On a street corner in Manhattan, a little girl was sitting on the ground, crying loudly.
It was early August, and the weather wasn't too hot, but the little girl's forehead was still covered in fine beads of sweat, and the mixture of sweat and tears had smeared her small face, making it dirty.
Screech—
A passing black sedan stopped beside the little girl, and as the man from the back seat exited the car, the entire vehicle rose five centimeters.
As the little girl was crying, she noticed a shadow fall over her. She instinctively stopped crying and looked up, only to see a tall, stout, bald man in an oversized white suit standing before her.
“Little girl, what happened that made you cry so sadly?” he asked in a gentle voice that didn't match his physique.
“I got separated from my dad,” the little girl said, looking at the frighteningly obese man in the suit with some fear.
“My name is Wilson Fisk. You can call me Wilson. What's your name?”
Wilson Fisk, also known as Kingpin, still spoke gently and pulled a handkerchief from his suit pocket, offering it to the little girl.
“My name is Maddie, Mr. Wilson,” the little girl took the handkerchief. “Thank you.”
“You got separated from your father… Do you remember his phone number?” Kingpin squatted down to look at Maddie.
A trace of embarrassment appeared on Maddie's face:
“Our family doesn't have a phone.”
“Your father must be very anxious, looking for you everywhere,” Kingpin extended his large hand to Maddie. “My build is conspicuous enough in a crowd; you can sit on my shoulders so your father can see you from afar.”
“But…” Maddie hesitated. The man's physique was too intimidating, like a monster.
“Don't be afraid, child,” Kingpin said. The pedestrians on the street suddenly gasped. He looked up, pointing at a red and blue figure swinging between tall buildings, “Look, New York has Spider-Man. No one dares to hurt you.”
Perhaps it was Spider-Man's appearance, or perhaps Kingpin's consistently gentle demeanor that made Maddie lower her guard, and she carefully sat on Kingpin's shoulders.
Kingpin slowly stood up, holding Maddie with one hand to prevent her from falling, and pulling out his phone with the other to make a call:
“Mr. Norman, it's time to watch the news… Spider-Man is heading towards Central Park.”
Before Norman Osborn on the other end of the line could say anything, Kingpin had already hung up.
He saw a thin man with disheveled hair, eyes red, frantically searching for something not far away. Little Maddie on his shoulder evidently saw him too and immediately waved while shouting:
“Dad! Dad!”
The thin man looked blankly at Kingpin, then jumped in surprise when he saw his daughter sitting on the shoulder of a man whose arm was almost as thick as his own torso, but he still braced himself and walked closer:
“Uh… Sir, could you please put my daughter down?”
Kingpin held little Maddie with both hands and placed her on the ground. Maddie cheered and rushed into her father's arms.
“Although New York is protected by the righteous Spider-Man, losing your daughter is not the mark of a qualified father,” Kingpin's gentle voice contained a hint of sternness.
The thin man quickly apologized:
“Thank you, kind sir… I was momentarily distracted, and by the time I came to, I had lost my daughter. If it weren't for you… Oh, I can hardly forgive myself.”
Kingpin patted the thin man's shoulder:
“My name is Wilson Fisk. If you need a well-paying job, you can find me in Hell's Kitchen.”
After speaking, he opened the car door and sat in the black sedan, and the car body instantly lowered significantly.
“Dad, I just saw Spider-Man,” little Maddie looked up at her father and said.
Her father rubbed Maddie's head, ignoring her, and instead watched Kingpin's vehicle disappear at the end of the street.
Above Manhattan, Batman was performing a series of complex maneuvers in the air, enduring the psychological awkwardness.
In Gotham, when he wore his Batsuit and used his grapnel gun to traverse the city, he prioritized efficiency, avoiding any unnecessary movements that would increase air resistance.
But now, he was imitating Nightwing's acrobatic movements, trying his best to look like a true “Spider-Man.”
He wasn't wearing his usual stealth suit either, but rather the red and blue suit Peter Parker had hidden, making himself as conspicuous as possible to attract people's attention.
Batman wasn't showing off; he needed to be noticeable at this moment.
He was “luring” Norman Osborn's Spider-Slayer.
Rather than let the Spider-Slayer wreak havoc on the city at an uncertain time, forcing him to hastily don the Spider-Man suit and confront it, Batman chose to take the initiative.
Batman also chose the depths of Central Park as the battleground to avoid harming innocent bystanders during the fight.
—As for today being Saturday, with many tourists expected to enter Central Park, Batman had infiltrated the municipal system this morning and fabricated an announcement:
Central Park is closed to the public for one day.
Although the announcement itself was quickly debunked by the government, it still had some effect, making Central Park's tourist numbers even lower than on a weekday.
Whoosh!
The white webbing, specially preserved for daytime operations, shot out. Batman pulled hard on the web, and his body flew out with it.
“Spider-Man!”
At the entrance of Central Park, a group of excited passersby raised their phones and frantically chased after him.
Boom!
A miniature missile suddenly appeared from a distance, flying towards Batman with a whistling sound and exploding, causing the red and blue figure to immediately fall from the sky.
Then, the Spider-Slayer, clad in silver-gray armor and riding a glider, descended from the sky and began a barrage of explosions on the spot where “Spider-Man” had disappeared.
The sharp, menacing lines of the armor made the Spider-Slayer look less like a human and more like a terrifying, grotesque insect.
Most people's fear of insects is innate, especially when the insects can fly.
The New York citizens who had been excited to see Spider-Man scattered and fled in a clamor.
In Central Park, Batman, wearing the Spider-Man suit, was now stumbling and fleeing deeper into the park, with the Spider-Slayer on his glider in hot pursuit from behind.
As another missile was fired, smoke and dust billowed, a large amount of earth was churned up, and the body of “Spider-Man” was blown away like a broken kite, crashing heavily to the ground, motionless.
“A trick?”
The Spider-Slayer looked at “Spider-Man,” who was half-buried in the dirt.
According to Osborn's analysis of “Spider-Man,” this guy's physical fitness, strength, and agility far surpassed that of ordinary humans; he couldn't possibly die from just a few miniature missiles.
“Mr. Norman wants him alive. No matter what he's up to, I need to be careful… But with this armor specifically designed to counter Spider-Man, even in close combat, I might not lose.”
The Spider-Slayer pondered as he pressed a button on his armor. Two pairs of slender claws, slightly shorter than his arms and tipped with sharp daggers, immediately popped out from under his armpits.
Narrow arm blades extended from the outer sides of his own arms, and he cautiously approached “Spider-Man” in the dirt.
Behind him, Batman, who had already shed the Spider-Man suit and filled it with Gel Bombs, silently pressed a button in his hand.
Due to his limited knowledge of the “Spider-Slayer,” Batman had formulated six plans to deal with various situations, and this was Plan C.
