"Maybe the cops before him looked down on people who came up from nothing," Ben said, thinking of George Stacy's character, "but Commissioner Stacy isn't like that. Maybe one day the NYPD really will have super-powered officers. The world is changing fast enough."
"And that's not even the craziest part," Jameson said, launching into something even stranger. "A few days ago down at the Brooklyn docks, patrol officers found several dead smugglers. Want to know what they found?"
Now Ben was interested too. "What happened?"
"They were drained dry. Not a drop of blood left in them." Jameson spread his hands dramatically. "And according to the rumors, there's some other vampire out there, some guy in a black trench coat carrying a sword, cutting down monsters with fangs in the middle of the night. Supposedly he's got a girl in white with him too. Vampires, Ben. Actual vampires. Good God, I run a serious newspaper, not Twilight fan fiction."
Listening to Jameson rant, Ben still found it hard to believe.
But ever since seeing what his son could do, and after what had happened with Spider-Man, he'd stopped dismissing these things outright.
New York, the most prosperous city in the world, was slowly turning into a whirlpool where every kind of faction, hidden force, and superhuman was being dragged together.
"No matter how many freaks there are, Jonah," Ben said, turning back to his computer screen. He hit Enter and locked the layout file under encryption. "The man we're dealing with right now is Wilson Fisk, the so-called philanthropist and businessman. He's the biggest threat in the city."
Jameson looked at Ben's expression and fell silent for a moment.
For all his temper, for all the times he wrote angry, extreme editorials, deep down he was still a real newspaperman.
"Send it to the printers, Ben." Jameson got to his feet and straightened his tie. "If Kingpin's assassins haven't killed us by tomorrow, then we start getting ready for a Pulitzer. We earned it. And this city needs it."
That evening, the Parker family sat down together for dinner.
May brought out her homemade meatloaf, and had even sent a portion next door to the Watsons.
"I added my special pepper sauce today. Peter, eat more." May smiled warmly as she put another slice on his plate. "Look at Clark, then look at you. You barely look like one of the Parker boys. A little sturdier would do you good."
"Thanks, Aunt May! Starting today, I'm definitely eating more!" Peter grabbed the meatloaf and started wolfing it down. With his new metabolism, hunger was practically a permanent condition.
Across the table, Ben ate almost mechanically, eyes drifting now and then to his phone, brows slightly furrowed.
Clark ate his mother's special meatloaf too, but his super-senses were already working in the background.
He had clearly seen the pistol in Ben's holster.
It was loaded.
Ben was tense.
He was waiting for something.
"Ben, what's wrong? You're not yourself tonight." May noticed her husband's mood right away. Her voice carried a note of worry.
Ben came back to himself and forced a small smile, squeezing her hand to reassure her.
"It's nothing, sweetheart. The paper's just under a lot of pressure lately. You know how Jameson gets about certain stories."
He paused, then looked up at the two boys across from him, suddenly very serious.
"Kids, I've always tried to teach you to be honest men. But this world can get very dark. Dark enough to make you feel small."
Peter set down his meatloaf and listened intently. Clark did too.
"Sometimes doing the right thing puts you in real danger. It makes you a target for bad people." Ben's gaze seemed to look right through the walls and out across the whole city. "But if we stay silent because we're afraid, if even we bow our heads to the people who bully ordinary people by any means they can, then sooner or later this whole world turns to ruins."
"Maybe people have different levels of strength, but responsibility doesn't work like that. No matter what kind of men you become, I want you to remember this: don't betray your conscience. Not even when you're staring down the barrel of a gun."
Those words were Ben Parker's oath as a journalist.
They were also the words of a man who had already made peace with the possibility of dying for what he believed in.
Maybe they could be misunderstood, but what he meant was simple: keep your goodness, and when darkness comes, don't become part of it.
Peter's eyes went red. At that age, with his emotions already close to the surface, he clenched his fists under the table and swore to himself:
Uncle Ben, I promise. I'll use my abilities to protect people who need help. I won't let you down.
As for Clark, what he saw was something else.
He saw his father, an ordinary man, facing down a monster like Kingpin, a criminal emperor backed by money, power, and an empire that looked almost unbeatable, and still shining with the kind of pure human courage that couldn't be bought.
I'll protect all of you, Dad, Clark swore to himself again.
"I'm done eating, Mom. I still have homework to finish," Clark said, wiping his mouth before heading upstairs.
But once he got back to his room, he didn't touch his homework.
Instead, he turned off the light, pushed open the window, and climbed out onto the roof.
The wind over New York felt good.
Clark closed his eyes, and the sounds of the whole city began to flood into his mind.
It didn't take long for him to lock onto New York General Hospital.
Outside the ICU, he could hear two SWAT teams talking among themselves, along with Commissioner Stacy's instructions crackling over the radios.
Eddie was still in intensive care.
His condition had stabilized.
Everything looked secure.
But in another hospital building not far away, there was a man walking through the halls with a heartbeat that was unnaturally steady.
His breathing was just as controlled.
Too controlled.
Clark opened his X-ray vision and got a look at him.
The man was dressed like an ordinary hospital orderly, wearing a mask and pushing a cart piled with medical waste while keeping his head lowered as he headed toward the internal elevator leading up to the tenth floor.
Clark looked into the man's pocket.
No gun.
No explosives.
Just over a dozen scalpels, a stack of coins, two discarded syringes filled with air, and an ordinary pen.
"Found you," Clark murmured. "One of Fisk's dogs."
A red light flashed briefly in his eyes.
He rose from the roof, still wearing nothing but an ordinary hoodie.
"Sorry, Peter. This one's mine tonight."
Before the words had even fully left his mouth, Clark bent his knees and launched.
Boom!