Night had soon fallen, and the storm of lightning and thunder continued to clash violently across the heavens. The buildings stood soaked, their concrete and glass skins glistening under the relentless assault of rain. Billboards and neon signs, though appearing normal to the naked eye, shimmered faintly when truly observed—each raindrop glinting in the artificial glow like trembling jewels suspended in motion.
One particular billboard broadcasted a live stream, its pixelated feed crisp enough to show the time and date etched clearly in the bottom corner—November 9, 2011. It showed a studio scene, a maple-wood desk occupying the foreground, polished yet cluttered with a mess of papers and folders. Behind the desk sat a man in his late thirties, though stress had carved deep lines into his features, aging him beyond his years. His hair, peppered and thinned, clung desperately to his scalp, and his furrowed brow spoke of years shouting into the void.
Suddenly, his hand came crashing down onto the desk with a thundering slap, causing a ripple through the papers. His voice, sharp and filled with furious conviction, broke through the storm like a siren.
"Once again, Spider-Man leaves a trail of destruction in his webbed wake! Yes, the so-called 'hero' managed to take down the rampaging Rhino—but at what cost? Shattered storefronts! Terrified citizens! City infrastructure in ruins! Who pays for that? You do, taxpayer!"
He seethed, spittle catching the camera lens momentarily. His rage wasn't merely theatrical—it was bone-deep, a fervent belief that echoed from years of railing against New York's masked protector.
"And don't be fooled—had Spider-Man not been swinging around like a circus act, maybe the Rhino wouldn't have gone on a rampage in the first place! It's a pattern: masked chaos draws masked chaos."
"Until this wall-crawling vigilante unmasks and takes responsibility for the damage he causes, the Daily Bugle will continue to call out the real danger in this city: Spider-Man!"
With another slam of his fist against the fine maple, J. Jonah Jameson—face red with fervor, shirt sleeves rolled past his elbows, white collar rumpled—radiated a hatred that had become infamous. A man in tan slacks, striped tie now slightly loosened, he practically vibrated with disdain for the one figure who continually outshined his city's law and order.
While Jameson's broadcasts had become a background hum to many—a familiar, if exhausting, tirade—there were still those who clung to every word. Some in the city's underbelly found validation in his fury. Others, lurking in even darker corners, took his words as justification.
Across the city, near the industrial edge of Brooklyn, a forgotten storehouse stood cloaked in shadow. Rain peppered the glass ceiling in a constant rhythm. Within, under the flickering chain-hung light, shadowy figures gathered around a battered poker table. A radio played Jameson's tirade in the background, his vitriol underscoring the silence between each round.
The skylight above swayed faintly, its glow occasionally blinking out like a tired heartbeat. Below, two men locked in a heated match of cards, their eyes dancing over the table like duelists seeking weakness.
The winner, a balding white man with piercing blue eyes and a five o'clock shadow, wore a charcoal-gray suit and black tie. A matchstick dangled from his lips, resting snugly between his teeth. His demeanor was calm, calculating—eyes narrowed at the hand of cards he held close to his chest.
Across from him sat the loser. Envy simmered beneath his otherwise composed surface, his expression that of a fox outwitted at its own game. A red fedora shadowed his sharp features, and a faint scar ran along his left cheek, cleanly carved and forever visible due to his clean shave. His suit mirrored his opponent's in style, black and formal, and his shoes shone with the polish of professionalism.
They may have been dressed like gentlemen, but no one would mistake them for such. These were men of the city's underworld.
"So how's the Mafia goin' Eddie? I hear Hammerhead's makin' it big," the winner smirked, his tone lazy but sharp with intent—an attempt to needle out more than just a tell from his opponent. He was playing for stakes beyond poker chips.
Eddie wiped a bead of sweat from his brow, trying to maintain his composure. His eyes locked onto his opponent's, probing for ulterior motives. "Nothing much. Just things I can't disclose… just like you, Lander, can't disclose about Kingpin."
There it was. Truth wrapped in a veiled truce. Both men belonged to titanic factions of New York's criminal empire. Eddie served Hammerhead, the rising mob boss with ties to the old families. Lander, on the other hand, had pledged himself to Wilson Fisk—The Kingpin—a man whose shadow blanketed entire boroughs.
Why weren't they at each other's throats? A ceasefire. Temporary. Uneasy. Held together by profits, mutual leverage, and just enough fear to keep everyone in line. For now.
Because of this fragile accord, places like this—hidden dens of gambling and information—were allowed to flourish. They became neutral grounds for gathering intelligence, exchanging subtle threats, and perhaps just one hand of poker too many.
"Hmph. Fair enough. It's your turn, friend." Lander emphasized the word with dry sarcasm, eyes scanning Eddie's reaction.
Eddie gritted his teeth, mildly irked but focused. He began studying his hand again, his mind running numbers and possibilities until the door creaked open.
A sudden gust of chilled air swirled into the room. Both men looked up, startled. Standing in the doorway, framed by sheets of rain, was a young figure clad in black. His hoodie was drawn up, obscuring his face, but what stood out were his shoes—bright red Air Jordans gleaming against the shadows.
Lander smirked, leaning back in his seat. "What'd you bring me, kid?" he asked, voice smooth and mocking.
Eddie tensed immediately, already reaching into his jacket. "Hey, what is this?!" he snapped, his hand wrapping around the grip of a concealed Colt .45.
"Easy, Ed. This kid just owes me money. Right, Terry?" Lander's tone was dismissive, calming. The hooded boy—Terry—nodded nervously.
"D-Day… D-does this m-make us s-square?" Terry's voice shook, and so did his body. Sweat clung to his brow despite the cold, and his hands trembled as he held something out.
The room fell silent as a small device was revealed. It pulsed with a dark blue glow, casting a pale light across the poker table. A thin mist curled from its surface, as if it exhaled the breath of winter.
The chill deepened.
Lander's eyes widened. This was no ordinary tech. This was a weapon. Or worse.
Without a word, he took out his phone, dialing a number. He clapped Terry's back with a mockingly warm pat. "Yeah, kid. We're square. You can go."
Terry turned, limbs shaking, ready to leave—but Eddie wasn't done. "Wait! Kid, where'd you get this?!" he demanded, voice sharp with a mix of panic and greed.
Terry froze. Behind him, Eddie's face had twisted into something hungry. Lander, however, had grown quiet and cold, giving the boy a silent warning not to speak.
Before Terry could even open his mouth, the light overhead sputtered once—then died. Total darkness fell, except for the pale blue hue still emanating from the device in Terry's hand.
And then, the temperature dropped further.
Their breath fogged instantly, the warmth ripped from the air as frost spread across the walls. Even Lander's phone screen began to dim, the signal struggling as he pressed it to his face.
"Wh-what is it, Mister Lander?" came a voice on the other end. Cold. Authoritative.
"S-sir… I f-found it." Lander could barely hold the phone steady, the frost already creeping across his sleeves.
Eddie fumbled with his own phone, but it was too late.
Terry's eyes darted to the door. His breath caught in his throat.
The doors were sealed. Frozen solid, crystalline frost sealing the metal and wood beneath a layer of living ice.
And it didn't stop there.
The glass ceiling above them groaned as frost laced across its surface like spiderwebs spun by winter itself. Fear took hold. The kind that hollowed the chest and stopped the blood cold.
A voice emerged from the walls. It slid along the ice like a whisper through a graveyard.
"You do not know what you've taken… but you will understand what it costs."
Emotionless. Detached. Frozen in tone as it was in message.
The henchmen scrambled. Eddie drew his .45. Lander, his prized Desert Eagle—gifted to him personally by his boss. Both hands shook.
On the phone, the figure said nothing. Still watching. Still calculating.
"Who are you?!" Eddie shouted, his voice cracking.
But the voice did not answer him.
"Return it—intact—and I might spare you a painless end."
Lander sneered. "You and what army?!"
A mistake.
The doors, once sheathed in ice, shattered inward with a single earth-trembling kick. And there he stood.
A behemoth of metal and frost. His armor, heavy and sealed, hissed faintly from internal cooling systems. Red goggles glowed from beneath a thick visor. The breath within his helmet fogged over the interior glass.
He looked like a man built to survive extinction.
The weapon he carried dwarfed any firearm in the room—a cryogenic cannon, rotating with a slow whine. Its muzzle glowed blue, alive with unspeakable science. A heartbeat away from release.
And then he spoke, words laced with tragedy.
"Every second you ran, Nora's life withered. You stole time. Now I'll take yours."