Since Mary Jane broke the ice that day in the music room, Gwen thought she wouldn't be able to sleep.
As it turned out, she slept better than anyone.
Perhaps it was because she was exhausted from several nights of patrolling, or maybe her brain had automatically triggered a defense mechanism—as long as she didn't think about it, there would be no awkwardness. In any case, she attended classes, practiced drums, and discussed action plans with Peter as usual these past few days; everything seemed just as it was before.
Only she knew that things were different.
For example, right now.
Four o'clock in the afternoon, on the rooftop opposite the abandoned factory.
Gwen lay on the edge of the rooftop, observing the building three hundred meters away through her mask's lenses. Peter's voice sounded in her earpiece, accompanied by slight static.
"Confirmed, Murakami is inside. One of the five leaders of The Hand, mainly responsible for the organ trafficking line."
Gwen gave a soft "Hmm" without turning back.
She knew Peter was sitting in his attic right now, with three screens in front of him, scrolling with data streams she couldn't understand. He had hacked into the surveillance system of this area, and had even pulled up the ventilation duct layout of the factory for her.
"Enter through the window on the west side of the third floor. There's a vent in the second room to the right," Peter said. "The duct is wide enough for you to crawl in, but don't make any noise. Those ninjas have abnormal hearing."
"Got it."
Gwen took a deep breath and slid down from the edge of the rooftop.
Her movements were much smoother than the first time she had come out. Her suit clung to her body, and every step was precise and silent. She climbed up to the third-floor window, gently pried it open a crack, and slipped inside.
The room was dark and piled with debris. Gwen moved along the wall, following Peter's directions to find the vent. She gently removed the louvers and leaned in to take a look—it was pitch black, and she couldn't see anything.
"How is it inside?" Peter asked.
"It's very dark," Gwen said softly. "I'm going in."
She crawled into the ventilation duct, moving through the narrow space like a real spider. The fabric of her suit rubbed against the metal duct, making a very faint rustling sound, but with her extraordinary hearing, the sound felt as loud as sandpaper grinding against a wall.
"Turn right in ten meters," Peter's voice came through the earpiece. "Go down and you'll be in the main warehouse space. Murakami should be at that location."
Gwen crawled to the turn and looked down through the gaps in the louvers.
The warehouse was huge and piled with wooden crates. Light shone down from above, casting mottled shadows on the ground. Several people stood in the open space in the center—to be precise, several ninjas in black, and one man in a dark gray suit.
The man looked to be about fifty, with short hair, lean, and no expression on his face. He stood there like a sword sheathed in its scabbard.
Gwen narrowed her eyes.
Murakami.
One of the five leaders of The Hand.
She gently adjusted the lenses on her mask—the invisible camera Peter had installed began to work, the red indicator light flashed once and then went out, recording the scene below.
"Can you see?" Peter asked.
"Yes," Gwen said softly. "The picture is clear."
Just then, Murakami spoke.
"When does that shipment arrive?"
His voice was low with a slight accent, but his English was fluent. A ninja stepped forward and bowed his head respectfully.
"The day after tomorrow at three in the morning, Brooklyn Docks. Warehouse Number Three."
Murakami nodded without speaking.
The warehouse was silent for a few seconds.
"Kunlun is pressing us very hard," the ninja continued. "The quality of the last few batches of goods has been unstable, and they are not very satisfied."
Murakami's brow furrowed slightly.
"Quality unstable?" he repeated. "What does that mean?"
"Several donors died before surgery," the ninja lowered his head. "And several got infected after surgery; the organs couldn't be used. They said we need to raise our standards."
Nausea surged in Gwen's stomach.
Donors. Surgery. Organs.
Those were people. Living, breathing people. But in this ninja's mouth, they had become "unstable quality" goods.
Murakami was silent for a few seconds, then said: "Tell them the next batch will be better. We have found a new source."
"Yes."
"Also," Murakami turned, his back to Gwen, "any news on that Spider-Man recently?"
Gwen's breath hitched.
"Yes," the ninja said. "She has been very active lately. Last time she saved that group of people at the warehouse, we lost more than a dozen brothers. Silk said she would handle it, but there hasn't been any movement yet."
Murakami sneered.
"Silk," he said, his tone filled with disdain. "That self-righteous woman. Who does she think she is? The Hand doesn't need her help, tell her to stay away."
"Yes."
"As for that Spider-Man," Murakami paused. "If she gets in the way again, kill her. No matter who she is, no matter what abilities she has—kill her."
Gwen lay in the ventilation duct, listening to these words, her palms sweating slightly.
It wasn't fear.
It was anger.
She looked at the ninjas below, at Murakami in his suit, thinking of those people treated as "donors," thinking of the description "unstable quality."
She wanted to rush down right now.
But she couldn't.
"Gwen," Peter's voice sounded in her earpiece, very soft and careful. "Don't be impulsive. You can't beat him if you go down there now."
Gwen took a deep breath, forcing herself to calm down.
She knew Peter was right. Murakami was one of the five leaders of The Hand, an old monster who had lived for hundreds of years. For her, a novice who had only gained her powers two months ago, a head-on confrontation would be suicide.
But she was still angry.
"That shipment is the day after tomorrow early morning," Murakami's voice sounded again. "Have everyone ready. This batch cannot have any mistakes."
"Yes!"
In Gwen's lenses, those scenes were clearly recorded.
Including Murakami's face. Including the faces of those ninjas. Including every word they said.
When she handed this footage to her father—
She thought halfway through, and suddenly realized a problem.
How could she hand it over?
"This is what I filmed at the scene, Dad, but I can't tell you who I am"?
Or just send the footage to the police station and pretend nothing happened?
Gwen sighed in her heart.
Record it first, worry about that later.
Murakami gave a few more instructions, then led his people away from the warehouse. The lights went out, and darkness enveloped everything again.
Gwen lay in the ventilation duct for another ten minutes, and only after confirming everyone had left did she crawl out and return the way she came.
When she returned to the rooftop opposite, it was already dark.
Gwen sat on the edge of the rooftop, her legs dangling, watching the distant New York night scene. The night wind blew over, carrying the chill of early autumn, but the temperature-regulating material inside her suit kept the chill out.
"Did you record it?" Peter asked.
"Recorded," Gwen said. "Very clear."
"That's great." There was a hint of excitement in Peter's voice. "With this, your dad can make arrests."
Gwen was silent for a few seconds.
"Peter," she said. "What do I say? Say I happened to pass by and took it by the way?"
The earpiece was quiet for a while.
"...That's a problem." Peter admitted.
Gwen sighed.
"Forget about that for now," she stood up. "The day after tomorrow early morning, Brooklyn Docks. Warehouse Number Three."
"You want to go?"
"Of course."
Peter was silent again.
Gwen knew what he was worried about. Last time at the warehouse, she had faced over a dozen ninjas alone and almost didn't make it out. This time it was the headquarters of The Hand, with Murakami personally in charge; the number of ninjas would only be higher.
But she couldn't not go.
"Peter," she said. "Those people are treated as 'donors.' If the 'quality is unstable,' they get killed. If I don't go, who will?"
A soft sigh came from the earpiece.
"I know," Peter said. "So I will help you. I will plan the route for you, check the layout inside for you, give you—anyway, whatever you need, I will give it to you."
Gwen was stunned for a moment.
Then she smiled.
"Thank you, Peter."
"It's nothing," Peter's voice became a little smaller again. "We are childhood friends, after all."
Hearing the words "childhood friend," Gwen suddenly remembered what Mary Jane had said that day.
"He wouldn't be like that with anyone else. Only when he talks to you does he stutter and his ears turn red."
She imagined what Peter looked like sitting in the attic right now—surely his ears were red again, staring at the screen, pretending nothing had happened.
Gwen suddenly really wanted to ask him.
Ask him what he wanted to say that night in her room.
But she couldn't ask.
Because even she didn't know how to face that answer.
"Gwen?" Peter's voice pulled her back. "Still there?"
"Yes," Gwen stood up. "I'm heading back. Let's discuss the action plan tomorrow."
"Okay. Take care."
Gwen slid down from the edge of the roof, shot a web, and swung into the night of New York.
The wind whistled in her ears, the lights flowed beneath her feet. As she swung, she thought about Mary Jane's words, about Peter's bright red ears, about those details she had been ignoring.
Then she remembered who she was.
A transmigrator. A soul occupying someone else's body. Someone who hadn't fully adapted to the identity of a "girl" even now.
How could she date?
Who would she date?
Peter?
That childhood friend who grew up with her, helped her make her suit, and accompanied her to investigate cases?
Gwen swung past a rooftop, landed on it, and stood for a few seconds.
The night wind blew over, messing up her hair.
She suddenly remembered when the competition ended that day, Peter standing in the crowd, watching her quietly. Then he slowly raised his hand and waved at her.
She remembered that moment, her heartbeat skipped a beat.
Gwen covered her face and let out a muffled sound.
"Stop thinking," she told herself. "There's important business the day after tomorrow."
She leaped into the night again.
But that thought, like a seed, had already been planted in her heart.
When she got home, Helen was not asleep yet.
Seeing her daughter enter from the door, she looked up: "You're back? Dinner is warming on the stove."
"Thanks, Mom." Gwen changed her shoes and went to the kitchen to serve food.
Helen followed, leaning against the door frame watching her.
"Why so late today?"
"Rehearsing with the band." Gwen lowered her head and ate her pasta.
Helen nodded and didn't ask further. But the look in her eyes as she watched her daughter was thoughtful.
Gwen knew what her mother was suspecting.
But she couldn't say.
At least not now.
"Mom," she suddenly spoke up. "If someone likes you, but you don't know how to respond, what do you do?"
Helen was stunned, then smiled.
"Someone likes you? Who? Peter?"
Gwen nearly choked on her noodles.
"No, no—" she denied, coughing.
Helen smiled and shook her head, walking over to sit opposite her.
"Gwen," she said. "Whether you like him or not, there's one thing you must remember."
Gwen looked up.
"Liking someone doesn't need too much thought," Helen said. "If you want to be with him, that's liking. If you don't, that's not liking. It's that simple."
Gwen was stunned for a moment.
It's that simple?
"But what if it's..." she paused. "What if the situation is very complicated?"
Helen looked at her with gentle eyes.
"Feelings are complicated to begin with," she said. "But that simplest feeling doesn't lie."
Gwen lowered her head and continued to eat.
But she kept her mother's words in her heart.
Lying in bed that night, Gwen stared at the ceiling again.
That peeling wall patch was still there, the shape still looking like a chubby pigeon.
She stared at that "pigeon," thinking about her mother's words.
That simplest feeling doesn't lie.
Then what was her feeling for Peter?
She thought for a while, then turned over and buried her face in the pillow.
Forget it.
Not thinking about it for now.
Still have to go to the Brooklyn Docks the day after tomorrow.
She closed her eyes.
But what appeared in her mind was still Peter's bright red ears.