On a quiet street corner in Manhattan, a little girl sat on the pavement, crying loudly.
It was early August. The weather was mild, not scorching, yet fine beads of sweat still covered the girl's forehead. Tears mixed with sweat, streaking down her cheeks and smearing dirt across her small face. Her sobs were desperate and unrestrained, drawing the attention of passing pedestrians—but no one stopped.
Then—
Screech.
A black sedan came to a smooth halt beside her.
As the rear door opened, the entire car visibly sank several centimeters, as if burdened by an extraordinary weight. A massive figure stepped out.
The little girl sensed the shadow first. She slowly stopped crying and looked up.
Standing before her was a tall, enormously built bald man wearing an immaculate white suit. His body was so large that the suit seemed stretched to its limits, yet every button was fastened neatly.
"Little girl," he said softly, his voice surprisingly gentle, "what happened? Why are you crying so sadly?"
His kindness did not match his terrifying size.
"I… I got separated from my dad," the girl said weakly, fear flickering in her eyes as she looked at the frighteningly obese man.
The man smiled faintly.
"My name is Wilson Fisk. You can call me Wilson." He pulled a white handkerchief from his pocket and offered it to her. "What's your name?"
"My name is Maddie," the girl said as she took the handkerchief. "Thank you, Mr. Wilson."
Wilson Fisk—Kingpin, the hidden ruler of New York's underworld—slowly squatted down so they were eye to eye.
"Do you remember your father's phone number?"
Maddie shook her head, embarrassed.
"We don't have a phone."
"I see…" Kingpin nodded thoughtfully. "Your father must be very worried, searching everywhere."
He extended a massive hand.
"I stand out in a crowd. Sit on my shoulders. That way, your father can spot you from far away."
Maddie hesitated. The man in front of her looked more like a monster than a savior.
"But—"
"Don't be afraid," Kingpin said calmly.
At that moment, gasps rose from the street. He tilted his head upward and pointed toward the sky.
"Look."
A red-and-blue figure swung between skyscrapers, moving swiftly across Manhattan.
"New York has Spider-Man," Kingpin said. "With him around, no one dares to hurt you."
Whether it was Spider-Man's presence or Kingpin's steady voice, Maddie finally lowered her guard. She carefully climbed onto Kingpin's shoulders.
Kingpin stood up slowly, holding her securely with one hand. With the other, he took out his phone.
"Mr. Osborn," he said quietly into the receiver, "it's time to watch the news."
"Spider-Man is heading toward Central Park."
Without waiting for a response, he ended the call.
Moments later, Maddie excitedly spotted a familiar figure.
"Dad! Dad!"
A thin man with messy hair and bloodshot eyes froze when he saw his daughter sitting atop a man whose arm was nearly as thick as his entire torso. Shock crossed his face, but he forced himself forward.
"S-Sir… could you please put my daughter down?"
Kingpin gently lowered Maddie to the ground. She squealed with joy and ran straight into her father's arms.
"Even though Spider-Man protects this city," Kingpin said softly, "losing your child is not the sign of a qualified father."
The man bowed repeatedly.
"I'm so sorry… Thank you, sir. I was distracted for just a moment… If it weren't for you…"
Kingpin placed a heavy hand on the man's shoulder.
"My name is Wilson Fisk," he said. "If you ever need a well-paying job, you can find me in Hell's Kitchen."
With that, he returned to the black sedan. As he sat down, the car visibly sank once again.
"Dad," Maddie whispered, "I saw Spider-Man."
Her father said nothing. He simply watched Kingpin's car disappear down the street, his expression complicated.
---
High above Manhattan, Batman was performing a series of exaggerated aerial maneuvers—while silently enduring the humiliation.
In Gotham, when he wore the Batsuit, every movement was optimized for efficiency. No wasted motion. No unnecessary spins.
Now?
He was imitating Spider-Man.
More precisely, he was imitating Nightwing-style acrobatics, forcing his body into flashy twists and dramatic arcs that increased air resistance and wasted energy.
He hated it.
But he endured.
Batman was no longer wearing his stealth suit. Instead, he wore Peter Parker's red-and-blue Spider-Man suit, making himself as visible as possible.
This wasn't showing off.
This was bait.
He was luring Osborn's Spider-Slayer.
Rather than waiting for the Spider-Slayer to attack at an unpredictable time—forcing him into a rushed battle in the city—Batman chose to act first.
He chose the battlefield.
Central Park.
An open area. Minimal structures. Fewer civilians.
As for the fact that it was Saturday—
Batman had already taken care of that.
Earlier that morning, he had hacked into the city's municipal system and released an announcement:
Central Park closed to the public for one day.
The announcement was later denied by officials—but the damage was done. Tourist numbers dropped sharply, leaving the park unusually empty.
Whoosh!
White webbing shot out as Batman swung forward, pulling himself high into the air.
"Spider-Man!"
Crowds at the park entrance screamed in excitement, phones raised, chasing after the familiar red-and-blue figure.
Then—
Boom!
A miniature missile streaked through the air and detonated near Batman, sending him crashing downward in a cloud of smoke.
From the sky descended the Spider-Slayer.
Clad in silver-gray armor and riding a sleek combat glider, the machine unleashed a relentless barrage on the impact site.
Its armor was sharp and angular, its silhouette twisted and insect-like—less human, more monstrous.
For creatures that could fly, fear was instinctive.
Screams filled the air as civilians scattered in panic.
Deeper in Central Park, Batman—still in the Spider-Man suit—staggered forward, deliberately stumbling as he fled. The Spider-Slayer pursued closely, missiles screaming through the air.
Another explosion erupted.
Smoke and dirt blasted skyward.
"Spider-Man" was thrown like a broken doll, slamming into the ground and lying motionless.
"A trick?" the Spider-Slayer muttered.
According to Osborn's data, Spider-Man's strength and durability far exceeded normal humans. He couldn't have been taken down so easily.
"Mr. Osborn wants him alive," the Spider-Slayer thought. "But even if this is a trap… this armor was built to counter him."
He pressed a switch.
Four slender mechanical claws extended from beneath his arms, tipped with razor-sharp blades. Long arm-blades slid into place along his forearms.
Slowly, cautiously, he approached the half-buried body.
Behind him—
Batman, already stripped out of the Spider-Man suit and having packed it with gel bombs, pressed a detonator calmly.
He had studied the Spider-Slayer with limited data.
So he prepared six contingency plans.
And this—
Was Plan C.
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