Early morning.
The fog over Queens had not yet dissipated, carrying a damp, earthy smell.
The gray electric utility van was still parked at the corner of the street, like a stain that could not be wiped away.
Inside the house.
Uncle Ben had not turned a single page of *The Daily Bugle* in his hands for ten minutes.
The edges of the newspaper were creased from his grip.
His gaze peered over his reading glasses, staring unblinkingly at the van outside the window.
Aunt May stood in front of the sink.
The faucet ran with a rush of water as she mechanically wiped a porcelain plate that had long since dried, her knuckles turning white from the force.
“Don’t let him in the door again.”
Leon pulled out a chair and sat down.
His voice was not loud, but it cut through the tense atmosphere in the room.
He pointed at the corner of the table—where the teacup Norman Osborn had used yesterday was sitting.
“No matter what expensive gifts he brings, or what nice things he says about Peter, don’t open the door.”
Uncle Ben took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose.
“That guy is a lunatic,” Ben said, his voice raspy.
“Even though he dresses like a gentleman, I can smell it…
the reek of blood on him.
That look in his eyes—like a wolf staring at its prey.”
Leon picked up the exquisite bone china teacup.
A flick of his wrist.
He let go.
*Clack.*
The porcelain exploded against the bottom of the trash can, shards flying everywhere.
The crisp sound of shattering made Aunt May’s shoulders jerk violently.
“He’s the tyrant of Oscorp, an arms dealer.
He has more blood on his hands than all the red ink we’ve seen in our lives.
He didn’t come today to compliment Peter.”
The sound of running water abruptly stopped.
Aunt May turned off the faucet and turned around.
She did not cry, nor did she scream.
This woman, who had raised two boys, had a fierce glint in her eyes—the fierce glare of a mother.
“Peter is still interning under him.”
May unfastened her apron and slammed it onto the counter.
“I’m going to make Peter resign.
Now.
Right this minute.”
She grabbed the telephone receiver, her fingers trembling slightly, but her button pressing was resolute.
“Don’t rush, Mom.”
Leon stood up and pressed his hand over the back of May’s hand.
The skin under his palm was icy cold, her pulse beating fast.
“Peter is fine for now.
Norman still needs Peter as a ‘battery,’ and…
while that silly kid is a bit of a nerd, he’s tough and has good luck.”
“But…”
“Leave it to me.”
Leon interrupted her.
He stood up, his teenage frame casting a long, lean shadow in the morning light.
“This home is only as big as this dining table.”
Leon looked around.
The peeling cabinets, the refrigerator covered with Peter’s certificates of achievement, and the chair Uncle Ben had repaired three times.
“Whoever tries to reach their claws onto this dining table…”
A faint, cold sneer curled up the corner of Leon’s lips, a flash of ruthlessness in his eyes.
“…I’ll chop their claws to pieces and feed them to the dogs.”
“What has happened to the world…” she muttered to herself, the rims of her eyes reddening.
“In the past, we only had to worry about whether Peter would be picked on by school bullies.
Now we have to worry about arms dealers and muggers who pop up out of nowhere.
We just want to live a quiet life—why is that so hard?”
She suddenly reached out across the table and pulled Leon tightly into her arms.
She held him so hard it felt as if she wanted to merge Leon into her body.
The lemon scent of dish soap mixed with her light, familiar soap fragrance, dispersing the accumulated violent urge in Leon’s heart.
“Listen, my little lion,” May’s voice was muffled and heavy with emotion as she buried her face against his neck.
“Ben and I know you’re capable.
Those nights…
you saved us those nights.
But you’re only sixteen.
Don’t carry everything on your shoulders.”
Ben walked over as well, placing his broad, thick hand on top of Leon’s head and giving it a rough rub.
“Your mother is right.
Protecting this family is a man’s responsibility, but it’s a responsibility I share with you.
Don’t always think about risking your life alone.
If the cost of protecting us is you getting hurt…” Ben’s voice cracked slightly, “then we can’t afford that kind of protection.
Promise us, before you protect us, protect yourself first.”
Leon buried his face into May’s sweater and closed his eyes.
“Don’t worry, Mom,” Leon replied softly.
“I’m the kind of person who cherishes his life the most.”
…
Dinner was meat lasagna with extra cheese.
Peter came home very late.
He looked a bit exhausted, but the moment he stepped through the door, he put on his usual carefree smile.
“Hey!
Guess what?
Dr.
Connors praised my formula today!”
Peter grabbed a fork, ravenously stuffing a big mouthful of noodles into his mouth, speaking incoherently, “He even said I have a chance to apply for a Stark Industries scholarship…”
While talking about cheerful things, his eyes imperceptibly drifted across Uncle Ben’s furrowed brow and Aunt May’s red, swollen eyes.
Peter’s chewing paused for half a second before he ate even louder, even letting out an exaggerated burp.
“Delicious!
May, your cooking is world-class!”
That silly kid.
Leon cut into the pasta on his plate without exposing Peter’s clumsy act.
Late at night, no night patrol tonight.
Peter’s soft snorts could be heard through the wall.
The kid’s post-mutation metabolism was astonishingly fast, and he slept like a log.
Leon lay in bed.
The curtains were not drawn tight, leaving a strip of moonlight cut across the floor like a silver blade.
He rested his hands behind his head.
The quiet of the night made his thoughts sharper, and the gentleness of the dark allowed him to think things through clearly.
Right now, too many factions were circling around him and his family.
He was not a lone ranger; he had people he needed to protect, so he could not just use brute force to sweep everything aside.
If anything happened to any one of them, he would go crazy.
He had never felt much of a sense of belonging to this Marvel world in the first place, nor was he interested in saving the world.
The people at this dinner table were his entire world.
[Tactical Analysis] activated.
On his retina, countless streams of red data cascaded down like a waterfall.
Norman Osborn was a ticking time bomb.
Kill him?
Easy.
But the chain reaction triggered by the collapse of Oscorp would cause SHIELD, the police, and even the military to investigate the Parker household top to bottom.
Their quiet life would be completely shattered.
He could only wait.
Wait for Norman to go completely insane, becoming that Green Goblin flying around on a glider throwing pumpkin bombs.
Wait until he became public enemy number one—when the time came to act, grinding him into dust would not draw any complaints.
But waiting was passive.
Leon turned over, staring at the crack on the ceiling.
Besides Norman, there was that damned utility van outside the door.
SHIELD.
Nick Fury.
That control-freak Cyclops.
Being targeted by them was like being stuck with chewing gum—impossible to shake off.
Since he could not shake them off, he might as well change his approach.
Leon sat up, leaning against the headboard, his fingers tapping rhythmically on his knee.
Fighting alone was a brute’s approach.
He did not want to be a superhero, nor did he want to preserve world peace.
But he needed resources, intelligence, and someone to keep an eye on his home’s security while he was at school.
Although SHIELD was a mess inside and riddled with Hydra operatives, they did possess real resources and official backing.
Since you want to monitor me and evaluate me, you’ll have to pay the admission fee.
Want to use me as a pawn?
Fine.
As long as you can afford the price, who calls the shots on this chessboard isn’t set in stone.
A cold smirk curled up the corner of Leon’s lips.
Dream time’s over.
Time to get to work.
…
Three in the afternoon.
The dismissal bell at Midtown High School rang on time.
Students flooded out of the school gates like sardines.
Peter still had to go to the photography club to develop photos and do a bit of superhero work in Queens on the side.
He greeted Leon and vanished in a flash—the kid had been excessively energetic lately.
Leon slung his backpack over one shoulder, standing alone by the school entrance.
He did not head home.
Instead, he turned around and walked straight across the street.
There, a gray panel van labeled “Queens Power Maintenance” had been parked under the shade of the trees for a full forty-eight hours.
Inside the vehicle.
Agent Phil Coulson was staring at the thermal imaging screen, holding half an uneaten donut in his hand, a cup of long-cooled coffee beside him.
“Target is out,” Coulson reported into his headset.
“Looks emotionally stable, no abnormal behavior.
He’s…
wait.”
On the screen, the heat signature representing Leon suddenly turned his head, facing directly toward the camera.
Coulson froze for a second.
Coincidence?
On the screen, that red heat signature representing Leon crossed the street, dodging two speeding taxis, approaching in a straight line.
No hesitation.
No probing.
“Sir, target is approaching,” Coulson put down the donut, reaching for the tranquilizer gun at his waist.
“He looks…
very purposeful.”
Nick Fury’s steady voice came through the headset, carrying his distinct raspy tone: “Stay silent.
Let’s see what he wants to do.”
Coulson kept his hand on the tranquilizer gun, holding his breath.
Outside the vehicle window, the teenager’s figure came to a stop.
The dark anti-peeping glass reflected Leon’s calm face.
He was looking inside.
Even through the one-way glass, Coulson had an illusion—the boy was looking right into his eyes.
Knock, knock.
The rhythm was light and polite, like a neighbor coming over to borrow some soy sauce.
Coulson did not move.
He was gambling that this was just a curious high school kid.
“Stop pretending.”
The teenager’s voice passed through the glass, clear and cold.
“A modified Ford E-350 chassis, retrofitted with bulletproof armor and lead radiation shielding.”
Inside the van, Coulson’s pupils shrank sharply.
“That phased-array radar on the roof is Raytheon’s latest model, isn’t it?
And the acoustic bugging device you’re using operates at 450 Hertz—it interferes with the stray cats around here.”
Leon leaned closer to the glass, a mocking smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
“The stray cats in this neighborhood were howling all night, keeping me awake.”
Cold sweat broke out on Coulson’s palms.
This was definitely not information a normal high school student could know.
Even a professional agent couldn’t see through these equipment specifications through a van’s shell.
Who on earth…
was this guy?
“Give that Cyclops a call.”
Leon took half a step back, slipping his hands into his hoodie pockets, his posture as casual as if chatting with a convenience store owner.
“Tell him I have a multi-billion-dollar business proposal I’d like to discuss with him.
About an alien who catches fire, and…
boring topics like how to keep New York City from melting under extreme temperatures.”