The Kingpin he feared was currently busy making appearances before the leaders of the underground syndicates, obsessively testing how to cultivate high-quality fear. Fisk was out of his depth in this regard, behaving like a deranged scientist as he experimented with intimidation.
Perhaps Odin would have been better at this—after all, he had the face of a man who could eat worlds. Kingpin, however, lacked the natural talent for it. In the past, he never needed to inspire supernatural terror. Now that "manufacturing fear" had shifted from a means to an end to the end itself, the Kingpin of Crime found himself at a loss.
"Well, looks like another day of doing absolutely nothing. I'm fine with that," Angel said, her voice dropping into a sluggish drawl.
Matthew and Peter lived in fear of Fisk, but Angel felt nothing. After seeing Satan held like a common club and Mephisto played for a fool, she found it hard to find anything worthy of true terror.
Ignorance was bliss. It was a universal truth. A common laborer doesn't worry about a national debt crisis unless they were a disgraced financier forced into manual labor to survive. Angel was currently enjoying her transformation into a "salted fish."
"You have that magical vial, don't you? Why not give it to Spider-Man?"
"It is a treasure," Matthew replied sharply. "One powerful enough to brew corruption in even the most righteous heart. I won't take that risk, and I barely know him. Besides, his life isn't in immediate danger. The most suspicious thing is Kingpin's silence. It's unnatural."
Matthew continued to pace, his mind spiraling. Having felt that suffocating, primal fear radiating from Fisk, he couldn't find his center.
"How about we call that paranormal 'expert'? I haven't seen him since I dumped him on the side of the road. It'd be nice to see if he's actually kicked the bucket," Angel suggested, taking a deep drag of her cigarette.
She looked as though she were trying to inhale her entire existence into her lungs, her expression momentarily contorted. She wasn't truly interested in the vial; she just wanted a distraction.
"Constantine? What could he possibly do? He's just an ordinary mage. In front of Kingpin, he might not even be able to find his voice." Matthew frowned, remembering the way Constantine had clutched his stomach while spewing sarcasm. He didn't have a high opinion of the man.
"At least that bastard doesn't know the meaning of fear," Angel said, her eyes snapping open to glare at Matthew. She was trying to point out that Matthew's own state was far from normal. "Maybe we need a 'professional' like him."
Matthew covered his face with his hands, leaning back against his stiff wooden chair. It wasn't that he couldn't afford a sofa; he simply didn't want to appear too relaxed when facing the desperate people who came to him for help.
"By the way, do you have his contact info?" Angel asked. She had given Constantine's card to Spider-Man.
"Obviously not," Matthew sighed.
However, Matthew didn't need to worry. Constantine was already in New York, currently locked in a heated negotiation with a certain wall-crawler regarding his service fees.
"Look, Spider-Man! Let's both meet in the middle. Five thousand dollars! You can't let me lose money on the damn plane ticket," Constantine said, his tone casual but his eyes betraying a desperate need for the cash.
Since Hell had closed its gates to the mortal realm, he had been out of work for a long time. It was only when he was reduced to eating cheap cup noodles that he realized how much he missed the "charm" of demons. He had gone so far as to borrow money for a ticket just to come here and solve a problem.
"I told you... I'm a vigilante. I don't have that kind of money," Peter Parker said, his voice muffled.
His mask was in the wash—it had been so saturated with blood he couldn't stand the smell. He was currently wearing a hoodie that practically screamed "arrest me," topped with a spare Spider-Man mask.
"Hell's bells! You're telling me I can't even afford the flight back? Why didn't you mention you were broke over the phone?" Constantine paced irritably, waving a lit cigarette. "I don't even have money for food, let alone smokes! I don't want to be locked in some dark room waiting for your cops to deport me! Seeing my creditors back home would be a much bigger headache!"
"I just heard you were a professional and wanted to consult! You're the one who asked for the address and showed up without letting me finish a sentence!" Peter snapped, his own head aching.
Life hadn't been kind to him lately. Because of his injuries, he hadn't been able to take "selfies" for the Daily Bugle, cutting off his main source of income. As a freelance photographer, he lived on those sales, and currently, even walking was a struggle.
"Fine, fine. You can't expect a professional like me to work on an empty stomach. You've at least got enough for a lunch, right?"
Constantine's stomach let out a timely, audible growl, reminding him that it was long past feeding time.
"I know a good pizza place. I'll call it in," Peter said, pulling out an ancient cell phone and dialing a familiar number. "Hi, two nine-inch pizzas. As fast as possible. I'll text you the address."
Peter's movements were practiced and fluid, clearly indicating he was a regular. He spoke so quickly the owner didn't even get a chance to respond. Perhaps he was wary of Constantine and didn't want to risk exposing his identity. He hung up and hit "resend" on his last sent text.
A moment later, his other phone rang. Carrying two phones was a habit born of his secret life.
"PETER PARKER! You're officially AWOL! Do you even want this delivery job anymore?! Get your lazy bones moving! Get down to the shop right now! You have thirty minutes to get this pizza to the customer!"
The voice blared out of the cheap speaker for all to hear.
"Aha... Peter Parker, is it?" Constantine smirked.
"Don't look at me like that. I'm not going to blackmail you with your identity. After all, you're the one asking for my help," Constantine said, waving a hand to dispel Peter's rising hostility.
Peter wouldn't have been so careless normally; it was one of Constantine's little tricks. The man might be a hero in the grand scheme of things, but his methods were never clean.
"Well now, I never imagined Spider-Man would need a job as a delivery boy. How do you do it? Swing from the rooftops with the boxes?"
Constantine flopped onto the only bed in the tiny room, making himself right at home.
"I'll just wait here for you to bring back our lunch. I wonder if a pizza delivered by Spider-Man himself tastes better?"
Constantine closed his eyes, ending the conversation. He was in the driver's seat now. Knowing Spider-Man's identity meant he could make the kid do a lot of things. And he didn't have to worry about being murdered to keep the secret—there was no better "tool" than a superhero.
Safe, reliable, and prone to self-sacrifice. The perfect teammate. If he ever reconnected with the demonic underworld, he'd definitely bring the kid along. Heroes worked for free, after all.
"Has anyone ever told you that you're incredibly annoying?" Peter glared at the man on his bed.
"Why? You planning on doing something about it on this tiny bed? I don't mind, but for the record, I'm on top. And you'll still have to pay me afterward."
Constantine didn't even open his eyes. The sheer audacity of the man made the veins in Peter's forehead throb.
"You'd better be as 'professional' as you claim!"
Peter slammed the door behind him. As a final, petty gesture, he used a strand of webbing to pin Constantine's business card to the wall—a harmless threat.
Once the hero was gone, Constantine opened his eyes and looked at the swaying card, a grin spreading across his face.
"I almost forgot... you still owe me a ticket, Angel."
He felt he had found his meal ticket for the foreseeable future. Angel dumping him on the highway had caused him no end of trouble; a few free meals were the least she could provide. He didn't spare a thought for the fact that he had essentially tricked her out of her power. Or rather, he remembered, but didn't care.
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