A/N- The latter half of the chapter somehow got formatted incorrectly, I have fixed it a little bit I apologize If there's trouble in reading it.
INTERLUDE
1st Person POV
Robbie Moss
Captain 7th Precinct
I leaned back in my chair, the synthetic leather groaning beneath my weight. The flickering fluorescent light above buzzed faintly, adding to the growing headache pounding at the back of my skull.
Before me, spread across my cluttered desk, was a stack of reports I had no idea how to process. The words blurred together, but the message was clear enough—Daniel Kaufman, aka Shaky Kaufman, and Frank Zapuder, aka Filthy Frankie, were in custody, along with a hefty chunk of their operations.
Drugs. Weapons. Money.
The kind of bust that would normally get a cop a commendation, maybe even a promotion.
Instead, all I felt was exhaustion.
I sighed and tossed the file onto the growing stack of problems I couldn't fix.
The reason for my exhaustion was the fact that these arrests weren't made with honest police work.
Not through some NYPD sting. Not through months of careful investigation.
No, these were done because some unknown nutjob hijacked our precinct's system, locked us out of every database, and plastered a single message across every screen:
"Either you go to Daniel's Inferno and make the necessary arrests, or this whole mess goes live on the NYPD website."
That was it. No demands, no threats, no traceable signal.
And after spending enough years in this city dealing with costumed freaks and unhinged vigilantes, I knew—whoever was behind this wasn't bluffing.
So, with no other choice, I led my officers into Daniel's Inferno like we were actually doing our damn jobs.
We made the arrests. We bagged the drugs, the weapons, the money. The gangsters were already battered and broken, lined up neatly for us like we were picking up an order at a drive-thru.
I had never seen my officers more confused.
Because this wasn't how M-Town worked.
Criminals didn't just get delivered like this. We weren't handed piles of evidence in neatly stacked bundles. And we damn sure weren't forced into enforcing the law.
M-Town was a black hole in the NYPD's priorities. A place politicians and brass pretended to care about while making sure it stayed ignored.
Yet now, someone had kicked over the anthill, and the roaches were scurrying.
I flipped through the report, my own pen scribbles filling the margins with half-finished thoughts.
Because this wasn't just some hacker showing off. This wasn't just some masked vigilante with a grudge.
This was organized.
Someone out there—someone who knew exactly how to break the system—was making calculated, deliberate moves against M-Town's criminal underbelly.
And the worst part?
I should be pissed.
Hell, I am pissed.
This guy—whoever they are—is making my life a living nightmare.
First, I got dumped in this precinct as punishment for doing my damn job—taking down a few of Kingpin's low-level lieutenants in a sting. I should have seen it coming. Nobody in this department actually wants to go after Fisk. The moment my operation got too close, I got reassigned.
A year ago, I was on a task force targeting organized crime. It was thankless work, but we were making progress. Then I made a mistake—a big one.
I arrested the wrong guys.
A sting operation bagged several of Wilson Fisk's low-level lieutenants, and before I could even process the paperwork, I got a transfer notice. No warning. No chance to fight it. Just a handshake, a hollow "good luck," and a one-way ticket to the 7th Precinct.
"You're needed in a different district, Moss."
Yeah. Right.
I knew a dead-end post when I saw one.
They threw me into the 7th Precinct.
M-Town.
The worst precinct in the city.
You'd think with the highest crime rate in NYC, we'd get the most resources, the most officers, the best equipment.
Nope.
Instead, we get outdated cruisers that break down every other week. We get a staff so short-handed we can't even manage full patrols. Half the guys here have already checked out mentally, just riding out their time until they can retire or transfer.
Because no one wants to be here.
M-Town is chaos. It's impossible to police the way we police anywhere else.
A normal criminal? You chase them down, cuff them, book them.
A mutant criminal?
What if they can phase through walls? What if they can bend light and make themselves invisible? What if they can shoot electricity from their fingers, melt steel with their spit, or—God help me—possess people?
Standard riot tactics? Worthless.
Hostage negotiations? Useless when the suspect can make you shoot yourself.
Even a simple arrest is a gamble. If a suspect has enhanced strength, four officers aren't enough. If they have an unknown mutation? Forget it.
And the worst part?
No support.
None.
The city abandoned M-Town years ago. Politicians talk big about "mutant rights," but they don't send funding. The department barely gives us enough officers to cover basic patrols, let alone deal with the mutant gangs that run entire neighborhoods like warlords.
And then there's the drugs.
M-Town is the epicenter of mutant narcotics—Kick, MGH, Blink, Flux.
Stuff that should have federal task forces raiding every major supplier.
But when I tried looking into it?
The Chief himself called me.
Not a lieutenant. Not Internal Affairs. The Chief of Police.
And the message was crystal clear: Drop it. Now.
I knew what would happen if I didn't.
So I let it go.
And then a few nights ago, one of the biggest Kick distribution centers went up in black flames.
Witnesses said they saw a man in dark clothing escaping, right after fighting another mutant.
Great.
Then last night? Kaufman's whole damn operation got dismantled.
Fights. Gunfire. Bodies dropping all over the place.
And then, a few hours later?
Someone—probably the same bastard—delivers Kaufman and Frankie like a neatly wrapped gift, complete with video footage of their crimes, forcing me to deal with it.
Now I've got Internal Affairs breathing down my neck, asking why the hell we weren't already investigating this.
I sighed, tossing the report onto my desk.
This guy, whoever he is? He can go straight to hell for making my life harder.
But deep down?
Some ugly little part of me is glad.
Because at least someone is doing something.
At least someone isn't sitting on their ass, watching this place rot.
I just hope—God help me, I really do—that they don't make this situation even worse.
Daily Bugle morning editorial peace
Ladies and gentlemen, New York City is under attack.
No, I'm not talking about another alien invasion or some dimension-hopping lunatic threatening to turn Times Square into a giant Rubik's Cube. I'm talking about something far more insidious, something happening right under our noses—and once again, our so-called "heroes" are nowhere to be found.
For the past four nights, Mutant Town has become a war zone. It started with a mysterious fire at a warehouse—a fire that, according to eyewitness accounts, burned with black flames. Now, I don't know about you, but last I checked, fire isn't supposed to be black. That's not normal. That's supervillain nonsense.
Then, not even a day later, we get reports of a full-scale battle at one of the city's seediest nightclubs, Daniel's Inferno. Security footage—conveniently leaked online—shows men being thrown through walls, bullets ricocheting off what looks like some kind of advanced body armor, and a one-man army tearing through the place like a wrecking ball with a grudge.
And if that wasn't enough?
Two of M-Town's biggest crime lords—Daniel Kaufman and Frank "Filthy Frankie" Zapuder—were dumped on the NYPD's doorstep, tied up like Christmas presents. Oh, and did I mention that their clubs were also ransacked, their stashes of drugs, weapons, and dirty money all left in a nice, neat pile for the cops to pick up?
Sounds like something straight out of a comic book, doesn't it?
Well, folks, I have a theory.
You know who this sounds like?
Spider-Man.
That's right.
For years, I've been telling you that masked vigilantes like Spider-Man create more problems than they solve. They run around the city, acting like they're above the law, like they get to decide who's guilty and who isn't. They leave behind piles of unconscious criminals and expect the police to clean up their mess—all while dodging any responsibility for the destruction they cause.
And now?
Now, it looks like our favorite wall-crawling menace has inspired a new breed of vigilante.
This one doesn't swing from webs. He doesn't wear bright colors or crack jokes.
No, this one hides in the shadows. He moves like a ghost, striking hard and disappearing before anyone can stop him.
And worst of all?
He's winning.
The police have no idea who he is. The gangs are terrified. The criminal underworld—normally so entrenched in M-Town that not even the NYPD can root them out—is suddenly collapsing overnight.
Now, I know what some of you bleeding hearts are thinking: "But Jameson, isn't this a good thing? Aren't these people criminals? Doesn't this mean M-Town is safer?"
To that, I say wake up.
This isn't law and order. This isn't justice.
This is chaos.
We don't know who this guy is, what his endgame is, or how far he's willing to go.
Because let me tell you something, folks—when you start letting vigilantes run the city, it doesn't stop at the bad guys.
It never does.
Mark my words: today, he's going after criminals. Tomorrow, he's deciding who else deserves to be punished.
And when that happens, don't come crying to me.
I warned you about Spider-Man.
I'm warning you now about this new menace.
And if the so-called "heroes" of this city won't do anything about it?
Then maybe it's time the Bugle started calling for someone who will.
—J. Jonah Jameson
Editor-in-Chief, The Daily Bugle.
___________________________________________________________________________
1st Person POV
Nia Solano
M-Town is loud.
Not just in the way a city always is—the honking cars, the distant sirens, the never-ending hum of voices in the streets. No, M-Town has its own kind of noise. It's the sound of too many people crammed into a place built for half its number. It's the sound of a thousand lives scraping by, just trying to make it to the next day.
It's the sound of desperation.
But it's also home.
I leaned on the windowsill of our tiny apartment, my fingers drumming against the peeling paint as I stared down at the street below. The dim orange glow of the streetlights cast long shadows across cracked sidewalks, and the usual night sounds drifted in—someone shouting in Spanish down the block, a couple of kids running across rooftops, the deep bass of a car stereo rattling old windowpanes.
Then I heard the scuffle.
Not unusual. M-Town has a rhythm, and part of that rhythm is fights breaking out for all sorts of reasons—territory disputes, bad deals, someone looking at someone the wrong way. But something about this one made me watch a little closer.
Down in the alley across the street, three guys were ganging up on someone smaller.
I felt my stomach tighten.
I recognized him—Jazz. The blue-skinned dealer. He wasn't the worst guy around, but he wasn't exactly an angel either. Still, seeing three guys beat the hell out of him didn't sit right with me.
I pushed off the window, already moving toward the door.
"Where do you think you're going?"
I barely got a step before my sister's hand clamped around my wrist. Selene stood in the doorway, arms crossed, dark brows drawn together in frustration.
"To help," I said.
Selene sighed and shook her head. "Nia. It's M-Town. These things happen all the time."
"So?" I pulled at my wrist, but her grip was firm. "That doesn't mean we have to ignore it."
"Yeah, it does." She let go but didn't move out of my way. "You know what happens when you get involved in street shit? You get noticed. And in this place, getting noticed gets you killed."
I hated when she talked like that—like everything was already set in stone, like there was no point in trying.
I clenched my fists, the familiar warmth stirring in my palms. It always did when I got upset. Calm down, Nia. I exhaled through my nose, forcing the power back down before it could do anything.
Selene didn't notice. She was already walking back toward the kitchen, muttering, "Let it go."
I turned back to the window.
And that's when I saw him.
At first, I thought he was just another thug. Another guy looking to carve out a piece of the city for himself. But then something strange happened.
He was walking away.
He had been standing there, watching, just like me. But instead of stepping in, he turned and started walking in the opposite direction.
Why didn't he help?
And then, he stopped.
I could see it, the way his body tensed, like something in his mind had just… shifted.
And then—he turned back.
A shiver ran down my spine, the hairs on my arms standing on end.
Did I…?
I didn't know what I had done.
But I felt it. That strange pull, the way the air felt heavy for just a second before he moved.
He talked with the three guys but it didn't look like he agreed with him.
And then, he was in the fight.
Fast.
One second, he was standing there, the next, he launched himself at the biggest of the three goons, his leg swinging in a high roundhouse.
And in that moment—I knew.
It should have been a near miss. The guy had been shifting, about to move out of the way. But at the last second, his foot slipped on loose gravel. A fraction of an inch, just enough to put him perfectly in the path of the kick.
The hit landed clean.
Too clean.
My breath caught.
That… that was me.
I knew it, the same way I knew the streetlights would flicker when I was upset, the same way dice seemed to roll in my favor whenever I was losing and upset.
I had nudged his odds just a little bit.
And then I watched him fight.
The way he moved, precise and efficient, like every attack had purpose. The way he took out one guy, then the next, barely giving them time to react.
He was good.
Too good.
And suddenly, the little flutter in my chest that had sparked when I first saw him shifted into something else.
He wasn't a hero, there's no one like that in M-town.
And for all I knew?
He was worse than the ones he just put down.
A week had passed since I saw him.
The man I might have helped without realizing it.
I hadn't told anyone about what happened that night. Not Selene, not my mom, not even Jazz—who, by some miracle, was still alive and still selling his "totally harmless" product in the same damn alley like nothing had happened.
I told myself it didn't matter.
But I kept thinking about it.
That moment when he stopped, turned back.
That kick, landing just a little too perfectly.
I didn't like using my powers but I couldn't control them when I wanted to ever since I was little, it wasn't like Selene's ability to run fast that she could just turn off or mom's cat eyes.
But this was different.
This was bigger.
And that scared me.
Still, I had other things to worry about. Like the fact that my shift at Johnny's Fryhouse wasn't over yet, and I was stuck at the register while some guy was arguing about extra sauce.
I sighed, forcing on my best customer service smile. "Sir, like I told you, extra sauce is fifty cents."
"Fifty cents?!" He threw his hands up like I'd just told him his mom died. "It used to be free!"
"That was last month."
"This is robbery!"
I deadpanned. "No, robbery would be you taking the sauce without paying."
"You got an attitude on you, huh?"
I leaned forward, smile widening. "Only for people who waste my time."
He scowled, slapped two quarters onto the counter, and stormed off.
"NEXT!"
This was my life.
M-Town was full of people who had real problems—homelessness, addiction, mutant discrimination—but somehow, sauce prices were the thing that made people snap.
I sighed, rubbing my temples as I glanced at the clock.
Two more hours. Then I could go home, peel off this stupid grease-covered uniform, and pretend, for a little while, that I wasn't stuck here.
Because I wasn't going to be stuck here forever.
That was the plan.
I was going to be a journalist.
Not the kind that sat in cushy newsrooms writing about stock prices—no. I was going to cover real stories. Stories that mattered.
Stories that no one else wanted to tell.
Because I knew, firsthand, what happened when the wrong people controlled the narrative.
My dad had been a construction worker. A good one. Careful, experienced, smart.
But that didn't save him.
The equipment he was given? Cheap. Faulty. Dangerous.
And one day, it failed.
A faulty scaffold. A long fall. A closed-casket funeral.
The company should have been held accountable. There should have been investigations, lawsuits, justice.
But there weren't, because the company paid off the right people. Because the local reporter—the one person who was supposed to expose the truth— probably took a fat envelope and buried the story.
My father's death became nothing more than a workplace accident.
Easily forgotten.
But I didn't forget.
I promised myself that if I ever got out of this place, I'd become the journalist that man failed to be. I'd tell the stories that weren't supposed to be told.
I just… needed to get there first.
And that meant money.
A lot of it.
I wasn't dumb—I knew dreams didn't pay rent. If I wanted to go to school, get a real job, actually make something of myself, I needed cash.
Enough to get me, Selene, and Mom the hell out of M-Town.
And enough that I'd never have to stress about food again.
Because, God, if there was one thing I wanted most in this world, it was to eat without worrying about the price.
I wanted to go to a restaurant and order whatever the hell I wanted without doing mental math in my head. I wanted to open the fridge and not wonder if what was inside had to last the week.
I wanted to sit down and feast like a damn queen, without consequences.
That was the dream.
And if it meant putting up with sauce guy and a thousand other idiots? Fine.
For now.
______________________________________________________________________
By the time I got home, I smelled like grease, my feet were killing me, and all I wanted to do was collapse.
But the moment I stepped through the door—
"The damn toaster is broken again!"
I groaned. "Mami, seriously?"
She was standing by the counter, arms crossed, glaring at the old toaster like it had personally insulted her.
"The toaster and the microwave," Selene added from the couch, flipping through a magazine.
"Both?"
Mami threw up her hands. "I don't know what's wrong with them! They just stopped working! And before you say it's the wiring, I checked—the coffee maker still works!"
This was not the kind of problem I had the energy for.
"Okay, okay." I rubbed my temples. "I'll take them to Marcus's shop in the morning."
"No, take them now," Mami insisted. "Before we forget and they just sit here broken for a week."
I groaned dramatically. "Mami, I just got off work."
"And?"
I sighed. I wasn't winning this one.
"Fine. But Selene's are coming with me."
Selene sighed but got up, and together, we gathered up the busted toaster and microwave and headed out.
Marcus's shop wasn't far—just a few blocks away. It was one of the few places in M-Town that actually felt reliable. The guy had been fixing things for people for a couple of years, and he never overcharged. If you were short on cash, he'd let you owe him. If you were really struggling, sometimes he just fixed things for free.
Marcus was one of the good ones.
Marcus's shop smelled like oil, dust, and old circuitry. The kind of smell that clung to your clothes if you stayed too long. The overhead light flickered once, buzzing softly, like it was deciding whether or not it wanted to work today.
It was a small, cluttered space—barely enough room to move without knocking something over. Shelves lined the walls, packed with old radios, busted TVs, half-disassembled coffee makers, and whatever else people in M-Town couldn't afford to throw away.
Marcus was standing behind the counter, wiping grease off his hands with an old rag. When he spotted us, his gruff expression softened into something that almost resembled a smile.
"Well, well, if it ain't the Solano girls," he said, tossing the rag onto the counter. "What's broken now?"
Got some casualties for you," I said, setting the toaster down. Selene followed, dropping the microwave onto the counter with a loud thud.
Marcus sighed, rubbing his temples. "You ever think about just not using appliances? Maybe your family's cursed."
"Nah," I said, "you just don't fix them right the first time."
Marcus smirked. "Smartass."
That's when I noticed him.
Standing near the back, listening intently to Marcus.
But up close, I could see how built he was. His frame was broad, shoulders strong. He carried himself with that same presence he had that evening in the alley—like he could handle himself in any fight.
And yet, here he was.
Working for Marcus.
I frowned.
What the hell was he doing here?
Before I could dwell on it too much, Marcus waved him over. "Hey, AJ! Come take a look at this toaster."
AJ?
So that was his name.
He walked over, rolling his sleeves up, and I was once again reminded that this dude was built like a brick wall.
Marcus handed him the toaster. "Alright, first step is figuring out what's wrong with it. No point fixing something if you don't know what's busted. So—what's the first thing you check?"
AJ studied the toaster in his hands, his brow furrowed in concentration. "The plug?"
"Good! Now check if the cord's got any damage."
I blinked.
I'd expected a lot of things when I walked in here.
Seeing AJ taking repair lessons from Marcus wasn't one of them.
While AJ inspected the toaster, Marcus turned his attention to me. "So, kid, how's work? Still dealing with sauce thieves?"
I groaned. "Don't remind me. Some guy almost had a breakdown over extra sauce last night."
Marcus smirked. "I take it you handled it with your usual charm?"
"Charm, sarcasm—same thing."
"Atta girl." He nodded approvingly before turning back to AJ. "Alright, anything wrong with the cord?"
AJ shook his head. "Looks fine."
"Good. Now, open it up—carefully."
As AJ started working on unscrewing the bottom panel, Selene leaned against the counter, flashing one of her smiles—the one she used when she was about to flirt with someone.
"So, AJ," she purred, resting her chin on her palm. "What's your deal?"
AJ didn't even look up from the toaster. "...My deal?"
Selene smirked. "Yeah. You new around here? Never seen you before."
"Just started working for Marcus."
"Ohhh." Selene played with a strand of her hair. "So, strong and handy. That's a rare combo."
I rolled my eyes so hard I almost saw my brain.
Marcus chuckled under his breath. "You got fans already, kid."
AJ didn't seem fazed. He just kept working.
Didn't blush. Didn't fumble. Didn't even react.
Selene was clearly not used to that.
I stifled a laugh.
She tried again. "You always this quiet?"
AJ finally glanced at her. "Only when I'm working."
Selene raised a brow, as if debating whether that was a challenge or a dismissal.
Before she could push further, Marcus patted AJ on the back. "Alright, let's see if you got it open yet."
I leaned on the counter, watching.
________________________________________________________________________
Three weeks had passed since the whole toaster-microwave incident.
After Marcus fixed them, Selene and I had gone home, and honestly? I didn't think much about AJ after that.
Selene, on the other hand, wouldn't shut up about him.
Not in the "Oh my God, that guy is dangerous" way. No, her biggest takeaway from meeting him was:
"I have never met a dude that dense in my life."
"You saw me, right?" she had ranted the whole walk home. "I was basically throwing myself at him, Nia! He didn't even blink. Like, come on—a girl twirls her hair and asks about your 'deal'? That's universal flirting language!"
"Maybe he's just focused on his work," I had said.
"Maybe he's just oblivious," Selene muttered. "Or—" she gasped dramatically, "—what if he's secretly some kind of monk? A hot, muscular, emotionless monk."
"Or maybe he just doesn't like you," I had teased.
Selene scowled. "Yeah, okay. Like that's possible."
I rolled my eyes and let her keep talking.
That had been weeks ago.
Now? AJ wasn't on my mind.
No, right now, it was occupied with something else, something big had happened tonight.
45 Minutes Before
The glow of my laptop screen was the only light in the room as I typed away, my fingers moving over the keyboard with practiced ease.
"Warehouse by the river goes up in black flames—was it a turf war, or something more?"
The article was for an independent news forum I contributed to—a place where locals from places like M-Town could actually get their stories out, since prime-time media didn't give a damn about us.
I had been writing on the site for a year now, covering things like:
The insane price hikes at the grocery stores here compared to the rest of NYC.The local hospital constantly running out of supplies.The fact that emergency services almost never showed up when we needed them.And now? I was writing about the warehouse fire.
Because no one else was.
A whole building burned down in M-Town, and not a single major outlet even mentioned it.
I frowned, staring at the draft. I wasn't sure what angle to take yet. Some people said it was a gang dispute, but there were rumors—whispers about some guy in black fighting at the scene before the fire started.
A vigilante? A hitman?
I didn't know.
I sighed, rubbing my temple, when suddenly—
BANG!
The door flew open.
I jolted in my seat, whipping around to see Selene practically stumbling inside, her breathing heavy, hair slightly disheveled, and her face slick with sweat.
"What the hell—?" I blinked. "Why are you sweating?"
Selene slammed the door shut, still panting.
I frowned. "Where the hell were you?"
She flopped onto the couch. "Daniel's Inferno."
I raised an eyebrow. "...The club?"
"Yeah." She ran a hand through her hair, looking dazed.
I sat up straighter. "Okay… and why do you look like you ran a marathon?"
Selene took a deep breath, then launched into the craziest story I'd ever heard.
"I was partying with some of my friends," she began, still catching her breath, "when all of a sudden, a bunch of servers ran out of this back room screaming. Like, full-on panic. And then—" she gestured wildly, "—this guy in black armor with half his face covered comes out right after them and just starts wrecking people."
I frowned. "Wrecking people?"
"I mean fighting. He took down the guards like bam-bam-bam—one guy got his head slammed into a wall, another got launched across the floor. And then—" she made a finger-gun motion, "—some idiot starts shooting."
My stomach twisted. "Shooting?"
"Yeah! It was chaos. People started screaming, running, knocking over drinks—the music was still playing the whole time, too! It was like a scene out of a damn action movie."
I stared at her. "And… you stayed to watch this?"
"No, dummy!" she scoffed. "My friends and I booked it. But while we were running, I kept looking back, and this dude—he was just tearing through them."
A weird feeling settled in my stomach.
Selene kept going.
"But that's not even the craziest part." She pointed at me. "Guess what happened 45 minutes later?"
I leaned back. "What?"
"The cops showed up."
I blinked. "...Cops?"
"COPS!" she repeated. "In M-Town!" She threw up her hands. "When's the last time the NYPD actually came here for something? Hell, if I got mugged right now, they'd take three days to even file the report!"
She wasn't wrong. The police didn't give a damn about M-Town.
If they came here? It meant they were forced to.
I leaned forward. "So what happened?"
"They arrested Shaky Kaufman."
I blinked. "What?"
"Yeah! They freaking arrested him! And by the time I made it home?" She held up her phone. "My friend texted me—they got Filthy Frankie too."
I took her phone and skimmed the texts.
The information was real.
Two of the biggest gang bosses in M-Town arrested in one night.
That never happened.
I sat there, gripping the phone, my mind racing.
First, the warehouse fire.
Now, a mysterious fighter in black, taking down Kaufman and his crew?
Could they be the same person?
And if so…
I swallowed.
Could it be that for the first time—M-Town finally had someone looking out for them?
Someone who wasn't corrupt. Who wouldn't turn us away. Who wouldn't forget us.
Could M-Town actually have a—
I hesitated before thinking the word.
A HERO.