
"Saw it?" She asked with a smile.
George Stacy didn't speak.
Helen took his arm: "Girls grow up and don't stay."
George Stacy finally spoke, his voice muffled.
"She's still young."
"Seventeen."
"Seventeen is also young."
Helen laughed out loud.
George Stacy looked at the empty street corner and suddenly had a strange feeling.
He remembered when Gwen Stacy was little, riding on his shoulders, hugging his head, laughing gigglingly. Remembered her first day of school, clutching his fingers tightly, refusing to let go no matter what. Remembered the way she ran home to show him first every time she got an award.
Now she had grown up.
Had someone she liked.
Would hide some things from him.
George Stacy was silent for a long time.
Then he sighed softly.
"That kid," he said, "had better treat her well."
Helen smiled and patted his back.
"He will."
George Stacy turned and walked back into the house.
When he reached the door, he suddenly stopped.
"By the way," he said, "that case last night, there's something very strange."
Helen looked at him.
George Stacy's gaze fell into the distance, thoughtful.
"Those four rescued people said that the one who saved them was Spider-Man. But there were signs of fighting at the scene, and bloodstains. Someone was injured."
He paused.
"That injured person, carrying an injury, still took those four away."
Helen was stunned: "You mean…"
George Stacy shook his head and didn't continue.
He walked into the house, leaving Helen standing at the door alone.
Morning light shone on the empty street corner, dyeing everything gold.
Helen looked at the road where Gwen Stacy and Peter Parker had disappeared, suddenly remembering the scene she saw last night—
Peter Parker standing by the window, the medical kit spread out, Gwen Stacy sitting on the edge of the bed. That boy bandaging her daughter's wound, his movements so light, so careful.
She smiled.
No matter who that Spider-Man is, no matter what happened last night—
At least her daughter, someone cares.