Inside the claustrophobic manager's office, the air was thick enough to choke a horse. Miller—or "Bot" to the guys who actually ran the street—was still wearing that smug, "I-own-this-city" grin. He thought he had the ultimate trump card. Three barrels, three triggers, and three very nervous fingers belonged to his top muscle, including a guy named Dyson who looked like he'd rather be anywhere else but holding a submachine gun in a concrete basement.
"Now what, hotshots?" Bot leaned back, his chair creaking under the weight of his arrogance. "You see, in the movies, the hero does some fancy flip and saves the day. In the real New York, you do what you're told or you get turned into a colander. I'm feeling generous. You sign with me, you take the falls I tell you to take, and maybe you get a percentage of the take. If not... well, do you really think your hands are faster than a bullet?"
Peter's muscles were coiled like steel springs. His spider-sense was a dull roar, but it wasn't the 'death is coming' kind of roar; it was the 'why are we waiting' kind. He was already calculating the trajectory of the bullets, ready to lunge, ready to play the hero.
But Huang Liang was faster. Not in a physical sprint, but in the casual, terrifying way a master handles a child.
"A gun?" Liang let out a dry, barking laugh that didn't reach his eyes. "You guys really need to get out more. Chinatown has much scarier things than pieces of lead."
Before Bot could blink, Liang's hand blurred. It wasn't a punch. It was a series of rhythmic, almost elegant flicks of his fingers. He wasn't even touching the guards. He was utilizing the Acupoint Air-Burst technique—a high-level application of internal energy he'd been refining through the Blood Bodhi's lingering heat and Bai Zhantang's legendary sunflower acupoint manuals.
Thwip. Thwip. Thwip.
Dyson and the other two guards froze instantly. It was uncanny. Their fingers stayed on the triggers, their eyes stayed wide, but their bodies became statues of meat and bone. Not a muscle twitched. Even the smoke from their cigarettes seemed to stall in the air around them.
Liang glanced at Peter, who had been halfway through a defensive crouch. He noticed the kid's first instinct had been to bolt or brace, not to counter. "You still think like a victim, Pete," Liang said, shaking his head. "When a wolf barks, you don't run. You pull its teeth."
"What... what the hell did you do?" Bot's voice cracked. He looked at his men. They were staring straight ahead, unresponsive to the chaos. "Dyson! Shoot them! What are you waiting for, a written invitation?"
Silence. Dyson didn't even blink.
"Go ahead, keep yelling," Liang smirked, leaning over the desk until he was inches from Bot's sweating face. "See if they answer. Maybe they're just deep thinkers."
"You... you're one of them! A mutant!" Bot gasped, scrambling backward until his chair hit the wall. "No, that's impossible. We've got the scanners at the door. The 'Gene-Sniffer' 3000! It didn't go off! Who are you?"
"Labels are for soup cans, buddy," Liang said, his voice dropping into a dangerous register. "What matters is the math. My friend won a fight. Your books show a three-thousand-dollar payout. Now, I'm not a lawyer, but I'm pretty sure if we took this to a 'judge'—and by judge, I mean the guys who actually run this district—they wouldn't appreciate you stiffing a winner and causing a scene. So, do you want to try for a round two, or are we going to settle this invoice?"
Bot's jaw worked silently. He looked at the frozen statues of his best men and then at the kid in the ridiculous red hoodie who looked like he could punch through a tank. "You... you're gonna regret this. You have no idea who owns this floor."
"I know Wilson Fisk doesn't like losers," Liang countered, his knowledge of the Kingpin's operations making Bot's eyes bulge. "And right now? You're looking like a very expensive loser. Give us the money. Now."
With trembling hands, Bot reached into the desk drawer and pulled out the thick wad of cash intended for the night's house take. He slapped it onto the desk. "Take it! Just get out! I'll remember those faces!"
"I hope you do. It'll save us an introduction next time," Liang said, snatching the cash and stuffing it into Peter's numb hands.
As they walked out of the basement and into the cool, crisp New York night, the weight of the money felt like a lead brick in Peter's pocket. Three thousand dollars. It was more money than he'd ever held in his life.
"Liang... man, thank you," Peter said, his voice shaky as the adrenaline finally started to recede. "I didn't know you could do that. The freezing thing? That was insane."
"It's just physics and pressure points, Pete. Focus on your training and you'll do more than just punch hard," Liang said, patting him on the back. "So, what's the plan? Putting this in a high-yield savings account?"
Peter's eyes brightened. The cold fear of the office was replaced by the reckless dreams of a teenager. "I'm gonna buy a car. Not just a car—a convertible. Used, obviously, but something classic. Can you imagine MJ's face when I pull up in a drop-top? She'll finally see me as... well, as someone who isn't just 'the guy who's good at science.'"
Liang laughed, though there was a hint of worry in his eyes. "A car? Pete, between insurance, gas, and the inevitable New York parking tickets, that three grand is going to vanish faster than a hot dog at a Knicks game. Don't forget why you did this. Take care of May first."
"I will, I will! I'll get a job too. A real one. Somewhere that doesn't involve cages and guys named Juggernaut. I'm done with that place," Peter promised.
Back in the basement, the atmosphere was significantly less celebratory. The door kicked open with a violence that made the remaining lightbulbs flicker. A man stepped in—tall, lean, and wearing a suit that cost more than Bot's life. This was the Boss, a mid-tier lieutenant in the new syndicate that had taken over the Goryeo ruins.
"Bot," the Boss whispered, a sound more terrifying than a scream. "Where is the Spider? And why is my Juggernaut in the infirmary with a collapsed lung?"
"Boss... look, it wasn't my fault!" Bot stammered, pointing at the still-frozen guards. "They were empowered! Some kind of freak-show magic! Dyson and the boys, they just... stopped!"
The Boss walked over to Dyson, peering into his unblinking eyes. He saw the faint metallic shimmer on his own knuckles—a sign of his own 'upgrades.' "Empowered? This city is crawling with them. That's why I pay you to handle the 'muscle.' If you can't manage a couple of kids with tricks, you're not a manager. You're a liability."
The Boss swung a heavy fist, smashing the mahogany desk into splinters with a single blow. "You're fired. Get your trash and get out. If I see you in this zip code tomorrow, I'm putting you in the cage with the next beast we find."
"Boss! The pay! I haven't been paid for the month!" Bot cried out, desperation overriding his fear.
"You want money?" The Boss loomed over him. "You cost me ten times your salary in lost bets tonight. Consider your life the severance package. Now move!"
Bot stumbled out of the office, his world crumbling. Outside in the alley, he found Dyson and the others. The "freeze" had finally worn off as Liang's internal energy dissipated.
"Boss? What now?" Dyson asked, rubbing his stiff neck. "We going to the next spot?"
"There is no next spot, you idiot! We're out! Fired!" Bot spat on the ground, his face twisted in a mask of pure resentment. "We got nothing. No job, no rep, and those two punks ran off with my three grand."
"So... what? We just go home?" another guard asked.
"Home to what? A cardboard box?" Bot reached out and grabbed the submachine gun from Dyson's hands. "We came here with nothing, but we're leaving with three pieces of hardware. If the world wants to treat us like trash, fine. We'll be the trash that bites back."
"You want to hit a bank?" Dyson whispered, his eyes wide.
"A bank? Are you stupid? We'd be dead in two minutes," Bot hissed. "No. We're going to hit the easy targets. Grocery stores, gas stations, late-night delis. Fast cash, low risk. We need to make back that three grand—no, we're making six. And we start tonight."