The Western city, on the verge of Christmas, grew colder once night fell.
Especially atop a twenty-one–story skyscraper, where the wind howled hard enough to knock a grown man off his feet, carrying flakes of frost like drifting cotton.
The rooftop door had long been locked from the inside. On ordinary days, no one ever came up here—not at night, not even at noon.
But tonight, two figures stood at the summit.
One crouched low atop the water tank, the other leaned casually against the railing. Between them stretched ten meters of moonlit tension.
"Who are you?"
Gwen's eyes widened, her gaze sharp beneath the spider mask.
And then, surprise.
The woman before her didn't look particularly strong. Her exposed skin, pale and flawless beneath the armor, bore no trace of muscle, and yet the sheer power she had displayed earlier was beyond belief. The armor she wore, the weapons, the crown and boots—all of them emanated an ancient, primal nobility.
She stood tall against the icy wind, boots pressing into the thin snow that coated the rooftop. Moonlight poured down like silver silk, gleaming through her wild, silver hair. In that light, she looked as if she were cloaked in divine radiance, like a goddess resurrected from the pages of ancient Greece.
"So beautiful," Gwen murmured before she could stop herself.
Though the woman stood at an angle, her silver hair whipping about in the wind and snow, Gwen couldn't make out her face clearly.
Even so… beautiful.
The word slipped out from somewhere deep inside her. There was simply no other way to describe it.
As Gwen studied her, the silver-haired woman—Vincent—was studying Gwen in return.
Though Gwen's body was wrapped tightly in a skintight suit from head to toe, Vincent could tell at a glance that she was a real woman—unlike himself, a mere imposter.
After all, compared to the feminine battle armor he currently wore, such a skintight suit left no room for deception. No matter how tightly a man wrapped himself, that one telltale bulge below the waist could never be hidden, not like the flat, seamless form before him now.
What really caught Vincent's eye, though, was the black-and-white spider suit the mysterious girl wore. It hugged her petite frame perfectly, every contour alive with coiled strength, like a predator watching its prey. The suit's sleek lines traced muscles that balanced on the edge between power and grace: one ounce more, too bulky; one less, too frail.
Could this be the Spider-Man of legend?
Wait, wasn't Spider-Man supposed to be a guy?
Vincent blinked, thrown off balance.
Then the girl's voice reached him—crisp, cold, a young woman's tone he couldn't place. And yet, somehow, it felt familiar.
Strange, but familiar.
That uncanny dissonance tugged at his mind until her next words hit him like a dart.
"You're beautiful."
And that was it.
Social death. Instant.
Vincent wanted to vanish into the wind, maybe just hurl himself off the building and be done with it.
"You still haven't answered me," Gwen called down, hands braced against the water tank as she peered at him. "Who are you, really?"
He didn't answer.
"I can sense it," Gwen continued. "That weapon you're holding—it's dangerous. Those cops and helicopters earlier? You could've easily taken them down. So why did you just keep running?"
Still silent, Vincent lowered his gaze to the antique longsword in his grip.
Even during that desperate escape, he had never once let it go.
It was something his aunt had hidden at home; that alone made it impossible for him to abandon it.
As for why he didn't use it… wasn't it obvious?
He had no idea how to use a sword.
And besides—
Gwen seemed to catch his thought and said, "You didn't want to hurt them. The police… the civilians."
Vincent nodded slightly. Then, realizing he could express himself without speaking, he pressed the sword's tip against the rooftop and drew a long, clean line between them.
The blade, forged of some unknown metal, sliced through the concrete as if it were tofu.
Gwen looked at the line dividing them and quickly understood. "You mean—don't cross it?"
Vincent nodded again, lifting the sword upright in front of him. His meaning was clear: if she stepped past that line, he would strike.
He didn't want to fight someone else who possessed powers like his own, but he would defend himself if he had to.
"Fine," Gwen said lightly.
And the moment Vincent relaxed, her eyes flashed with mischief.
Her wrists flicked forward.
Thwip! Thwip!
Two white webs shot out, one snaring the sword in his hand, the other anchoring to the railing behind him—trapping Vincent between them like a fly in her web.
"Let me see your real face!"
With a sharp tug, she tried to wrench the sword away, but it didn't budge. Instead, using the webs' elastic tension, Gwen launched herself forward, a human bullet streaking straight into Vincent's chest.
Instant social death, take two.
Realizing what was about to happen, Vincent's instincts kicked in. His mind went blank, then bright. Instead of clinging to the sword, he flung it forward with all his strength.
Whoosh!
The silver blade sliced through the air like a streak of moonlight.
Gwen's pupils shrank. She twisted midair to dodge, but the sword didn't aim for her. It flew past her shoulder, dragging one of her own webs taut with it.
"No!"
Gwen's eyes widened as her body jerked backward, yanked by the web still attached to her wrist.
The sword embedded itself deep in the rooftop's iron door, hilt and all.
Even then, Gwen's reflexes surpassed human limits. Just before slamming into the door, she grabbed the second webline anchored to the railing, absorbing the force of the pull. Her body flipped midair and landed with both feet braced neatly against the door's surface.
But before she could even look up, a shadow closed in from behind.
"Off!"
Gwen lashed out with a swift back kick, but Vincent was already ready. He caught her ankle mid-strike, drove his knee forward, pressing it squarely between her shoulder blades, pinning her firmly against the door.
Fearing she might fire more webs, he didn't give her the chance.
He dropped her to the ground, sat on her arched back, and, while still gripping her ankle, twisted both her wrists behind her and pinned them tight.
The motion was smooth, impossibly smooth, like muscle memory from a hundred drills. Even Vincent was startled; moments ago, he could barely control his own strength.
Guess his survival instinct was stronger than he thought.
Social death? Not today.
Gwen, of course, struggled fiercely, but it was no use.
Superhuman she might be, yet even among the extraordinary, there were levels.
In raw strength, she was completely overpowered.
And that shocked her most of all. Her strength could lift a car without breaking a sweat. Yet now, pinned beneath this mysterious "woman," she couldn't move an inch.
For the first time since gaining her powers, Gwen felt truly powerless.