Two Months Later
POV Marcelo Fernandes
Sabor do Brasil Restaurant, Brooklyn
The smell of black beans sautéing in garlic was my alarm clock. Five in the morning, always. Before, that smell came mixed with the bitter taste of adrenaline. Opening the gate was Russian roulette. Would the padlock be intact? The window bars pried open? Sometimes the image came: shattered glass, the cash register empty, and that note with terrible handwriting that I couldn't even understand. The Tombstone's "protection fee." Whoever didn't pay didn't open the next day. Period.
My heart would pound so hard it felt like it wanted to escape through my throat before I even set foot on the sidewalk.
Now, when I put the key in the lock, I only feel the honest tiredness of someone going to work. The padlock is clean, the glass intact. The security came from a basic Shadow-Step package. It cost less than Tombstone's "fee," and it comes with a discreet sticker on the door. An almost invisible logo, more like a watermark. But it works as a signal.
I hear the two meat delivery guys chatting while they unload in the back.
"…so, that guy from the market on the corner of 5th, remember? The one whose nephew Tombstone broke the legs of? He's opening again."
"Seriously? That's guts."
"It's not guts, Zé. He signed with Shadow too. Says some sharp-looking guy came by, didn't even act like a thug, explained everything properly, showed a contract. It's not that thing of showing up and pointing a gun anymore. It's professional."
"Feels weird, right? Too good to be true. They'll want more later."
"Maybe. But until then, we work. And we sleep at night."
They're right. It's strange. This kind of peace, after years of terror, feels like a trap. But while it lasts… God forgive me, I enjoy it. I serve my beans, take care of my customers, and at night, I close the door looking both ways out of habit, but I no longer feel that chill down my spine. The Shadow-Step sticker seems to tell me, silently: "You can go. We're watching."
POV Anne Chen
Urban Weaving, fabric and craft store, Queens
The sound I feared most wasn't gunshots. It was glass breaking at three in the morning. It happened three times. Smaller gangs, kids full of anger and boredom, seeing pretty storefronts as invitations. They took little, but the damage, the feeling of violation… was immense. The police came, took notes, never found anyone.
And Tombstone? Tombstone didn't bother coming personally for a little fabric shop. He sent a foot soldier. A man in an ill-fitting suit who coughed and pointed at a list on his phone. "Sector 7, shop of… crafts. Monthly fee: seven hundred." It was impersonal. Like paying a rotten municipal tax.
Since I hired Shadow-Step, things have changed in a way I didn't even know they needed to change.
They're not a guy in a suit. They're almost a presence. Sometimes, late at night, I see—or think I see—a shadow moving quickly across the roof of the building across the street. Other times, in the morning, I find a discreet business card clipped to the back door. "Routine inspection completed. Secure perimeter. – S.S.S."
My employees, two ladies who've been with me for years, are always gossiping at the register.
"Did you see that man, Anne? The one who came to install the new alarm? Such posture! He looked… military. But extremely polite."
"Oh, I saw him. And I heard from the Papadopoulos corner market that they're not just about alarms. They say when that 'Blue Thunder' gang tried to break into the new pharmacy, some… some ghosts showed up. In seconds, the kids were all tied up on the sidewalk for the police to pick up. They didn't even have time to scream."
"Ghosts… Lord, Maria. But… it's better than those demons from before, isn't it?"
It is. They're professional ghosts. And the demons, for now, seem to be avoiding this neighborhood. I've put my more expensive fabrics back in the display window. It's an act of faith, small and fragile. Faith in a security company that moves in the dark and leaves emotionless cards at my door. A strange faith, but for the first time in years, I sleep without taking anxiety medication.
POV Darius "Pop" Reynolds
Pop's Record Shop, vinyl record store, Brooklyn
The sound of my sanctuary was always vinyl crackle, the bass of soul, the highs of jazz. In recent years, it picked up a nightmare soundtrack: the sound of graffiti scratching the metal door, the crash of a stone through the window, the threatening whisper when I refused to buy "protection" from a gang that didn't even know who Miles Davis was.
Tombstone was a constant storm cloud. You didn't know when it would break, but you knew it would. Their "fee" was absurd. A niche business like mine has no margin for that. I paid twice. The third time, I said no. The response was a fire in the dumpster out back that almost caught the roof. The message was clear: you're too small to say no, but big enough to be an example.
Shadow-Step arrived not with threats, but with a spreadsheet. A young woman, dark hair, eyes that didn't smile but didn't judge either. "Mr. Reynolds. Our data shows your establishment has suffered three vandalism incidents and one extortion attempt in the last eight months. We have a package for small businesses that includes remote monitoring and preventive patrols."
It cost half of what Tombstone demanded. I signed with a cynical ache. Trading one thug for another.
But then things started happening. Or rather, stopped happening. The graffiti disappeared. I never again saw a threatening face peeking between the records. And the rumor started to circulate.
My assistant, a kid named Leo who lives in headphones and conspiracy theories, came in all excited one afternoon.
"Pop, did you hear? That guy from the artisanal burger place on 8th Ave, the one that got robbed twice? He hired Shadow too. And then, according to the cousin of the girlfriend of the guy who delivers there, there was a break-in attempt last week. Two crazies with crowbars. I'M NOT KIDDING… they vanished. In the blink of an eye. The security camera only catches a blur, like, black, and the two guys down. The cops showed up and they were there, groggy, tied up with some black straps. They didn't remember a thing."
"Fairy tales, Leo," I said, cleaning a rare Blue Note pressing.
"I swear, Pop! And the best part: they say the owner of Shadow, the boss, is a normal guy. Not even a mobster. They say he's a guy who… who cares."
A security company boss who "cares." Sounded like the biggest fairy tale of all. But the fact is my door is clean, my windows intact, and the sound of the shop is once again just the music. Sometimes, very late, when I close up, it feels like I sense a gaze from the top of the optician's building next door. It's not fear. It's… vigilance. Like someone is making sure Coltrane's saxophone can play in peace for one more night. It's bizarre. It's unsettling.
And damn it, it's effective.
POV Elena Petrov
Sloboda Bazaar, Russian and European import market, Brooklyn
Here, in the heart of Brighton Beach, the law was always the law of the strongest. First came the small-time opportunists, then the organized gangs. Tombstone never fully ruled here, but his tentacles reached in. And when they did, they broke things. A "lost" cargo truck, an employee beaten over a "misunderstanding," a "protection" bill that appeared like a Siberian winter: relentless and cold.
My shop is my life. Every can, every package, came with sweat. I would face anyone. And I did. I had a shotgun behind the counter. My husband, God rest his soul, always said: "Elena, you're tougher than stale rye bread." But toughness doesn't stop bullets. It only tires the soul.
The change didn't come in a big way. It came with a card left in the mailbox. "Shadow-Step Solutions. Strategic Security." Bah! Another one of those. I threw it away.
A week later, two men tried to rob Sonia's bakery next door. They took the day's cash. The police, as always, slow. The next day, a young man, dressed like a bank manager, walked into the bakery. He didn't speak to me, he spoke to Sonia. I listened from the back door, pretending to straighten boxes.
"…our analysis indicated that the location is vulnerable due to traffic through the side alley. We can suggest relocating the register and installing a silent alarm device. The basic subscription covers this."
He spoke about security like it was a business plan. No bravado, no promises of revenge. Sonia, frightened, signed.
I watched. For a month. Nothing happened at the bakery. Absolutely nothing. And then, calm began to spread. Like a thaw. Slow, but noticeable.
My clerks, two chatty girls, won't stop commenting.
"Auntie Elena, did you see that the new bar 'The Rusty Anchor' signed with Shadow? The owner, that big guy, was talking about it at the market. Said they did a full inspection, found a back door he didn't even know was that weak. It's like they study the place."
"It's true, Klara! And Mari, from the flower shop, said one of their guards helped her carry heavy pots when he passed by. She said he had the strength of a bear, but his hands were… polite. What kind of world is this?"
I listen, keep my old-rye-bread face. I admit nothing. But… I canceled the expensive and useless alarm subscription I had. And after a lot of inner resistance, I took that card I had thrown away—yes, I fished it out of the trash—and called.
Now, I also have the discreet sticker on my door. And the shotgun? It's still behind the counter. Old habits die hard. But the feeling is different. Before, it was my only hope. Now, it's just a plan B. Plan A is out there, in the shadows, making sure the winter of that kind of violence doesn't return anytime soon. It's a cold relief. And for the first time in years, I can take a deep breath without the sweet air of my bazaar seeming mixed with the smell of threat.
Horizon Labs, 10:45 AM
The air in the lab smelled of fresh coffee and soldered tin. Peter Parker, wearing a white lab coat over a polo shirt, watched with a satisfied smile as Max Modell shook hands with an impeccably dressed Pentagon representative. The contract for the gravitational engine was signed, sealed, and delivered. Horizon Labs had not only been saved; it was about to become one of the primary suppliers of next-generation propulsion technology for the Department of Defense.
"Parker, you're a genius, you know that?" Max said after the executives and military personnel had left, his voice carrying an admiration that went beyond the professional. "That quantum stabilization algorithm… that's what made the difference. They were about to cut us loose, and you delivered not just a fix, but a leap."
"Ah, it was nothing, Max. I was just thinking about… resonance patterns in granular materials," Peter replied, shrugging with a modesty that wasn't entirely false. The real inspiration had come from studying the Galvan Board and the principles of Earth Domination, but he had learned to camouflage the extraordinary within the plausible.
"Granular patterns. Of course," Max laughed, waving a hand. "Anyway, your bonus is on the way. And I spoke with the board. From now on, we're increasing your budget for your 'special project.' What was it again? 'Enhancement of containment suits for high-risk applications'?"
"Something like that," Peter confirmed, his smile becoming genuine. The "special project" was his cover for publicly developing improvements to his Spider-Man suit and equipment for Shadow-Step. Originally, he wanted to focus solely on producing equipment for the company, but Karai and the others insisted he do something for himself as well.
As Max turned to deal with paperwork, Peter left the main lab and went down to his personal workspace — a secure adjoining room with restricted access.
On one bench, the Galvan Board was disassembled, its gleaming components arranged with surgical precision alongside digital schematics Peter himself had drawn. On another, rolls of a dark gray, matte fabric — a sample of the new material he was developing — were stretched in tension frames, undergoing resistance tests from a low-power laser beam.
But the center of attention, the true result of two months of intensive work and sleepless nights—
It was a suit. Not his traditional red and blue, but a matte black and charcoal-gray version. The design was more streamlined, less "spandex" and more tactical, with subtle reinforcements on the shoulders, elbows, and knees. The spider emblem on the chest was smaller, almost subliminal, embroidered with the same phosphorescent black thread that only became visible under specific light.
The primary fabric was a blend of enhanced synthetic spider silk with nano-fibers derived from the Galvan Board's casing — light as a feather, yet capable of dispersing impact energy and resisting cuts that would tear through steel. It also integrated the board's neural interface system, responding to his electrical impulses to adjust tension, permeability, and even basic thermal camouflage.
Peter ran his hand over the suit's shoulder, feeling the smooth, cool texture. It was more than clothing; it was a tool, an extension of his new identity as a leader and combatant. He called it the "Shadow Suit."
Now that his funding had increased, he would begin mass-producing the suit for Shadow-Step, and then make one for himself — with his classic colors and symbol, obviously.
Peter had originally wanted to produce it in his lab at the Web, but unfortunately he didn't yet have half the equipment and materials there to do so.
He was about to begin a durability test when his personal phone — an ultra-secure, encrypted model modified by Rook — vibrated in silent mode. The ID showed an icon of a stylized shuriken. Karai.
Peter answered, slipping in the discreet earpiece. "Talk to me."
"The peace of your lab is about to be disturbed, oh Master of Gears," Karai's voice came dry, but with a spark of humor. She'd been in a good mood lately.
"If this is about the extra budget for the combat simulators, Rook already convinced me. The guy is persuasive when he starts quoting injury-reduction statistics in training."
"It's about what's happening outside our walls," Karai replied, her tone growing more serious. "The ecosystem is readjusting. And fast."
Peter leaned against the bench, looking at the black suit. "Tombstone's vacuum."
"Exactly. Tombstone may be hiding, trying to pick up the pieces, but his territory isn't empty. It's being contested inch by inch. The Maggia, led by Silvermane, is being the most aggressive, taking over mid-sized casinos and distribution routes in northern Brooklyn. But it's not just them."
Peter closed his eyes, feeling the weight of the city through the lab floor. Two months. Two months since they buried Tombstone in concrete and forced him to flee. Two months since Shadow-Step Solutions stopped being a paranoid startup and became a recognized — feared, respected, watched — player in New York's underworld.
The first days were triage. The money Peter had put up, combined with Karai's brutal efficiency and Rook's logistics, transformed the "Web" from a refurbished warehouse into a discreet fortress. They bought the building, installed independent generators, an espionage-proof server room, and a subterranean training dojo that would make a Foot Clan sensei cry with happiness.
Shadow-Step, publicly, flourished. With Tombstone's fall, small and medium business owners in the area — previously squeezed between extortion and police inertia — rushed to hire their services. The company now had more than twenty legitimate "protection contracts," creating a network of income and information that spread across Brooklyn and Queens. Kenji and Akari practically lived in the field, supervising teams that prevented robberies, dismantled protection rackets, and delivered anonymous evidence to the police with a regularity that left Captain Watanabe of the 74th Precinct simultaneously grateful and deeply suspicious.
And Daredevil? Matt Murdock kept his word. He watched. Sometimes Peter felt his distant presence, a radar whisper in his enhanced senses during an operation. But he didn't interfere. Maybe he was waiting for them to slip. Maybe he was, against his will, admitting that their approach — for now — was working.
"Who else is moving?" Peter asked, returning to the conversation.
"A new faction, or rather, an old one resurfacing," Karai explained. "The 'Creepers,' a street gang that controlled low-level trafficking in the Bronx before Tombstone crushed them. They're reorganizing, but in a more… intelligent way. They use encrypted messaging apps, delivery drones for drugs. They're clever, but not very relevant — it'll be easy to deal with them."
"And Kingpin? Wilson Fisk isn't the type to miss an opportunity."
"Fisk is quiet. Too quiet. He's consolidating his power in Hell's Kitchen and Midtown, apparently ignoring the fight in Brooklyn. Either he's underestimating us, or he's preparing something big. I'd bet on the second."
Peter sighed, running a hand through his hair. The work never ended. You take down one monster, and two smaller ones and a bigger one show up to take its place.
"And how are we positioned?"
"In terms of strength, we're solid," she replied, the sound of footsteps on the Web's concrete floor echoing softly in the background. "One hundred and twenty operatives at full capacity. All equipped with urban camouflage uniforms, state-of-the-art non-lethal weaponry, and trained in the combat protocols you and Rook developed. Our finances are stable — the money from legitimate contracts covers 70% of operational expenses. The rest comes from 'recovered assets' from operations against smaller gangs."
Peter made a thoughtful face. "Recovered assets" was their euphemism for looting the coffers of the criminals they took down. It was a thin line, but a necessary one. They weren't Robin Hood, but they ensured dirty money was redirected to keep their operation running instead of falling into another criminal's hands. Peter hadn't liked the idea at first, but he'd come to accept it.
"Go on."
"Akari has set up a digital surveillance network covering 40% of Brooklyn and parts of Queens. We can predict Maggia movements with 85% accuracy. As for the Creepers, Kenji has a team embedded. We can dismantle them in a week, once you authorize it."
"And what's your assessment, Karai?" Peter asked, crossing his arms. "Should we expand? Consolidate? Intervene in this fight over Tombstone's territory, or keep our heads down and protect what we already have?"
There was a pause on the other end. Peter could almost hear her tactical thoughts turning.
"Directly intervening in the territorial dispute would put us in open war with the Maggia. Silvermane is old, but he's not stupid. He has political connections and an army of veteran goons. It would be a costly, bloody conflict and draw too much attention."
"So, consolidate," Peter concluded.
"Not exactly," Karai countered, her tone taking on a strategic nuance Peter had learned to recognize. "Consolidation suggests passivity. We are active. Proactive. My suggestion is: selective containment and market manipulation."
Peter raised an eyebrow, even though she couldn't see it. "I'm listening."
"Instead of facing the Maggia head-on, we strangle it. We identify their logistical weak points — distribution warehouses, money launderers, accountants. We don't attack. We… inconvenience. A data leak to the IRS here, a Shadow-Step 'intervention' at a sales point there, making their merchandise disappear before it reaches customers. We create costs and friction. Meanwhile, we allow the Creepers and other smaller gangs to nibble at the edges of Maggia territory, keeping Silvermane busy and bleeding."
"And in the middle of it all, Shadow-Step appears as the only stable, professional, and reliable force," Peter finished, understanding the plan. "Merchants and civilians, seeing the Maggia lose control and smaller gangs cause chaos, will flock even more to our services."
"Exactly. We don't conquer territory in the traditional sense. We conquer influence. Loyalty. We become the de facto authority in the areas we protect. And when the dust settles, there won't be a new 'Tombstone' or 'Silvermane' in Brooklyn. There will be a network of clients protected by Shadow-Step and a power vacuum that no one will have the resources to fill… except us."
"…Your mind is a scary place sometimes, you know that?" Peter said, unable to stop himself from smiling.
"That's why you keep me around, Peter. To think about the scary things so you can keep thinking about… whatever it is you think about," she replied, the humor returning.
"Alright. I authorize the plan. Phased implementation. Start with the Maggia's logistical points, but with extreme discretion. Nothing that can be traced back to us. And keep Kenji on the Creepers. I want to know if they have any hidden backer."
"Understood. Oh, and when you come by, bring pizza. Akari's on a diet and her food is inedible."
Peter smiled. Some things never changed. "Count on extra pepperoni. And tell Akari that tofu isn't food."
Peter removed the earpiece, looking at the Shadow Suit on the bench. Karai's plan was good. More than good. But it would require even tighter control over operations, situational awareness beyond even his Meta-Vision. He needed to be able to be in several places at once — or at least have a presence that could feel every strand of the web.
That's when he remembered the system. 283 GP. He'd been saving them in case of an emergency; he'd have even more if he didn't occasionally buy a thing or two in the item shop.
"System," he murmured, focusing on the interface. "Show me the Basic Item Shop."
A new screen opened in his mind, organized with spartan efficiency. There were categories: Consumables, Equipment, Utilities. Most of the items were variations of what he had already obtained from Iron Rank draws: Concentration Pills, Smoke Bombs, Rations, basic First Aid Kits. Prices ranged from 1 to 15 GP per unit.
Useful for restocking, but not what he needed right now.
He closed the shop and contemplated the draw. The category filter was available. Characters, Items, Skills. He still had much to learn about Earth Domination and Meta-Vision. A new character could bring unique abilities… but no, he had to save the points.
Still, a part of him — the part that was still a scientist — itched with curiosity. What lay beyond Bronze Rank? What could Silver or Gold Rank contain? Technology that would make the Galvan Board look like a toy? Abilities that defied the laws of physics? To reach those ranks, he needed to level up.
And to level up, he needed experience points. Which came from missions and, presumably, from impact on the world.
"Impact on the world," he whispered, looking at the gravitational engine schematics on the wall and then at the black suit. His actions at Horizon were causing impact. His actions as Spider-Man and leader of Shadow-Step were causing impact. He wondered why he hadn't received any missions beyond the dailies yet.
[Ding! Long-Term Development Mission Detected!]
[Objective: Stabilize the Brooklyn region (Brooklyn, Queens) by creating a sustainable security network and discouraging the emergence of new major criminal organizations.]
[Progress: 15%]
[Reward: 500 GP, 1x Draw Ticket (Silver Rank)]
[Note: Progress is measured by reductions in violent crime, extortion, and trafficking rates in areas of Shadow-Step influence, and by the absence of a dominant "crime lord" in the region.]
Peter whistled softly. 500 GP and a Silver ticket. The rewards were huge — but so was the mission. This wasn't a one-night operation; it was a campaign. The kind of thing that could take months, maybe years. It was exactly what Karai was proposing, formalized by the System.
He accepted the mission without hesitation.
With one last look at the Shadow Suit, Peter stowed it and his personal equipment in his inventory and left the Horizon lab. The afternoon sun bathed the streets in a warm golden hue.
As he entered the base through the discreet rear access, the air was already charged with purpose. The large main hall, once an empty gymnasium, was now an operations center worthy of a low-budget intelligence agency. Several workstations displayed digital maps, hacked public camera feeds, and real-time data analysis. A group of ten ninjas, dressed in urban camouflage uniforms, stood gathered around Karai, who pointed to a holographic map of northern Brooklyn.
"—the Maggia logistics warehouse on Navy Street is point A," she explained, her voice clear and cutting. "It's not fortified. It's a redistribution hub. Stolen electronics come in, go out to front stores. Our objective isn't the cargo. It's the system." She tapped the screen, and a database schematic appeared. "Akari identified the local server. It's a secondary node, but it syncs daily with Silvermane's main network. We insert a silent crawler. It will siphon transaction data from the last six months and, at the moment of synchronization, inject code that corrupts the master files. They'll lose control of inventory, payments, routes. They'll blame a bug, a dishonest employee, while we collect the names of every client and supplier."
"And the physical security on site?" one of the ninjas asked, his voice young but steady.
"Negligent routine," Kenji replied, emerging from the shadows beside the group. He wore civilian clothes—jeans and a leather jacket—but his posture was that of a predator. "Two night guards, both on Maggia payroll, but more interested in their phones and coffee. The alarm system is commercial, easy to bypass. The infiltration team will be two: Hana and Ren. They go in as a power utility maintenance crew—credentials already forged. Server access takes twelve minutes. Clean exit."
Peter watched, impressed. The operation was clean, smart, almost elegant in its discretion.
Karai noticed his presence and lifted her chin slightly, an almost imperceptible gesture of acknowledgment. She ended the briefing with a final command: "Execution at midnight. Disperse."
The ninjas dispersed in silence, each to their pre-mission tasks. Kenji gave Peter a brief nod before disappearing down a side corridor, likely to perform a final equipment check.
"Looks like you already started without me," Peter commented, approaching Karai.
"Time is a resource, Peter. And the Maggia isn't going to wait for you to finish tuning your new technological pajamas," she replied, her eyes scanning him from head to toe, as if she could see the Shadow Suit stored in his inventory. "Do you approve the plan?"
"Absolutely. It's brilliant. You've been managing the chaos of these last two months very well."
"It's the only way to grow without attracting the wrong eyes. Speaking of which..." She leaned over a terminal and pulled up a security feed. The image showed the entrance of a modest commercial building in Hell's Kitchen, a few blocks from the offices of Nelson & Murdock. A tall, elegant figure, wearing an immaculate white suit, entered the lobby. Wilson Fisk.
The image was low-resolution, captured by a public security camera that Akari had managed to access, but it was unmistakable. The imposing bulk, the bald head. Wilson Fisk didn't seem to be doing anything extraordinary—just entering a building.
"Fisk," Peter murmured, eyes fixed on the screen. "He's moving, finally?"
"In a very, very discreet way," Karai replied, crossing her arms. "Over the last ten days, he's held three public meetings with low-level Brooklyn politicians, all about 'urban revitalization' and 'youth employment programs.' Perfect cover. But our tracking of his high-level enforcers shows unusual movement. They're asking questions. About Tombstone's fall. About the Shadow-Step. About Spider-Man."
Peter felt a familiar chill at the base of his spine. The Kingpin wasn't like Tombstone. Tombstone was strong, but dumb. Fisk was patient. He had strategy. He was capital and corruption intertwined to the marrow of the city's bones.
"Does he see us as a threat?" Peter asked.
"He sees us as a variable," Karai corrected. "To Fisk, everything is a calculation. We took down one of his competitors—an unruly and loud competitor, but a competitor nonetheless. We cleared part of the board for him. Now he's assessing whether we're useful pawns, unexpected bishops... or whether we need to be removed from the game before we become queens."
Peter let out a dry laugh. "You know where I'm from? I was born a queen."
Karai rolled her eyes, but one corner of her mouth curved. "The point is, he won't attack us the way Tombstone did. Not with an army of thugs. If he decides we're a problem, it'll be with a fraudulent lawsuit that freezes our assets. It'll be with a Daily Bugle article linking the Shadow-Step to terrorist activities. It'll be with one of our 'clients' being threatened in a way even our ninjas won't be able to prevent—unless we expose ourselves completely."
"Then we need to be even more careful," Peter concluded, running a hand through his hair. "No mistakes. No unnecessary violence. Nothing that gives him a handle to pull."
At that moment, Rook entered the command room. The Revonnahgander was wearing a maintenance technician's coveralls—another cover identity—and carrying a toolbox. His Proto-Weapon was disguised as a storage unit beneath the coveralls.
"Mr. Parker. Ms. Karai," he greeted with a nod. "The signal-jamming devices for the Navy Street area are calibrated and in position. The Maggia server's synchronization frequency has been confirmed. The twelve-minute window remains accurate."
"Thank you, Rook," Peter said. "Everything smooth on your end?"
"Surprisingly so," Rook replied, setting the toolbox on a table. "This city's communications infrastructure is chaotic, but predictably chaotic. It's like fixing an old engine: there's a lot of grime and improvised parts, but once you understand the jury-rigging, everything works. I took the opportunity to improve the bandwidth at the corner café. The owner, Mrs. Olivetti, was complaining that her grandchildren couldn't watch 'kitty' videos."
Peter couldn't help a genuine smile. It was easy to forget, beneath all that somewhat rigid military pomp, that Rook had a genuinely good side. He liked fixing things, helping. It was the essence of a Plumber, after all.
"Kitties are a critical priority, Recruit Blonko," Peter joked, the light tone returning naturally to his voice. "Stay focused."
Rook inclined his head, a glint of humor in his yellow eyes. "Always, sir. Though I should note that the terrestrial species Felis catus, while adorable, is a notoriously efficient environmental invasive and—"
"Rook," Karai interrupted, though without harshness. "The report on the Crawlers' movements?"
"Ah, yes." Rook tapped his wrist device, and a new hologram appeared, showing a network of lines and points moving through the Bronx and spilling into northern Brooklyn. "They're agile. They use cyclists and motorcycle couriers with legitimate delivery apps as cover. Their command structure is decentralized, almost cellular. It's smart, but it creates single points of failure. We've identified three low-profile 'financiers.' Two are businessmen with legitimate fronts. The third… is interesting."
The hologram zoomed in on a name and a photo: Martin Li.
Peter frowned. "Mr. Negative."