Having recovered himself, Lance unceremoniously kicked Stark out of the law firm.
The man was clearly furious. He had come over in high spirits, only to be inexplicably scolded, nearly have his face smashed in, and then thrown out.
It showed. Stark said nothing, closed his faceplate, and flew off without a word.
For a moment, Lance had a strange image in his mind. A sulking girlfriend storming off after a fight, refusing to speak.
That thought was unsettling.
He shook his head, forcing it away, then dropped back onto the bed and closed his eyes.
Let's turn back the clock a little and return to the young Spider-Man, who had just left Hell's Kitchen.
After leaving, he did not head home right away. Instead, he swung through the towering buildings of New York.
His thoughts were in disarray. There were too many things he could not make sense of.
Even as a high school student, he already had his own understanding of the world.
Daredevil, who had saved him, had said that the underground boxing ring's boss had shown restraint by only using laxatives and anesthetics, instead of directly controlling him with drugs.
He had said it casually, as if it were nothing.
At the time, Peter had been too confused and shaken to think about it.
But now, as he left that underground room and the wind of Hell's Kitchen, tinged with the smell of burning rubber, hit his face, those words came back to him.
Had that boss really shown mercy?
Peter did not know.
But from the tone of the people in Hell's Kitchen, it seemed like this was normal.
If anyone else had been in his place tonight, they likely would not have fared any better.
Peter even found himself thinking that he had been lucky.
At least he had only been drugged.
At least he would not die because of it.
Probably.
But what about everyone else?
Did their lives not matter to these people?
Just because they lived in Hell's Kitchen, did they deserve to be treated this way?
Over the past few days, Peter had practically immersed himself in Hell's Kitchen. He had not only stayed around the underground boxing ring, he had wandered through every corner of the district.
He knew that the people surviving there were not just addicts. There were also those who could not make a living elsewhere and had fled to Hell's Kitchen just to get by.
Of course, there were criminals, gang members, and junkies. But there were also ordinary people, and even innocent children.
For some reason, anger began to rise within him.
This anger was far stronger than anything he had felt when complaining about his own life or his lack of money.
He felt that things should not be like this. At the very least, they should not be this way.
He thought of the person who had saved him, and of the stranger who had warned him on his first day not to come back.
Were they bad people? No.
Were they good people? Peter did not know.
He had always believed, in his naïve way, that good people would be rewarded and evil people would be punished.
Reality had proven otherwise.
Why did the owners and shareholders of the underground boxing ring live so comfortably? They enjoyed luxury, indifferent to tomorrow and to the lives of others.
Even the drunkards in the audience, lost in their stupor, could still sleep peacefully for a night.
Yet for some people, even staying alive was a struggle.
Some good people refused to compromise their principles. All they wanted was a piece of black bread, yet what they received never matched what they gave.
All they could do was collapse into uneasy sleep, day after day, in cramped and suffocating rooms.
And once they fell asleep, they might never wake again.
Peter did not know why he felt this way. He did not even know who to direct his anger at, or how to release it.
So he kept moving.
He leapt and swung across the skyscrapers of New York, weaving through the city.
The high-rises were brightly lit, a display of endless prosperity.
Below, the alleys remained swallowed in darkness, as if light would never reach them.
!!! As Peter sped up, trying to outrun his thoughts, his Spider-Sense suddenly flared.
In the next instant, a suit of armor descended from the sky, something that seemed like it belonged in comics or movies.
It dove straight toward him.
The armor seized him by the waist, carried him low across the ground for a short distance, then threw him down.
Already injured, Peter was left disoriented by the impact.
The armored figure hovered in midair above him.
"Hey, look what I found." A man's voice came from inside the armor. "A high school kid who should be fast asleep is out wandering New York at this hour. Someone really should teach you a lesson, Spider-Boy."
Peter's already boiling mind flared again. Still on the ground, he slammed his fist into the pavement.
"I'm not a kid!" he shouted. "I'm Spider-Man!"
"Oh, Spider-Man," Stark repeated with disdain. His mood was already poor, and this sleepless kid wandering the streets gave him a convenient outlet.
"Now I remember. Spider-Man. You've been making quite a name for yourself in Hell's Kitchen. Those gamblers are practically worshipping you lately."
"Hell's Kitchen…" At the mention of it, Stark immediately thought of Lance. His expression, hidden behind the mask, twisted slightly. "That damn lawyer."
He muttered under his breath.
Peter was already frustrated and angry because of what he had seen in Hell's Kitchen. Hearing Stark speak like that, he snapped. He lunged forward and attacked without hesitation.
At a moment like this, Lance was not there.
If he had been, he would have thoroughly enjoyed watching this scene unfold.
Peter had no formal combat training, nor any refined technique. His attacks were nothing more than the wild swings he had relied on in the underground boxing ring.
Against the Mark V, assisted by JARVIS, they were meaningless.
The poor Spider-Man fought for ten minutes, breathing heavily, yet in the end, he had not landed a single effective hit.
"Stop dodging!" Peter shouted. "I'll show you what I can really do!"
"If this is what you call real skill, I suggest you go home," Stark replied lazily, sidestepping another attack with ease.
When he was not dealing with Lance, Stark's sharp tongue remained as effective as ever. Peter, still inexperienced, flushed with anger under the ridicule.
Stark himself was in no mood to keep playing along.
"Alright, that's enough. Go home. This isn't a place for a kid like you."
___
Read 12 chapters ahead of WN:
Patreon.com/CorruptElf