One week later, at five in the afternoon.
The afternoon sun gilded the surface of the sea in New York Harbor, and the salty, humid breeze swept across the dock, carrying the distant sound of ship whistles.
When Damian pushed open the taxi door, the soles of his leather shoes made a crisp sound against the asphalt.
He squinted and soon spotted a bright figure in the bustling crowd—Gwen Stacy.
She stood at the boarding gate wearing a beige dress. Warm golden sunlight filtered through her hair, casting a soft glow around her that made her look almost dazzling.
"Z! Over here!"
Gwen stood on tiptoe and waved, her skirt swaying with the motion.
Beside her, Harry Osborn wore a light gray linen jacket and was taking a panoramic photo of the harbor with his phone.
Together, they looked like the perfect golden couple—effortlessly drawing every eye around them.
In contrast, Peter Parker looked somewhat overwhelmed. The poor guy was weighed down by several backpacks and suitcases, and only half of his flushed face was visible through the gaps between the canvas bags.
"Hey, Peter—are you moving your whole family here? We're only going away for a few days! Why are you bringing so much stuff?
People might think you're setting up a stall on the boat! Do you need to call a crane?"
Damian walked over and lifted a wobbly backpack off Peter's shoulder, revealing half of a pair of diving goggles tucked inside.
Peter's face twisted in helpless exasperation. "I didn't want to bring all this! Aunt May and Uncle Ben packed everything for me. What was I supposed to do? I'm just as desperate as you are!"
Harry laughed, shoved another bottle of sunscreen into Peter's arms, and said, "It's fine—just bring it! If something goes wrong on the boat, you might actually need it."
Then, turning to Damian, he added, "Anyway—here you go! This is your onboard shopping voucher from Pioneer Technology. Don't forget to use it!"
He glanced at Damian over the top of his sunglasses, blue eyes glinting with curiosity. "Z… is this it? Just this one small backpack?"
Damian looked at Harry—whose well-meaning comment had just unintentionally highlighted his own minimal packing—and felt a flicker of regret for agreeing to come.
"I checked some travel guides before leaving," he replied calmly, patting his backpack. "The ship has very comprehensive facilities and services. I really only need a few changes of clothes. There's no need to bring anything else."
As he spoke, his eyes drifted toward the Argo cruise ship anchored in the harbor, noting the positions and numbers of the external lifeboats.
"Attention, passengers: the Argonaut is about to depart. Please have your boarding passes ready and proceed to Gate 3…"
At around 6:30 p.m., the boarding announcement echoed through the terminal. Passengers began lining up to present their tickets. White-uniformed staff stood at the entrance, checking passports and boarding passes as travelers streamed in.
When it was Harry Osborn's turn, he handed over his passport and a gold-embossed ticket. The moment the attendant saw them, he straightened up instantly and said enthusiastically,
"Mr. Osborne's VIP party—this way, please!"
As they spoke, several white-clad attendants appeared seemingly out of nowhere and swiftly whisked away everyone's luggage.
Under the enthusiastic guidance of the lead staff member, the four guests—accompanied by several waiters carrying their luggage—entered the elevator.
When the elevator reached the top floor and the luxurious, carved copper doors slid open, a dreamlike scene slowly unfolded before them.
Beyond the panoramic floor-to-ceiling windows, the Statue of Liberty loomed on the horizon, and the evening sunlight shattered into millions of diamond-like sparkles across the surface of the private swimming pool.
On the 200-square-meter terrace, a temperature-controlled massage tub was embedded between teak decks, and three bottles of champagne rested diagonally in an ice bucket atop the bar.
"Harry… does this—does this even make sense?! Could we be in the wrong place?!"
Peter Parker's voice suddenly jumped an octave. He stood before the smart control panel, which flashed options like "Starry Sky Projection Mode" and "Undersea View Window."
Hearing this, Harry Osborn looked momentarily confused. He quickly pulled out his reservation confirmation and checked the suite number before replying,
"You're not wrong—this is it!"
"…Damn you capitalists! I'm joining the Communist Party! I'm overthrowing you monopoly bourgeoisie!!"
Peter threw his hands up in exasperation. He felt, quite possibly, like the cheapest person in the room.
Damian strode straight to the wine cabinet. His fingertips skimmed a row of vintage champagnes before he selected a bottle of Fuelosophy's premium grape juice.
As the liquid swirled in his crystal glass, he noticed a bronze plaque on the coffee table: "VIP SUITE 01 – ARGO PRESIDENTIAL."
Meanwhile, Gwen Stacy had rushed outside and now leaned over the patio railing, gazing up at the starry sky.
The moment the 10,000-ton ship breached the ocean's surface, countless bioluminescent jellyfish erupted from the waves churned by the stern propellers—like a sudden burst of blue fireworks.
While the passengers celebrated above, ten thousand feet below in the Cayman Trench, an ancient presence opened "eyes" absent from any biological record.
The eternal darkness of the trench fractured.
Strange streams of bubbles seeped from fissures in the seabed, and then the ocean floor began to tremble.
Whale bones and shipwrecks half-buried in sediment suddenly collapsed—as if devoured by an invisible maw.
A school of deep-sea fish, suspended in the water column, scattered in panic—only to freeze mid-swim less than ten meters away, their gills seemingly sealed by something viscous and unseen.
Thrum… thrum… thrum…
A low-frequency vibration pulsed through the water—not the roar of machinery, but the rhythmic thrum of some colossal living organ.
Fleeting flashes of phosphorescence revealed not a full form, but fragments: a shadow gliding across rock walls with a gelatinous sheen, a coiled appendage oozing fluorescent mucus.
As it passed near a hydrothermal vent, the superheated plume twisted unnaturally—as if drawn into an invisible vortex.
When the cruise ship's engine noise rippled through the depths, the scattered shadows coalesced. In the next instant, the abyss itself seemed to rise—flowing upward toward the surface.
"Huh?! What the hell was that?"
On the Argo, a junior crew member frowned at the seabed seismic monitor, which displayed a series of anomalous waveforms.
"What's wrong? Did you spot something?"
An older colleague turned, curious.
"Oh—nothing. The screen just glitched for a second. It's back to normal now."
"Good. Just double-check the sensors."
They dismissed it as a technical fault. After all, the data spike they'd just seen defied every known principle of marine biology.