Chapter 10: Crossroads and Choices
Seraph sat quietly in the corner of a dimly lit café, the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee mingling with the low murmur of late morning patrons. His cup steamed gently in front of him, and moments later, a modest meal was placed on the table. Yet his attention drifted beyond the food—the muted buzz of the television hanging in the corner drew his gaze.
On the screen was J. Jonah Jameson, the gruff, relentless host of TheDailyBugle.net, delivering yet another tirade against Spider-Man. His voice was sharp and charged, laced with sensationalism and an unmistakable bias. Footage played alongside his monologue—heavily edited clips casting Spider-Man as a reckless menace tearing through the city's streets.
"Good evening, New York! This is J. Jonah Jameson coming to you live on TheDailyBugle.net, and we've got yet another headline reminding us why Spider-Man is the menace this city simply cannot tolerate!"
"Take a look at this footage—carefully edited, of course—to show you the chaos our so-called 'friendly neighborhood' Spider-Man leaves in his wake. Property damage, people injured, and what does our hero do? Swing away like it's none of his business!"
"Mark my words: Spider-Man's reckless stunt has nothing to do with heroism and everything to do with ego. The city deserves better, and frankly, it deserves to have this vigilante brought to justice!"
"And don't let those who idolize the wall-crawler fool you—behind that mask is a danger we cannot afford. The Daily Bugle will continue to expose his misdeeds until the truth is undeniable."
Jameson's relentless campaign to discredit the web-slinger was infamous, his fiery commentary shaping public opinion like an unyielding hammer. His reporting framed superheroes not as saviors but as threats, an incendiary voice in the city's debate over vigilantism.
Seraph's eyes lingered on the image of Spider-Man as Jameson ranted. Then, he shook his head subtly, clearing the connection. I'm not Spider-Man, he told himself firmly. This life isn't mine. It never was. In that quiet acceptance, a weight lifted—no longer bound by the shadow of another, he embraced the man he was becoming. His focus shifted to the plate before him—a small but steady anchor in this uncertain world, a moment of clarity amid the chaos.
As he ate, thoughts churned relentlessly beneath the surface. Obtaining a legal identity—and fully stepping into this fragile new existence—required money. Lots of it. And what he had now barely covered meals, let alone shelter beyond a cheap motel.
Two days. That was the window before the forged documents would be ready. Two days to find enough cash to pay Marvin's price. Two days to avoid ending up on the streets.
Seraph let out a dry, humorless chuckle to himself. Peter would totally freak out if he knew I was planning to steal, he thought, imagining the younger version's shocked, disapproving glare and rapid-fire lecture about responsibility. He could almost hear Peter's voice: "With great power comes great… no stealing, okay? Seriously, not cool." Shaking his head, Seraph smirked. Yeah, if Peter found out, he'd probably try to web-sling me straight to jail. But desperate times called for desperate measures—so stealing it was.
He nodded to himself, the cold certainty settling in. Theft—fast, effective, and definitely not on any polite superhero resume. He pictured Peter facepalming hard enough to rattle the multiverse. "Great, now I'm the villain in my own story," he thought with a wry smile. Yet, sometimes survival didn't come with a cape or a catchy slogan—just a really questionable sense of morality and the occasional stylish getaway
But from whom?
Seraph paused, chewing on the dilemma like it was the toughest decision he'd faced yet. His thoughts paced between two stark choices.
Steal from ordinary rich people—those fattened by privilege, their lives cushioned by layers of security systems, guards, and careless wealth. They flaunted their excess as if the city's hardships were someone else's problem, often oblivious to the world beyond their gated bubbles.
Or steal from those darker corners, the ones who took from the city's ordinary people—the real predators in the shadows—crooks who thrived by siphoning off the hard-earned money of the weak and vulnerable. Taking from them would be poetic justice, but it came with sharp edges and sharper dangers.
The choice seemed simple at first, but each path carried its own risks and moral complications. Seraph's resolve tightened. Whichever way he chose, the city's underground ruled by unspoken rules, and crossing the wrong people could mean every shadow turned hostile.
For now, survival was the priority—and in that sprawling urban jungle, lines between right and wrong blurred like city lights in the rain.
Seraph was still deep in thought—mulling over the risks, the choices, the blurred lines of right and wrong—when the café's television suddenly shifted focus. The sharp, unmistakable voice of J. Jonah Jameson cut through the quiet hum of the room.
"And in breaking news," Jameson snarled, pointing a finger at the screen, eyes blazing with his usual fiery intensity, "a brazen group of villains has just pulled off a massive heist—making off with over ten million dollars in assets from the Midtown Savings Bank. These criminals showed no fear, no regard for the innocent bystanders caught in the chaos. Once again, the city's left reeling from the fallout of lawlessness and villainy."
Seraph's head snapped toward the screen, the timing too perfect to ignore. His mind raced. Ten million dollars—enough to pay off Marvin's price ten times over. Enough to ensure the identity papers, a safe place, a fresh start without worrying about the streets.
For a moment, the lines between opportunity and consequence blurred. The city's chaos had just handed him a chance—a dangerous, volatile chance—but a chance nonetheless.
Seraph's mind snapped back to the present as the news segment ended. He glanced down at his untouched meal and, without hesitation, quickly finished it, the urgency fueling his appetite. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the cash he'd picked from a careless passerby just that morning in the chaos of Times Square—a small, illicit windfall that now felt like a lifeline.
With a quick flick of his wrist, he slid the bills across to the waitress. "Keep the change," he said with a grin.
The waitress smiled back, clearly caught off guard by his sudden charm. Seraph leaned a little closer, flashing a playful wink. "You know, if you ever need a hand around here, I'm your guy."
She laughed, shaking her head good-naturedly as he stood. The brief exchange lifted something light inside him, a flicker of normalcy in a life that had become anything but.
With a final nod, Seraph stepped out of the café, the city's restless energy welcoming him back into its fold.
Now walking with a lightness he hadn't felt in days, Seraph moved swiftly through the streets of Hell's Kitchen, a new plan taking shape in his mind. The news about the bank robbery wasn't just a headline—it was an opportunity.
Rob the robbers.
The thought sparked a grin. If these villains had taken ten million dollars, they were surely flaunting it somewhere—reckless and vulnerable in their confidence. Seraph's memories, his instincts, his newfound resolve all aligned on one point: this was the score he needed.
Tonight, the hunter would become the hunted.
With each confident step, Seraph's mind mapped out possible targets: the criminals' hideouts, their known associates, and the best ways to strike fast and disappear. It was risky, dangerous... but it was the fastest path to the money he needed.
The night was young, and the city was watching. Seraph was ready to make his move.