Cole shifted and vaulted expertly along the crumbling brick crevices of the exterior wall, climbing like a massive gecko before slipping cleanly into the sealed attic.
He had discovered this place eighteen days ago.
Tucked away on the top floor of a derelict apartment building, its entrance had long been sealed with concrete.
Not even the most seasoned local bums knew there was a hidden space up here.
For a wall-crawling Spider-Man, however, reaching it was effortless.
He slipped through the window and set the loose wooden board back in place behind him.
The room was choked with dust, and the furniture, all dating back over a decade, gave off a damp, musty odor.
Even so, it had a beat-up sofa with working springs and a roof that kept out the rain.
Better yet, he could siphon water and electricity from the residential lines below!
For an undocumented teenager drifting through Gotham who wanted to avoid turning to crime, this was practically a five-star presidential suite.
Cole flopped onto the sofa.
The springs let out an ear-piercing shriek, jarring his tailbone.
Ignoring the ache, he hastily pulled a paper bag from inside his coat.
Before he even opened it, the greasy aroma of cheap fast food hit his nostrils.
Two cheeseburgers.
And a slightly squashed carton of fries.
These were the “spoils” of his night patrol.
Half an hour ago, an unlucky thug who had just robbed a convenience store had run straight into him in an alleyway.
The robber had been clutching his freshly purchased late-night meal, not yet able to take a single bite, when Cole slammed him onto the pavement with a textbook shoulder throw.
Dodging the man’s flailing arms, Cole had lectured him endlessly: “Hey, buddy, calm down.
Look, you rob a convenience store, I stop you from robbing it—standard procedure.
But robbing a place when you already bought your midnight snack?
That’s just unprofessional.
Do you know how slow the GCPD is?
You could’ve eaten first and then robbed it, or robbed it and then eaten.
Your sequence is all wrong, bro.
Totally out of order.”
The robber, lectured to the point of existential crisis, had scrambled away in terror without daring to ask for his burgers back.
What a joke!
In Gotham, if you ran into a masked freak with super strength who climbed walls and rambled like a lunatic, who wouldn’t run?
The system had stayed silent.
As long as it was not acquired through direct theft, the system tended to turn a blind eye to “abandoned” food.
Cole even suspected the system knew he was on the verge of starving and had granted him some leeway.
He took a massive bite of the burger.
The cold cheese and dry, hard bun tasted better than a banquet feast.
As he chewed, he sorted through the chaotic memories left by this body’s previous owner.
The original kid’s father had been Old Ma.
Back home, he had lived a decent, middle-class life.
Then, for reasons unknown, he had become obsessed with dragging his son across the ocean to chase the so-called “American Dream.”
Chasing a dream was fine, but the old man had opted for the illegal route, taking his son on a smuggling boat.
The moment they landed in Gotham—before they could even catch a glimpse of the Statue of Liberty—they had walked straight into a gang shootout.
Old Ma had become an instant sacrifice to the American Dream.
The boy had escaped the docks alone, wandering the streets of Gotham for several days before ultimately starving to death next to a dumpster.
Then Cole had transmigrated into the body, complete with the Spider-Man Roleplay System.
The original kid’s given name had been Peter; his father, originally surnamed Ma, had changed their family name to Parker upon embarking on their journey.
At the time, Cole had faced two choices.
First: go by Peter Parker, a name that seemed cursed to bring tragedy upon everyone associated with it.
Second: go by Peter Ma, which in Chinese sounded hilariously like an expletive.
A pun that bad deserved a fine!
Cole swallowed the last bite of the burger and wiped his mouth.
He had made his decision immediately back then: to hell with Peter Parker, and to hell with Peter Ma.
He was an undocumented stray anyway; why bother with formalities?
His name was Cole Vance.
In a city overrun with lunatics, keeping quiet and exploiting system loopholes was the true path to survival.
Right, keep quiet.
Just then, a pale blue transparent interface materialized before his eyes.
[Ding!
Stage One roleplay mission completed.]
[Current character persona alignment: 5%]
[Distributing milestone rewards…]
Cole perked up.
After half a month of grinding, he was finally seeing some returns.
He had assumed the system might reward him with cash, or perhaps a self-cleaning Nano Suit.
Instead, a line of text floated across the interface:
[Unlocked Ability: Organic Wrist Webbing.]
Cole stared blankly.
He instinctively raised his right arm and inspected his wrist.
Considering most versions of Spider-Man relied on mechanical web-shooters, Cole had mentally prepared himself to scavenge trash heaps for spare parts and build his own launchers.
Yet the system had simply handed him a genetic mutation.
“Thank goodness.
Saved me a fortune in material costs,” Cole muttered.
If he had been forced to acquire chemical reagents and machining tools through standard channels, he would probably have had to busk on Gotham’s streets until the year after next.
Following the instinctive knowledge that had just flooded his mind, he pressed his middle and ring fingers against his palm and aimed at the corner of the room.
*Pfft.*
With a faint hiss, a white strand shot from his wrist and latched accurately onto the dilapidated wardrobe across the room.
Curious, Cole reached out and gave it a tug.
The moment he pulled, his expression froze.
The strand was limp and soggy, like an overcooked noodle.
With the slightest tug, it snapped with a brittle crack.
The broken end had a bizarre, semi-transparent quality, looking exceptionally…
feeble.
“I’m so light even my webs can’t hold me.
Diet success, yay.”
Muttering under his breath, Cole fired off several more shots.
Each one was worse than the last.
The final shot failed to travel even two meters before drooping mid-air, splattering against the floor like a blob of unformed glue.
[System Notice: Due to the host’s chronic malnutrition and severe deficiency of biological protein reserves, current web strength is only 0.5% of normal levels.]
“Break-in period.
Right, not malnutrition—it’s just the break-in period.”
Cole stared at the smear of white residue on his wrist, falling into a prolonged silence.
After sitting silently for a moment, he punched the empty air.
This system was brutally realistic.
If he had no food in his belly, even the webs he spun were brittle.
He looked at his hands, feeling the faint warmth spreading through his stomach from the burgers.
With a sigh, Cole lay back down on the ruined couch.
Outside the window, Gotham’s night sky remained choked with dark clouds, broken only by the occasional wail of a distant siren.
Rolling over amidst the squeaking springs, Cole drifted off into a deep sleep.
In his dream, he was sitting aboard Stark’s private jet with an unlimited Black Card in hand, tearing into an endless feast of delicacies.
Batman was crouched beside him, handing him napkins and saying softly, “Cole, eat up.
The future of Gotham rests on your shoulders.”
Cole chuckled in his sleep.