In the afternoon, New York was draped in an amber veil.
The glass curtain walls of Manhattan fractured the sunset into countless shards of gold. Neon lights flickered to life in the deepening twilight; street performers tucked away their saxophones, and the evening rush hour painted the avenues with a slow river of red taillights.
As the school bell rang, ivy rustled gently in the cooling breeze, and warm yellow light began to glow in the classroom windows.
On the playground, the shadows of the goalposts stretched ever longer. Groups of students strolled down the tree-lined path, chatting and laughing. The autumn wind fluttered the pages of their books like butterflies caught in the sunset.
After buckling a grumpy Gwen Stacy into the back seat, Captain George Stacy rested his right hand on his holster, shot Peter "Doghole Creek" Parker a fierce glare, then floored the gas pedal and peeled away.
Damian's lips twitched. He turned to Peter Parker and asked, voice flat with disbelief:
"Tell me honestly—did you do something… enviable to Gwen? Like, get her pregnant?"
Peter Parker's eyes nearly popped out of his skull. He leapt to his feet, sputtering:
"How dare you accuse me out of thin air?! Gwen's still a minor! Are you trying to get me thrown in jail?!"
Damian shrugged. "Hard to say. Otherwise, why's every car stereo in the city suddenly blasting the Miranda warning?"
Peter froze. Then, with wide, innocent eyes, he leaned in and whispered:
"Look me in the eyes. Do I look like that kind of guy?"
Damian gave him a withering glance. "Hmph. Eyes can fool the brain—but not a cow."
Peter's eye twitched. "…I'll find a way to poison you into silence."
Whoosh!
Before he could finish, a sleek Lamborghini Veneno roared past them, its taillights slicing through the dusk like twin embers.
Peter gripped his bicycle handlebars so hard his knuckles turned white, drool practically pooling at the corner of his mouth. He turned to Damian with dreamy eyes:
"Z, you know what? Ever since I was a kid, I've had this dream: to drive a Lamborghini through New York City… wearing sunglasses. And guess what? I've already achieved half of it."
Just then, Damian—who'd just mounted his bike, headed for Angel's Gift—swiveled around, eyes wide with shock:
"What?! You're rich?! Did Gwen hand you her whole family fortune?!"
He clapped Peter on the shoulder, grinning. "I knew it! Bite down, hold on tight—even if it's exhausting, it beats slaving away at a construction site. You sly dog—"
Peter stared blankly ahead.
"I already have sunglasses."
Damian's face fell. "…You die."
...…
By late afternoon, the neon sign of Angel's Gift—a bar tucked into New York's West Side—had just flickered to life.
Though it was barely opening time, the oak-paneled booths were already half-full, and elegantly dressed young women dotted the dimly lit space. A few bejeweled patrons lounged near the bar, their cocktails shimmering under the amber glow.
Before Damian and Peter even reached the entrance, a heavy thud echoed from the alley, followed by a pained groan.
They exchanged a glance and hurried around the corner—only to find Diluc methodically tossing three men in flashy suits into a dumpster three meters away, like overstuffed laundry bags.
The other two lay crumpled inside the bin, bruised and groaning, legs kicking uselessly over the rim.
"Evening, Grandpa Lu!" Damian called, leaning against the brick wall as casually as if asking about the weather. "What's the deal with these three?"
Diluc dusted off his gloves, his crimson ponytail blazing in the sunset. "They crossed the line—peddling drugs in my bar and trying to assault my staff."
Damian nudged a gold chain on the pavement with his toe, frowning. "Staff? You mean… Fischl?"
Diluc gave a curt nod, pulling a silk handkerchief from his pocket to wipe his hands. "Making her a shop assistant might've been a mistake. This is the third batch this week. Clearly, the neighborhood needs a deeper clean."
"The gang problem here multiplies faster than mold in a wine cellar," he added, as calmly as if restocking bitters.
"Yesterday it was the Irish mob. Today, the so-called Viper Gang."
Peter blinked. "The Viper Gang? You mean the one based out of Viper Castle on Seventh Avenue?"
He leaned in, voice hushed. "I heard their members all go by snake names—Anaconda, Rattlesnake, Black Mamba. And not just names—their gear, tactics, even powers mimic real venomous snakes. They're one of the most organized crime syndicates in the city."
He paused, then added sheepishly: "But… if it's them, then… uh… actually, never mind. You'll probably wipe the floor with them."
Inside Angel's Gift, Fischl darted between booths, the ribbons in her twin ponytails fluttering like butterfly wings.
Spotting Damian, she cleared her throat dramatically, placed a hand on her hip, and tossed her hair with regal flair:
"My kin return to me in this realm of shadow! Could this be the deliberate weaving of the God of Karma? Hmph—it must be! A sign of the entangled fate of the Condemned Princess!"
Perched on her shoulder, Oz—wings twitching—adjusted the thin wire antenna discreetly fixed to his headpiece, and intoned in his ever-polite tone:
"What Her Highness means to say is: 'It is a true pleasure to see you again, Master Z.'"
Damian smiled. "Good evening, little Amy! Settling in well?"
Before Fischl could respond, Peter yelped:
"What the—?! A giant crow?! And it talks?!"
Oz's eyes flickered crimson, but his voice remained impeccably composed:
"Correction: I am not a common raven. I am Ozwaldo Hefnavanis, Chief Scribe of the Eternal Night, sworn servant to Her Majesty, the Princess of Judgment, Sovereign of the Pure Land of Dark Night."
Fischl puffed out her chest proudly. "Indeed! Oz is my eternal pact-bound kin—his power can rend the very veil of time and space!"
She leaned in close to Peter, eyes narrowed.
"Commoner… I shall forgive your earlier insolence."
Damian gently pulled Peter aside and murmured:
"That's Fischl's custom AI drone—top-tier translation software, voice modulation, the works. And she's got a very… vivid imagination. Just play along."
Peter nodded slowly—then froze. He squinted at Damian.
"Wait… how do you know all this? You haven't been to Angel's Gift in ages!"
Damian raised an eyebrow. "Didn't Grandpa Lu tell you? I'm the one who introduced Fischl to the bar. Of course I know her."
Peter stared, then burst out laughing.
"Impossible! There's no way a joke-dispensing disaster like you coul
d possibly know someone that cute—!"
He paused, eyes widening. "…Unless… she's actually a boy, right?"
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