At a street corner in Manhattan, a little girl sat on the ground, sobbing loudly.
It was early August, the weather not too hot, but the girl's forehead was still covered in fine beads of sweat. Sweat and tears smeared her small face, leaving it streaked with dirt.
Creak—
A sleek black sedan pulled up beside the girl. As a man stepped out from the backseat, the entire car rose five centimeters.
The girl, mid-sob, noticed a shadow fall over her. She instinctively stopped crying and looked up. Standing before her was a towering, heavyset bald man dressed in an oversized white suit.
"Little lady, what's got you crying so hard?" he asked in a gentle voice that seemed entirely at odds with his imposing frame.
"I got separated from my dad," the girl said, eyeing the intimidatingly large man in the suit with a hint of fear.
"My name's Wilson Fisk. You can call me Wilson. What's your name?"
Wilson Fisk, better known as Kingpin, spoke softly, pulling a handkerchief from his suit pocket and offering it to the girl.
"My name's Maddy, Mr. Wilson," the girl replied, taking the handkerchief. "Thank you."
"You got separated from your father…" Kingpin crouched down to meet Maddy's eyes. "Do you remember his phone number?"
A flicker of embarrassment crossed Maddy's face.
"We don't have a phone."
"Your father must be worried sick, looking everywhere for you." Kingpin extended a massive hand toward her. "With my size, I stand out in a crowd. If you sit on my shoulders, your father will spot you from a distance."
"But…" Maddy hesitated, the man's sheer size overwhelming, almost monstrous.
"Don't be afraid, child," Kingpin said. A sudden gasp rippled through the pedestrians on the street. He looked up, pointing at a red-and-blue figure swinging between the skyscrapers. "Look, New York has Spider-Man. No one would dare hurt you."
Whether it was Spider-Man's appearance or Kingpin's consistently gentle demeanor, Maddy's guard lowered. She cautiously climbed onto his shoulders.
Kingpin stood slowly, one hand steadying Maddy to keep her from falling, the other pulling out his phone to make a call.
"Mr. Osborn, it's time to check the news… Spider-Man's heading toward Central Park."
Without waiting for a response from Norman Osborn on the other end, Kingpin hung up.
He noticed a wiry man with disheveled hair nearby, eyes red with panic as he searched frantically. Maddy, perched on Kingpin's shoulders, spotted him too and immediately began waving and shouting.
"Dad! Dad!"
The wiry man looked toward Kingpin, startled to see his daughter perched on the shoulders of a man whose arms were nearly as thick as his own torso. Still, he mustered his courage and approached.
"Uh… sir, could you please put my daughter down?"
Kingpin carefully lifted Maddy with both hands, setting her gently on the ground. She squealed with joy, throwing herself into her father's arms.
"New York may have Spider-Man to protect it, but losing your daughter doesn't make you a good father," Kingpin said, his gentle tone carrying a hint of sternness.
The wiry man apologized hurriedly.
"Thank you, kind sir… I got distracted earlier, and when I came to, my daughter was gone. If it weren't for you… God, I can't forgive myself."
Kingpin patted the man's shoulder.
"My name's Wilson Fisk. If you're ever looking for a well-paying job, come find me in Hell's Kitchen."
With that, he opened the car door and settled into the black sedan, the vehicle sinking noticeably under his weight.
"Daddy, I saw Spider-Man earlier!" Maddy said, tilting her head up to her father.
Her father ruffled her hair, ignoring her comment, his eyes fixed on Kingpin's car as it disappeared down the street.
High above Manhattan, Batman fought down his discomfort as he performed a series of complex maneuvers in midair.
Back in Gotham, when he donned the Batsuit and swung through the city with his grappling hook, efficiency was paramount. He never wasted movement, avoiding anything that might increase drag.
But now, he mimicked Nightwing's acrobatic flair, deliberately making himself look like a true "Spider-Man."
He wasn't wearing his usual cape and cowl. Instead, he had on the red-and-blue suit Peter Parker had stashed away, swinging through the city as ostentatiously as possible to draw attention.
Batman wasn't showing off—he needed to be seen.
He was baiting Norman Osborn's Spider-Slayer.
Rather than letting the Spider-Slayer wreak havoc on the city at an unpredictable time, forcing Batman to scramble into Spider-Man's suit to fight, he chose to take the initiative.
He'd selected the heart of Central Park as the battleground, a place where he could minimize collateral damage to bystanders.
As for the fact that it was Saturday, when Central Park would typically be packed with tourists, Batman had hacked into the municipal system that morning and issued a fake announcement:
Central Park will be closed to the public for one day.
Though the city quickly debunked the notice, it had the desired effect—Central Park was quieter than usual, with fewer visitors than even a weekday.
Whoosh!
White webbing, specially designed for daytime visibility, shot out. Batman yanked the line, propelling his body forward through the air.
"Spider-Man!"
At the entrance to Central Park, a crowd of onlookers excitedly raised their phones, chasing after him.
Boom!
A miniature missile streaked in from the distance, whistling through the air before exploding right in front of Batman. The red-and-blue figure plummeted from the sky.
Then, clad in sleek silver-gray armor and riding a glider, the Spider-Slayer descended from above, unleashing a barrage of explosives toward the spot where "Spider-Man" had vanished.
The Spider-Slayer's sharp, menacing armor made him look less like a man and more like some grotesque insect.
Most people have an innate fear of bugs—especially when they can fly.
The New Yorkers who had been cheering for Spider-Man scattered in panic.
Deep in Central Park, Batman, still in the Spider-Man suit, stumbled as he fled toward the park's interior. Behind him, the Spider-Slayer pursued relentlessly, skimming through the air on his glider.
Another missile launched, kicking up clouds of dust and flinging clumps of earth into the air. "Spider-Man" was hurled like a broken kite, crashing heavily to the ground, motionless.
"A trick?"
The Spider-Slayer stared at the figure half-buried in the dirt.
According to Oscorp's analysis of Spider-Man, the hero's physical strength, power, and agility far exceeded that of a normal human. There was no way a few micro-missiles could take him out so easily.
"Mr. Osborn wants him alive. Whatever game he's playing, I need to be cautious… But with this armor, built specifically to counter Spider-Man, I might not lose even in close combat."
The Spider-Slayer pressed a button on his armor. Two pairs of shorter, claw-like appendages sprang from his sides, their tips replaced with razor-sharp daggers. Narrow blades extended from the outer edges of his own arms. He cautiously approached the "Spider-Man" buried in the dirt.
Behind him, Batman—who had already shed the Spider-Man suit and stuffed it with gel explosives—silently pressed a button in his hand.
With too little information on the Spider-Slayer, Batman had prepared six contingency plans for every scenario. This was Plan C.
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