On the roof of the abandoned warehouse.
There was an awkward yet strangely harmonious atmosphere in the air.
Spider-Man took off his mask, revealing an overly young face, his eyes filled with the daze of being struck by reality.
"So..."
Peter scratched his messy hair, trying to organize his words.
"Mr. Rodriguez not only sold me insurance but also started a company to hire you guys to do... client analysis for villains?"
"It's 'Potential Client Risk Assessment and Preliminary Business Value Analysis'."
Tandy corrected him seriously, shaking the form in her hand as if holding an important business document.
"We are 'Intern Risk Specialists'."
"Alright, Risk Specialists." Peter felt his eye twitching slightly, "So what are your mission objectives tonight? How many of these analysis forms do you need to fill out? Is there commission?"
This question was all too familiar.
Although William, that stingy boss, didn't explicitly say "mission objectives," the subtext of his phrase, "The company is just starting, we need dedication," wasn't it "work overtime for free"?
"The boss wants us to get familiar with the work process."
Tyrone added in a low voice from the side, still hiding himself in the shadow of his hood, but his tone was serious, as if he had fully accepted this identity.
Peter looked at the two teenagers in front of him: one like a prickly wildcat, the other silent as a Shadow.
Then, thinking of the document on his phone, titled "Superpowered Novice's Guide" but actually "Insurance After-Sales Service and Claims Guide"... he suddenly understood.
"Alright."
Peter sighed deeply, put his mask back on, and his voice returned to that of the cheerful Spider-Man.
"You guys are too slow just searching blindly. I'm familiar with finding potential clients in the city; I know a few places where they gather."
"If you don't mind, I can take you to see them. I was just about to go home; I haven't eaten since... since then."
Tandy and Tyrone exchanged glances.
Having New York's friendly neighborhood Spider-Man lead them to do villain research?
Was this intern treatment a bit too good?
Half an hour later.
A pool hall deep in a certain alley.
The lighting here was dim, and the air was mixed with cheap alcohol, sweat, and mold.
A typical scene of a gangster rendezvous in movies.
"Right here." Spider-Man, dangling the three of them by a web, quietly landed on the fire escape of the opposite building, "See the guy playing pool?"
Tandy looked in the direction he pointed: by the pool table, a man in a tight black suit was leaning over, preparing to hit a ball.
Most noticeable was the huge, pure black eight-ball helmet on his head, completely covering it.
The cue stick in his hand was also unusual, gleaming with a metallic sheen, and its tip seemed to have an energy device.
"This guy is called Eight-Ball. I've seen him twice, but I've never seen him do anything bad."
"Target codename... 'Eight-Ball'."
Tandy lowered her voice, took out her form and pen, and entered work mode.
"That name is so uncreative. Thumbs down."
Spider-Man almost laughed and fell off the fire escape.
"Ability overview... Physical defense should be very high, after all, he's wearing an iron ball. The weapon is a custom cue stick, like a high-tech melee weapon; specific functions... to be determined."
"Character analysis... Judging by the curses he's saying to his opponent, he's a show-off, flamboyant, a little clever but not much."
"Potential threat level..." Tandy hesitated, "His head is so big, he's practically a living target. Let's mark 'Low' for now."
Spider-Man listened intently and wanted to join the discussion:
"I think we should add one thing: his vision must be poor. That's a weakness."
"Estimated insurance potential..."
Tandy stroked her chin, showing the same thoughtful expression as William.
"This kind of person often gets into fights, so medical insurance is a must-have, especially insurance for head injuries and cervical spine rehabilitation. He needs to buy enough."
"Also, that cue stick of his looks quite expensive, so property insurance should be recommended. If he breaks someone else's pool table, he'll also need public liability insurance... Three and a half stars potential! He's a high-quality client!"
Just as she was about to write, the door of the pool hall was kicked open from the outside with a "bang"!
Wood chips flew, and the glass vibrated.
The entire hall instantly fell silent, everyone looking at the doorway in terror.
A figure stood against the light: pure White suit, pure White hood, pure White mask, like a ghost walking out of the Moonlight.
He stood there silently, like a lifeless statue, yet exuded an intense sense of oppression that made the air temperature drop several degrees.
"We're done for."
Spider-Man's voice immediately tightened.
"Why him..."
Tandy and Tyrone were also stunned.
The pure, cold killing intent from this White-clad man was something they had never felt before.
This was completely different from the feeling of Vulture acting for profit; this was a... judgmental aura.
The White-clad man moved.
He ignored the trembling thugs around him and walked directly towards the man wearing the eight-ball helmet.
Eight-Ball was clearly flustered, picking up his high-tech cue stick to attack.
The White-clad man said nothing, just took a step forward, dodged sideways the moment the cue stick swung, then, fast as an afterimage, grabbed the middle of the cue stick.
Crack!
That seemingly sturdy metal cue stick was snapped into two by him as if breaking a dry branch.
Eight-Ball was stunned.
The next second, a White-gloved fist slammed heavily onto his helmet.
Dong!
A colossal clang, like a temple bell, echoed through the hall.
Eight-Ball, man and helmet, was sent flying backward, knocking over tables and rolling on the ground, unable to get up for a long time.
The White-clad man slowly stepped forward, placed a foot on his chest, leaned down, and asked in an emotionless tone, like reciting a eulogy: "Where... is he?"
"I... I don't know what you're talking about..." The voice from inside the helmet was tinged with fear.
The White-clad man didn't ask again; he lifted his other foot and stomped hard on "Eight-Ball's" knee.
A "crack" of bone breaking sounded, accompanied by a muffled scream.
On the fire escape, the pen in Tandy's hand dropped with a "clatter" to the ground.
Her face was drained of color.
How was this a "potential client"?
This was a horror movie scene!
Tyrone pulled her behind him, his body beginning to merge into the Shadow, ready to flee.
"Don't move, absolutely don't move."
Spider-Man's voice was low and serious.
"Don't stare at him, don't make a sound. Just pretend we're three motionless billboards."
"Who... who is he?"
Tandy's voice trembled.
"Moon Knight." Spider-Man's tone was full of apprehension, "A... lunatic. A truly unreasonable lunatic."
Moon Knight seemed to have gotten the information he wanted from Eight-Ball, or perhaps he had just finished enjoying the process.
He released his foot, didn't even look at the screaming person on the ground, turned around, and walked out through the kicked-open door, never once glancing at Spider-Man and his companions.
In the eyes of this Knight of the Moon, whether it was Spider-Man or the superpowered Tandy and Tyrone, they were all meaningless background elements, like the tables, chairs, and cigarette butts in the hall.
This feeling of being completely ignored was more terrifying than a direct threat.
Spider-Man, Tandy, and Tyrone, the three "colleagues," exchanged glances, speechless for a long time.
Tandy silently picked up her pen and form, her hand still trembling.
She found the "Potential Threat Level" column, crossed out the previous "Low," and heavily circled "Extremely High," the ink bleeding through to the back of the paper.
Then, next to "Estimated Insurance Potential," she wrote a note with a trembling hand: [Special Clause: This client will attract the high-risk Moon Knight.]
Spider-Man sighed deeply, his voice dry:
"Alright... I think the insurance potential of that gentleman in White just now is negative five stars. No company would dare to insure such a 'walking natural disaster'."
Evidently, William had not told his two interns his client list.
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