The smell of the hospital was always the same: a sharp, sterile cocktail of floor wax and antiseptic that seemed designed to scrub the soul clean. But in the private recovery wing of Metro-General—a wing now funded by an anonymous "educational grant" from Isaac Maddox—the air felt just a little lighter.
Spider-Man clung to the window frame of Room 412, his lenses narrowing as he watched the steady rise and fall of Leah's chest. She looked small against the vast white of the pillows, her head wrapped in a clean bandage, but the color had returned to her cheeks. The surgery had been a success—a miracle of modern medicine that she could never have afforded, and one she still believed was a gift from Spider-Man.
He tapped on the glass, a soft, rhythmic sound.
Leah's eyes fluttered open. A slow, sleepy smile spread across her face as she saw the red-and-blue figure perched outside. She reached for the remote, clumsily clicking the button that unlatched the window.
"You're late," she whispered, her voice still raspy from the anesthesia.
Spider-Man slipped inside, landing silently on the linoleum. "Traffic was a nightmare. You wouldn't believe how many double-parked delivery trucks there are in this city. It's like they don't even care about the web-swinging lanes."
He pulled a chair close to the bed, moving with a gentleness that contrasted with his powerful frame. "How are you feeling, kiddo?"
"Like my head is full of cotton balls," Leah said, reaching up to touch the bandage. "The doctors said they fixed my kidneys and liver. They said I'm going to be able to run around again soon."
Leah, the homeless girl, suffered from severe liver and kidney failure brought on by malnutrition and neglect. Due to the timely intervention of Peter and Ethan, she was admitted to the hospital and found a donor. Of course, Isaac donating some money and letting them know to take care of all child patients helped a little.
"That's because you're a rockstar," Peter said, his voice warm behind the mask. He reached out and gently patted the top of her head, careful not to disturb her too much. "But listen, I came by to tell you something. I've got some work to do. Some big stuff with a few other heroes."
Leah's eyes widened. "Like the Avengers?"
"Something like that," Peter lied easily. "It means I'm going to be out of town for a bit—maybe a week. I won't be able to swing by for our usual check-ins."
Leah's smile faltered, just for a second. "Is it dangerous?"
"For them? Probably. For me? I'm Spider-Man," he quipped, though the weight of the Alcatraz mission sat heavy in his gut. "I'll be back before you know it. And when I get back, I want to see you out of this bed and working hard on that physical therapy. You've got to heal up so you can show me how fast you can actually run, okay?"
Leah nodded solemnly, her small hand reaching out to catch one of his gloved fingers. "I'll work hard. I promise."
"That's my girl," Peter said. He stood up, giving her one last playful salute. "See you in a week, Leah."
He slipped out the window, vanishing into the New York night before the nurse could complete her rounds.
Twenty minutes later, Peter Parker—dressed in a wrinkled flannel shirt and carrying a stack of lukewarm lattes—pushed open the doors to the Insight newsroom in Newark.
The office was a hive of controlled chaos. The printers were humming, and the air was thick with the scent of over-roasted coffee and the frantic clicking of keyboards.
"Listen up, everyone!" Peter called out, setting the tray of lattes down on the central table.
Danny Ruiz popped his head up from behind a monitor, his eyes bloodshot. "Please tell me one of those is an extra-shot espresso with my name on it."
"It is," Peter said, handing it over. He waited until Clara, Mark, and Alison had gathered around. "I'm going to be out of town for the next week. Personal stuff—family emergency back in Queens that requires me to head upstate."
Clara Hensley crossed her arms, her eyes narrowing behind her glasses. "A week? Right as we're digging into the NYPD's criminal organization crackdown?"
"I know, the timing is terrible," Peter said, putting on his best 'stressed-out nephew' face. "That's why Mark is in charge while I'm gone."
Mark Donnelly, who had been mid-sip of his black coffee, nearly choked. "Excuse me? I'm a reporter, Parker. I don't 'manage.' I observe and I judge. Usually from a distance."
"You're the most experienced one here, Mark," Peter insisted. "Go to him with everything—big, small, or medium. If a lightbulb flickers, tell Mark. If a source goes cold, tell Mark. I'm going to be in a spot with really spotty reception, so I probably won't be able to pick up your calls."
Mark let out a long, theatrical groan, leaning back in his chair. "Great. Fantastic. I'm the babysitter for a pack of ink-stained wolves." He waved a dismissive hand at the team. "Whatever. Get back to work! All of you! If I see one more person looking at me for 'guidance,' I'm charging by the hour."
Danny, Clara, and Alison didn't even blink. They grabbed their coffees and immediately began shouting questions at Mark about the afternoon layout.
"Mark, what about the sidebar for the pier fire?"
"Mark, did we get the quote from Watanabe?"
"Get out of here, Parker!" Mark shouted over the din, though he was already pulling a red pen from behind his ear to start marking up a draft. "Go handle your 'emergency' before I change my mind and quit!"
Peter grinned, giving them a wave as he slipped out the back exit. He knew the paper was in good hands. Mark grumbled, but he was the heart of the newsroom.
The night air over the East River was cold, biting through the spandex of his suit as Spider-Man perched on the very tip of the Queensboro Bridge.
He wasn't alone.
A few feet away, Daredevil stood perfectly still, his head tilted as he listened to the heartbeat of the city below.
"You're late," Matt noted, his voice a low growl.
"Had to take care of a few things," Peter replied. "And I had to call us a little more muscle. If we're going into a fortress built by a rogue AI to rescue the world's most powerful psychic, we need someone who can punch through a bulkhead if things get hairy."
"And this person is coming?" Matt asked.
"I didn't give him much of a choice. He owes me a solid," Peter said.
A low hum began to vibrate through the air—not the sound of an engine, but the sound of pure, concentrated energy. A streak of gold and blue light tore across the sky, trailing a wake of ionized air. It slowed down with impossible precision, hovering just a few feet in front of the two street-level heroes.
The man was clad in a sleek, segmented suit of gold-and-blue armor, his helmet topped with a distinctive three-pronged star that glowed with a soft, pulsing light.
Richard Rider, the Centurion of the Nova Corps, crossed his arms as he looked at Spider-Man.
"You said it was urgent, Pete," Nova said, his voice echoing slightly inside the helmet. "I was halfway to the Baxter Building when I got your 'urgent' call. Who are we hitting?"
"Not a person, Rich," Spider-Man said, standing up. "An island. We're going to Alcatraz to save Charles Xavier."
Nova's eyes flickered behind his visor. "The X-Men's guy? I heard on the grapevine he was MIA. If he's there, that place is going to be a nightmare to crack."
"That's why I called you," Peter said. "Matt provides the senses. I provide the plan. You provide the nova-blasts. We leave in ten minutes."
Nova looked at Daredevil, then back to Spider-Man. He gave a sharp, confident nod. "Alcatraz. It's a bit weird that you called me instead of the X-Men. Well, whatever, I've always wanted to see the sights. Let's go save him."