[POV: Spider-Man ]
Peter landed silently on the roof of the Southside processing site, crouched like a gargoyle against the moonlight. From up here, the warehouse looked like every other forgotten relic in the outer boroughs — corrugated steel, broken lamps, old graffiti. But inside, evil thrived in silence.
He crawled along the edge until he reached a skylight, its glass dusty but intact. Below, floodlights bathed the concrete floor in pale yellow. He counted eight men — armed, bored, and relaxed. One leaned against a metal table, scrolling on his phone. Two others paced. And at the far side…
Inside were at least five girls, possibly more. Some were slumped, barely conscious. Others stared at the floor, motionless.
Peter's hands curled into fists.
No cameras. Good. No names, only web signature tonight. and results.
He dropped silently onto a stacked crate, then down again behind a shelving unit.
Two guards passed by, mid-conversation.
"Shipment's supposed to move before morning. We keep 'em down till then.""You check the dose?""Enough to keep a horse calm. They'll stay quiet."
Peter stepped out of the shadow like a phantom.
Thwip. Thwip.
Two web lines. Two necks wrapped. He yanked them together and slammed their heads gently — but firmly — into the wall. They crumpled before they could shout.
Six left.
The man near the table didn't even look up before Peter disarmed him, snapped his wrist back and webbed his mouth shut. Another rushed forward — Peter caught him mid-sprint and hurled him into a stack of empty cages.
"Hey!" someone shouted. "Up top! Intrud—!"
A glob of web smacked his mouth shut. Another snapped around his legs, yanking him off balance. He hit the ground hard.
Two left.
They tried to run. One actually made it to the door before Peter dropped down, swept his legs, and webbed him up like a cocoon.
The final man turned, trembling, gun shaking in his hands.
Peter took a single step forward.
"Don't."
The man dropped the gun.
Webbed.
Peter moved toward the cages, carefully. He scanned the lock: electronic, basic circuit board.
Too easy.
He shorted it with a precise web shot, then pulled the gate open.
Inside, six girls stared up at him — dazed, frightened, barely registering the red and blue figure before them.
"You're safe now," he said gently. "I'm calling the police and medics. Stay together. Help's coming."
One girl, no older than thirteen, reached out and touched his wrist lightly.
"Are you... Spider-Man?"
He nodded once.
She smiled, just barely.
He webbed the front gate shut, created a makeshift wall to protect the girls, and activated the one-time-use emergency police ping.
They'll take it from here.
He vanished back into the night.
[POV: Daredevil ]
The smell hit him first — mildew, bleach, unwashed linen, and something worse.
Matt Murdock adjusted his gloves, stepped through the back window, and landed softly in the utility hallway of the halfway house. He heard it all.
Six heartbeats on the first floor.Two upstairs.One in the basement.
Creaking floors. Coughing. Shaky breathing.
And crying.
He followed the sound.
First floor, rear hallway. A man stood outside a locked door, keys dangling from his belt. Matt didn't wait.
He stepped forward and struck.
The man turned — too slow.
Matt drove a baton into his knee, spun behind him, and elbowed the back of his neck. He dropped. Out cold.
Matt snatched the keys and opened the door.
Two women inside — barely awake, one trying to shield the other.
"You're alright," he said. "I'm not here to hurt you."
He listened for footsteps — one approaching. Fast.
Matt turned and met the hallway guard head-on. A punch hit his ribs — but he rolled with it, countered with a hard jab to the throat, then swept the man's leg and dropped him like a stone.
Another upstairs heartbeat began moving.
Matt moved faster.
Second floor — narrow hall, broken overhead fan spinning lazily.
He climbed the stairs quickly and found two men inside a room, one counting money, the other watching something on his phone.
They didn't hear him until it was too late.
Crack.Whump.Crash.
Three hits. Two bodies.
His shoulder ached from the earlier strike, but he pushed through it.
He kicked in another door.
Another locked room. Two more women. This time, a teenager curled in the corner, eyes wide.
"Help is on the way," he said. "You're free now."
He called in the location to his off-grid contact at the 15th precinct. No name just details and coordinates.
They knew the drill by now.
The last man was already trying to torch documents — shredding papers, tossing files into a plastic bin and lighting a match.
Matt kicked the bin away, then drove a boot into his chest. The man slammed into the table.
"You think this means anything ?" the man hissed. "People like us don't get punished."
Matt pinned him to the floor, pressing a knee to his back.
"People like me don't care."
He zip-tied the man's wrists, then sat still in the dark for a moment, listening to the crackle of the failed fire and the distant hum of sirens.
They met on a rooftop between zones, just before dawn.
Peter leaned against the ledge, arms crossed. His suit was clean. Unscuffed. Efficient.
Matt looked like he'd gone through a blender — bruised lip, blood on his shoulder, knuckles swollen.
"You good?" Peter asked.
Matt nodded. "They're secured. Police have the site."
"Same. I left the girls webbed in safely and pinged it anonymously."
Matt didn't smile. But he looked satisfied.
"Thanks, Spider-Man."
Peter gave a small nod. "You did a great work, Daredevil."
"They'll face court."
"You sure that's enough?"
Matt looked at him, voice quiet.
"It has to be. We can take thing to our hands."
Peter didn't argue.