Battlefield.
Hulk sat up from the crater.
The ground shook.
It wasn’t a metaphor; it actually shook.
In the temporary command vehicle at the evacuation point three hundred meters away, a coffee cup jumped twice and tipped over.
Fury’s voice came through the communication channel without any unnecessary chatter.
“Initiate the backup plan.” Barton crouched behind an overturned armored vehicle, his knuckles white as he gripped his bow.
He glanced at the green giant shaking its head, then at the sparse squad of Agents beside him.
Six people.
Six people to take on Hulk.
“Director,” Barton pressed his headset and lowered his voice, “our current firepower configuration…
I’m afraid it’s not enough.” The communication channel fell silent for a second.
“If Su were still here—” “Forget him.” Fury cut off the rest of the sentence.
“Luke’s location signal is offline.
He chose to leave.
Someone who deserts the battlefield without authorization is not in my plans.” Barton opened his mouth.
He wanted to say something, like how that guy might have an attitude problem but could definitely fight, or that it wasn’t too late to go get him back.
“Barton.” Fury’s tone changed.
It wasn’t a discussion; it was an order.
“You are an Agent, not a negotiator.
Execute.” Barton closed his mouth.
He looked back at his team members.
Every face was written with the same thought—Are we going to die?
Barton took a deep breath and pulled an electromagnetic pulse arrow from his quiver.
“Listen to my command.
Spread out and surround him.
The goal is to stall for time until the containment unit arrives.” “Copy that.” Six voices, ragged and uneven.
Hulk stood up.
Those bloodshot eyes swept over the ruins, over the wreckage of military vehicles, and finally locked onto Barton, whose head was peeking out from behind the armored vehicle.
Barton’s Adam’s apple bobbed.
It wasn’t fear.
It was the clear realization that tonight’s overtime pay wasn’t enough.
Nowhere near enough.
…
Queens.
The scent of peppercorn chicken drifted from Aunt Mei’s kitchen.
Luke stood before the stove, tossing the pan with his left hand and sprinkling green onions with his right, his movements fluid and practiced.
An apron was tied around his waist, printed with a cartoon spider.
Aunt Mei had picked it up at a flea market last month.
“Seriously, Su, you should open a restaurant.” Aunt Mei sat at the dining table, resting her chin on her hand, her plate already half empty.
“Running a restaurant is too tiring,” Luke said, flipping the chicken.
“My biggest dream in life is to get off work at six, eat at seven, and lie down at eight.
Opening a restaurant means working year-round.
I might as well work at S.H.I.E.L.D.” “You say that as if S.H.I.E.L.D.
is hiring you.” Luke didn’t respond to that.
He plated the fried chicken, drizzled it with his homemade honey mustard sauce, and brought it to the table.
Beside it was a Caesar Salad and garlic toast.
Mei cut a small piece of chicken with her fork and put it in her mouth.
Her eyes lit up.
“Oh my god.” “It’s not that exaggerated.” “No, you don’t understand,” Mei put down her fork and looked at him seriously.
“I’ve been eating my own cooking for twenty years.
Twenty years.
Do you know what my pasta tastes like?
Peter said it’s like boiled rubber bands.
He said it himself.” “Are you really not considering opening a restaurant?
I’m serious.” Luke scooped out the last of the food from the pan and brought it to the table.
“Opening a restaurant is too tiring.
You have to pay taxes, deal with health inspections, and smile at customers.” He sat down and poured himself a glass of water.
“In this lifetime, I only want to smile at no more than three people.” Aunt Mei poked the back of his hand with her chopsticks.
“Which three?” “You count as one.” Luke said it very casually, as if he were reporting the weather.
Aunt Mei didn’t reply, lowering her head to pick at the diced chicken on her plate, the tips of her ears turning slightly red.
“Speaking of Peter,” Luke picked up a piece of bread and took a bite, “where is he?” “He’s been coming home very late lately.” Mei frowned.
“He says his school’s science club is rushing to finish a project to participate in some exhibition.” “Do you believe him?” “I don’t.” Mei sighed.
“But he’s not a child anymore.
I can’t lock him up at home.” The TV was on, with the volume turned low.
Luke’s gaze swept across the screen, just in time to see the Daily Bugle’s headline banner scroll across the screen.
On the screen, a middle-aged man with a flat top and a mustache was spitting while facing the camera, his face as red as a boiled lobster.
J.
Jonah Jameson.
“—This so-called ‘Spider-Man’ is nothing more than a dangerous maniac in tights!
He appeared at the conflict scene in Manhattan again tonight.
Look at these images!
The walls of the Municipal Building are plastered with his webs like a cesspool!
Who’s going to clean that up?
The taxpayers!
I’m telling you, this city doesn’t need any masked vigilantes.
What we need is law and order!” Luke’s gaze lingered on the screen for three seconds.
That Little Spider didn’t run off to help at the scene, did he?
Hulk.
Little Spider going to gnaw on Hulk.
Luke quickly ran through the numbers in his mind: Hulk’s base power output was probably over eighty tons, with no upper limit in his angry state.
Peter Parker’s web tensile strength limit was roughly five tons, and his strength limit was about ten to fifteen tons.
The ratio was about that of a professional boxer fighting a kindergartner.
Luke tapped his chopsticks against the edge of his bowl.
Forget it.
It’s not like Fury doesn’t have anyone under him.
Barton is there, and S.H.I.E.L.D.’s containment unit is there too.
It’s just one Hulk.
“New York has been getting more and more unsafe lately.” Her voice carried a mother’s unique worry.
“Look at that big green monster; it can knock down a house with one punch.
Last time there was that iron man flying around on Fifth Avenue, and that hammer—” “How terrifying,” Luke said, chewing on a rib with a sincere tone.
“These people lately, each one is more terrifying than the last.” “Do you think Spider-Man is a good person?” Luke paused.
“I don’t know, but at least he won’t blow up the whole street.
That’s already better than most superheroes.” Mei chuckled.
Luke stood up and walked to the spice rack by the stove, reaching for the black pepper grinder on the shelf.
At the same time, Mei stood up too.
“Let me help you—” Her hand reached in the same direction.
Both hands touched on the spice bottle.
The light was warm yellow, casting a shadow on Aunt Mei’s profile, her eyelashes casting a small patch of shadow.
Her earlobes were tinged with a faint pink, and the lines of her collarbone were exposed where her neckline was slightly open.
Her lips moved, as if wanting to say something, but nothing came out.
Luke’s mind was very clear.
Beautiful.
It was the kind of beauty where you open your window on a rainy day, see a woman on the opposite balcony bringing in laundry, a few strands of hair blown by the wind across her face, and your heart skips a beat.
Luke’s fingers moved slightly.
Aunt Mei lowered her head, her eyelashes trembling.
Luke felt Aunt Mei’s fingers curl slightly, as if subconsciously wanting to grasp something.
The corner of his mouth had just curled into an arc— “Bang.” The front door.
The two people’s hands snapped apart, with a speed that was even more efficient than Luke’s kick.
Aunt Mei sat up straight instantly, one hand pulling at her collar, the other reaching for a water glass, only to end up touching a soy sauce dish.
Luke lowered his head and shoveled rice into his mouth, stuffing three big mouthfuls at once, his cheeks bulging like a squirrel.
Peter Parker stood in the entryway with his backpack hanging off one shoulder.
His hair was a bird’s nest, there was a shallow scrape on his right cheek, and his school uniform cuffs were covered in dust.
He was written all over with “I definitely did not deal with Hulk outside.” Luke put his hands in his pockets, his facial expression already switched to Kind Neighbor mode.
“Oh my god, Peter!” Aunt Mei rushed over, cupping Peter’s face in her hands and looking him over.
“How did you end up like this?
Your face, your clothes—did you get into a fight with someone?” “No, no, no!” Peter retreated three steps, waving his hands wildly.
“I just, uh, fell down.
Yeah, fell down on the subway station steps.” “Can subway station steps tear your jacket like that?” Peter looked down at his sleeve, a flash of guilt crossing his face.
Luke put the Sichuan peppercorn powder back in the cupboard and clapped his hands.
“Mei, don’t worry.
At this age, boys running around and bumping into things is normal.” He walked over to Peter and patted him on the shoulder.
When his fingertips touched near the shoulder blade, he felt a raised, swollen mark through the clothes.
Hit by something.
The force wasn’t small.
Luke didn’t stop his hand, taking the opportunity to drape his arm around Peter’s shoulder.
“I bought a new LEGO Star Wars set a couple of days ago and put it in your room.
Come on, let me help you look at the instructions.
There’s a step I’ve been studying for a long time and couldn’t figure out.” Peter was stunned for a moment, meeting Luke’s gaze.
Luke gave him a look, the movement so small it was almost imperceptible.
Peter understood immediately.
“Oh!
Right, right, right, LEGO!
The Millennium Falcon one, right!
Okay, Uncle Su, let’s go look at it now!” Aunt Mei stood in the kitchen, watching the two figures disappear at the end of the corridor, still clutching the soy sauce bottle she hadn’t handed over.
She looked down at the back of her hand.
The place where Luke’s fingertips had touched still held a trace of warmth.