Monday morning came wrapped in a gray haze.
New York’s sky was dull and overcast, the kind of weather that made Clark instinctively uncomfortable.
He preferred sunlight—though the lack of it didn’t actually stop him from absorbing solar energy.
Downstairs, the kitchen smelled of sizzling bacon.
By the time Clark walked in—still in his pajama top with that unmistakable “S” on it—Ben Parker had already finished breakfast and left for the Daily Bugle.
Fresh toast sat on the table.
Beside it—
Today’s edition of the Daily Bugle.
Clark picked up the newspaper.
The scent of fresh ink was strong.
The headline was stronger.
“Hidden Military Factories in Hell’s Kitchen: Who Is Arming Our Streets?”
Beneath it—
A byline:
Benjamin Franklin Parker.
Clark sat down and read carefully.
The article was explosive.
It wasn’t just speculation—there was evidence.
Photos.
Clear, undeniable.
One showed discarded experimental equipment from Oscorp and Hammer Industries.
Another revealed a hidden warehouse in Hell’s Kitchen—filled with weaponry more advanced than what the police carried.
A third traced financial flows through shell companies… all the way to seemingly legitimate import-export firms in Manhattan.
The rest painted the same picture:
New York’s underground wasn’t just active.
It was evolving.
Clark leaned back slightly, absorbing it all.
Ben hadn’t just relied on a single source.
He’d verified everything.
Interviewed victims.
Tracked patterns.
Connected dots.
“Jameson’s been calling all morning,” May said as she set down a glass of milk.
Her tone carried pride.
“The phones at the office are blowing up.
Even City Hall sent people over.”
Clark took a sip of milk.
“Dad’s always been like that,” he said quietly.
“He hates injustice.”
Then, after a pause:
“…but this is going to bring trouble.”
May didn’t deny it.
“Jameson might be loud and impossible,” she said, wiping the table, “but he’s a real journalist.
Putting this on the front page?
That took courage.”
She glanced toward the stairs.
He’s going to be late for school.”
“Probably stayed up too late in the garage again,” Clark said, already getting up.
“I’ll get him.”
He pushed open the small door leading to the garage.
Inside—
Chaos.
Tools everywhere.
Parts scattered across every surface.
And in the center of it all—
Peter, wearing goggles, completely absorbed in his work.
“Planning to dismantle the entire garage?” Clark leaned against the doorway.
Peter didn’t even look up at first.
He was holding a pair of tweezers, carefully lifting a strand of white, viscous material.
“Check this out,” he said excitedly, stretching it between his fingers.
Clark immediately took a step back.
“Yeah, no.
Don’t bring that thing near me.”
The substance looked like glue.
But the moment it hit the air—
It hardened.
Into a thin, incredibly tough filament.
Peter’s eyes were glowing.
“I synthesized this overnight,” he said, unable to hide his excitement.
“Its tensile strength is ten times that of steel wire at the same thickness.”
He grinned.
“Cindy can shoot webs naturally—but I can replicate it chemically.”
Then, with absolute confidence:
“Maybe even improve on it.”
Peter’s eyes were practically glowing.
“Okay, great—so how exactly am I supposed to fire this stuff?
Just… throw it by hand?” Clark walked over, glancing at the scattered mechanical parts on the table.
Peter’s excitement deflated instantly.
He ruffled his already messy curls, clearly frustrated.
“That’s the problem.
I designed a wrist-mounted high-pressure launcher, but it needs insane precision.
I salvaged some components from those shock gloves, but the tools at home can’t handle military-grade alloys.
And if I take it to a machine shop… I risk exposing everything.”
Clark studied the workbench—the parts, the scribbled schematics, the careful calculations.
“How precise?” he asked.
“Micron-level,” Peter replied with a sigh.
“Otherwise the polymer won’t extrude into a proper filament.”
Clark didn’t answer.
Instead, he reached out.
With just his thumb and index finger, he picked up one of the metal components.
Under Peter’s stunned gaze, Clark casually applied a bit of pressure—like he was kneading soft clay.
The metal shifted.
Reshaped.
“Tolerance should be within zero deviation,” Clark said calmly, wiping his hand on a cloth like he’d just finished something trivial.
“If it’s off, I’ll make another.”
He didn’t even sound impressed.
At home, he didn’t go out of his way to hide everything anymore—but most of the time, he simply didn’t need to use it.
Peter, on the other hand, was completely frozen.
“…Clark… are you sure you’re actually Aunt May and Uncle Ben’s kid?” His jaw hung open as he stared.
“That’s not possible!”
“Shut up and finish your little project,” Clark said, smacking the back of his head lightly.
“Then go shower.
You smell terrible.
Can’t you tell?
MJ definitely can.”
Peter immediately snapped back to reality, nodding rapidly as he started organizing the parts.
“Got it, got it.
Low profile at school.
No showing off.”
Then he paused.
“…Wait.
You’re not going today?”
Clark suddenly changed expression, clutching his stomach like a kid faking a stomachache.
“Not feeling great.
I’ll call in later.
Staying home today.”
A brief pause.
“…And I’m a little worried about Ben.”
At the same time—
High above Manhattan, at the top of Fisk Tower.
Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the entire city—its wealth, its chaos, its secrets.
And its king.
Wilson Fisk—known in the underworld as the Kingpin—stood silently by the glass.
His massive, bear-like frame was wrapped in an immaculate white suit.
A glass of red wine rested in his hand.
Behind him, on the desk—
Today’s Daily Bugle.
Signed:
Benjamin Franklin Parker.
The air in the room was tense.
Because Fisk—
Was not pleased.
Standing nearby was an older man with gray hair, oil-stained clothes, and thick glasses.
Phineas Mason.
The Tinkerer.
The one responsible for turning discarded Oscorp and Hammer tech into weapons powerful enough to challenge the NYPD.
Of course, he didn’t bother with small jobs anymore.
Not when he was working directly for Fisk.
Send those stones my way—the more, the merrier.