At this time, the commotion finally attracted the attention of Damian, Peter Parker, Gwen Stacy, and others.
Gwen Stacy turned around—and when she saw the figure rushing through the crowd, her pupils shrank to the size of pinpricks.
"Dad… Dad? Dad!!"
At first, she wasn't sure, so her voice was soft. But as recognition dawned, she shouted loudly.
The bodyguard captain pressed his intercom and barked:
"Sector B needs reinforcements—the target is threatening—"
Before he could finish, Norman Osborn raised a hand to stop him.
"That's Captain Stacy. Let him through."
Hearing Gwen's voice, George Stacy immediately released the bodyguard he'd been holding. His fierce, wolf-like intensity vanished in an instant, replaced by the trembling relief of a father who'd feared the worst.
"Gwen… my daughter!"
He turned and opened his arms. She ran into them.
George Stacy's strong arms wrapped around her so tightly she could barely breathe. His fingers trembled as he stroked her blonde hair, as if to confirm she was real.
"It's okay, baby… it's okay…"
When he finally loosened his grip and cupped her face in his hands, studying her as though memorizing every detail, the hardened NYPD inspector—known for his iron will—suddenly buckled. His knees gave way, and he sank heavily to the ground.
"Thank God… thank God…"
He pressed his forehead to the back of her hand and whispered in a voice thick with emotion.
Watching this, Norman Osborn shook his head quietly and waved a hand. Instantly, all the bodyguards withdrew.
The sea breeze lifted George Stacy's disheveled tie—stained with coffee he hadn't had time to wipe away. It was clear he hadn't been sleeping well.
After a long moment, George Stacy steadied himself.
He looked up at Norman Osborn, who stood a short distance away.
Their eyes met—and in that silent exchange, two fathers who'd both faced loss and fear understood each other perfectly.
...
Late that night, the bustle of the New York Harbor docks had faded. Only a few scattered streetlights swayed in the cool breeze.
"It's late. I'll take you back," Harry Osborn said, opening the door of his Lincoln and gesturing to Peter Parker and Damian.
Gwen Stacy was already in her father's old Ford police cruiser. She rolled down the window and waved, smiling:
"See you all at school tomorrow!"
Peter scratched his head, glanced at Damian with a hint of embarrassment, and asked,
"Hey, Z—wanna come with us?"
Damian shook his head, hands in his pockets. The night wind tousled his hair as he smiled.
"Nah. I've been cooped up on that boat for days. I just want to walk for a bit."
Norman Osborn studied him thoughtfully but said nothing. After a pause, he pulled an ivory business card from his pocket and offered it with quiet sincerity:
"Alright. No pressure. But if you ever need anything—anything at all—don't hesitate to call."
Damian accepted the card and tucked it carefully into his inner pocket.
"Thank you. If I ever do need help… I'll know who to ask."
Norman gave a single nod and said no more.
Just as Damian turned around and was about to leave, Kate had already stepped halfway into the car—but suddenly stopped.
"Etc!"
Kate spun around abruptly, her golden hair tracing a dazzling arc beneath the streetlight.
Before Damian could react or turn back, Kate had already rushed to him in two quick strides and seized his collar with both hands.
Then she kissed his cheek.
Damian's eyes widened. It felt as though time had slowed in that instant. The distant horns of cargo ships and the final murmurs of conversation at the dock blurred into indistinct background noise.
"For… for you."
Kate hastily stuffed a folded note into Damian's shirt pocket. Her fingertips accidentally brushed his chest, and she jerked her hand back as if burned.
She stared at the ground and spoke in a rush:
"My address and phone number are on it. You… you have to come find me!"
Without waiting for a reply, she whirled around and fled toward the waiting Lincoln, leaping into the car like a startled rabbit.
The car door slammed shut—but not loudly enough to drown out the whistles of Harry Osborn and Peter Parker.
Watching the Lincoln disappear into the distance, Damian clicked his tongue and muttered as he walked away:
"Aren't American girls supposed to be open-minded? After all that, what's the harm in going a little further? It's not like I'd resist…"
As he spoke, he extended his right hand into the air—and, as if by magic, produced a sweet-smelling flower. He nibbled on its tender, delicious petals while strolling down the deserted street.
The night wind was cool, the streetlights dim, and only the echo of his footsteps filled the empty road.
Da da da da—!!
Suddenly, a burst of gunfire erupted from several blocks away, followed by the clang of metal and a man's roar.
Damian paused, listened for two seconds, then curled his lips.
"Ah, the 'land of the free'—gunfights every day!"
With a sigh, he turned without hesitation, shoved his hands into his pockets, and strolled off in the opposite direction, even humming a tune as he went.
Meanwhile, a bloody drama was unfolding in the container maze at Pier 43 in New York Harbor.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Dressed in his Daredevil suit, Matt Murdock darted between the steel corridors like a ghost. Bullets rained down, chasing his afterimage and sparking brilliantly against the shipping containers.
His billy clubs struck with uncanny precision—each swing accompanied by the sharp crack of breaking bone.
His ears twitched slightly, and he came to an abrupt halt.
Boom—!
A bowl-sized dent exploded into the spot where he'd just stood.
Crack!
"Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh!"
Seizing the opening, Matt rolled forward and swept his club low—the gunman's knee shattered on impact.
The man collapsed, clutching his mangled leg and howling in agony.
Swish!
A gust of wind hissed behind his head. Matt ducked just in time to avoid the machete, then drove his elbow backward into the attacker's Adam's apple.
The man dropped to his knees, hands clawing at his throat, mouth gaping like a fish out of water—but no sound emerged.
"Damn demon!"
A bald gangster lunged from the shadows, thrusting a hunting knife at Matt's throat.
Matt sidestepped, blocked the blade with his right-hand club, and—like a striking viper—slammed his left fist into the man's temple.
"Ugh…"
The burly thug crumpled instantly, eyes rolling back into his head.
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