"Okay. Keep breathing."
He had pressure on the wound.
The woman was in her twenties and had taken a bullet in the stomach.
She was wearing a formal office suit, a plain black shirt under a black coat, black leggings, black skirt.
He finished bandaging as well as he could manage without sterile equipment and lifted her, carrying her to the ambulance that had arrived and laying her on the stretcher. He put his hand against her cheek.
"You are going to be okay."
"Mmm," she murmured as she lost consciousness.
He turned to the officers standing nearby.
"I could not remove the bullet. I did not have sterile equipment. She needs immediate medical attention." He pointed at two of them. "Check her phone. Notify her family or friends that she was caught in the crossfire. Stay by her side."
"O....okay!" Both young officers gave him a military salute. He put his palms on their shoulders.
"Calm down," he said. "You control the entrance and exit. I will handle the rest up there."
"Yes!" The officer turned to the task and reached for the woman's phone, dialing the most recent contact. "Hello? Mr. Hank? Yes, I am an officer...."
Spider-Man was already running toward Fisk Tower. He grabbed a vase from the lobby entrance on his way through, activated the suit's new camouflage upgrade, and walked into the lobby.
Three masked men were holding civilians at gunpoint.
He whistled.
Whoosh.
The men turned toward the sound. One of them caught the vase in the face.
"What the hell?"
"Language, you son of a bitch," Spider-Man said, invisible, grabbing that one by the head and slamming it against the reception desk, then turning and kicking the second in the stomach before shooting him to the ceiling with a web.
He kept moving, freeing civilians who began running for the exit. He reached an elevator and pressed 13.
The elevator music played.
He swayed his head slightly to the rhythm while the car ascended.
"Time to get paid," he said. "Maximum wage. That body belongs on a poster."
Ding.
His senses roared as the doors slid open and he looked at ten masked men with weapons all trained on the elevator.
The elevator was empty, as far as they could see.
"It is empty," said the first one.
"Yeah, clearly," said another, lowering his weapon. "You think Marco downstairs is messing with us?"
"That could be it," said a third, puffing out his chest. "Because I was with his wife."
"She is a professional and you are her client," said the first one, with a face entirely devoid of expression.
"That is not the point!" said the most rational voice in the group. "What if someone else is behind this?"
"Well," said the third, "where would that someone be?"
"I mean.... what if it is invisible?"
"You are actually pretty smart," Spider-Man said, in a conversational tone that came from directly behind the rational one's ear.
"Wow!"
He slapped him into the wall hard enough to produce unconsciousness, then kicked the one nearest the window squarely in the chest.
That one went through the glass and out of the building. Before he fell any meaningful distance, a web caught him and attached him to the exterior.
"I genuinely love the feeling of slapping someone," he muttered, and punched the next one in the stomach, roundhouse-kicked another who was approaching the fallen man, and watched him crash into a table.
The remaining six clustered together instinctively, which was the worst possible tactical decision available to them, and he threw a web grenade that bound them together on contact.
He kicked the combined mass backward and left them in a configuration that was structurally sound but socially compromising.
"M....Shit! It is Man-Spider!" one of them stuttered.
The camouflage failed as he materialized slowly, feet first, then upward, until the arm holding the blade was visible and positioned very specifically near the most rational remaining man's throat.
"It is Spider-Man," he said. "Do not ever use that other name again. You almost said Spider-Maguire."
"O-Okay! Spider-Man!" The man leaned back as far as the web binding would allow, trying to create distance from the blade.
"That is better," Spider-Man said, retracting it. "I am feeling generous today. I will not kill any of you."
The men exhaled with visible relief.
"Instead," he said pleasantly, "I will let you hang out together."
They looked at each other.
"By Sparta!" he announced, and kicked the bound group through the window.
The screaming was enthusiastic and sustained all the way down until the web net he had prepared below the floor caught them, stopping their descent a few meters short of the street. Their heads remained connected to their bodies, which he noted was the correct outcome.
"Phew," he said, looking down at them. "Gentlemen, you should be genuinely grateful I did not pull an Andrew and break your spines."