Chapter 37: Wick John Kane

Miles was clearly not the kind of guy who would just walk away. He followed right behind Bruce.

"They went back, didn't they?" Miles asked as soon as he caught up, eager to know whether the other Spider-Men had returned to their respective universes.

Batman glanced back at him. He hadn't thought Miles was slow-witted before, but now he felt the need to reassess his impression of this Spider.

Perhaps Miles himself realized he had just stated the obvious. He scratched his head, a bit embarrassed.

"Do you think we'll meet again?" he asked, this time with a serious tone.

He genuinely wanted an answer.

But Batman said nothing. Instead, he fired his grappling hook and disappeared from Miles' sight.

This time, Miles didn't chase after him. He knew that even if he did, he wouldn't get a proper response—just Batman's silence.

All he really needed was someone to talk to about everything he had been through.

Even if he couldn't say it all.

Taking a deep breath, Miles slowly stood up. He looked into the distance, where Batman's silhouette was still faintly visible. He patted his own face, as if to shake off any lingering doubts.

A promise was a promise.

Since he hadn't fulfilled his agreement with Peter Parker—since he hadn't personally destroyed the collider—he would take on the responsibility in Peter's stead.

He would protect this city.

As Batman and Spider-Man went their separate ways, the media swarmed in like sharks drawn to the scent of blood.

They knew that after an explosion of this scale, the scene was bound to be dangerous.

But in this city, in their line of work, danger often came hand in hand with opportunity.

If they could land a truly explosive story, their careers would skyrocket.

A Pulitzer Prize wouldn't be out of reach.

The NYPD had long believed that journalists were sometimes better suited for their jobs. Reporters who could match, or even outpace, police response times often arrived before law enforcement did.

And today was no exception.

The first helicopters circling above weren't police choppers.

They were news station aircraft.

The whole city was watching.

They needed to know—had New York just suffered another terrifying attack?

When the reporters finally reached the scene, they could hardly believe their eyes.

Kingpin—more commonly known as Wilson Fisk—was tied to a fire hydrant. Nearby lay his ever-present bodyguard.

An albino man of African descent.

But what truly shocked the reporters was the object embedded in the ground next to them.

A batarang.

"Comic books… have come to life," one journalist muttered in disbelief.

But the shock didn't slow him down for long. He quickly shoved his microphone in front of the highest-ranking officer on the scene—Jefferson Davis.

"Officer, what caused the explosion? How is Wilson Fisk involved? And that batarang—does it mean that New York now has another masked hero, following Spider-Man?"

The rapid-fire questioning left Jefferson momentarily overwhelmed.

"The cause of the explosion is still under investigation," he managed to say.

Before he could continue, another microphone was thrust in his face.

"Did the person who captured Wilson Fisk deliberately model themselves after a comic book character?"

"Was this a terrorist attack?"

"Why Wasn't the NYPD Informed?"

Jefferson felt an intense headache coming on. This situation was clearly beyond his pay grade.

One wrong answer, and he wouldn't just be offending the reporters—he might also be stepping on the toes of the higher-ups back at the station.

"Alright, alright, my friends in the press, I think it's time you stopped bothering this officer," a man suddenly stepped in, rescuing Jefferson from the relentless barrage of questions.

Although Jefferson was grateful for being pulled out of the reporters' clutches, his duty still came first. He immediately turned to question the man beside him.

Especially since the guy was still wearing black sunglasses in the middle of the night.

He looked like an agent straight out of a TV show.

"Excuse me, are you with the police?" Jefferson asked.

He had been patrolling the streets long enough to trust his memory, and he was certain he had never seen this man at the precinct before.

There hadn't been any news of new transfers either.

"My apologies, I forgot to introduce myself," the man said as he removed his sunglasses, revealing a somewhat honest-looking face. He then reached into his suit and pulled out his badge.

"FBI."

As soon as he flashed his credentials, several other agents in black suits appeared, swiftly pushing the reporters back beyond the perimeter.

Jefferson wasted no time verifying the badge.

There was no way he could rely on his eyes alone to determine whether this guy was legit or not.

The man, however, didn't seem to mind the scrutiny at all.

Instead, he walked over to Kingpin—Wilson Fisk—who was beginning to regain consciousness.

The once-feared ruler of New York's underworld.

The agent smiled as he bent down and picked up the batarang from the ground.

"A new player, huh?"

As the next day's morning sun pierced through the clouds, the early news had already begun reporting on last night's explosion.

"After investigation, it has been confirmed that the massive explosion in Brooklyn last night was orchestrated by former New York philanthropist and businessman, Wilson Fisk."

Bruce didn't care much for the news commentary.

Just seeing that hulking figure appear on the screen was enough for him.

He was certain that with Fisk's face plastered across every TV, the Fisk Corporation would be in complete turmoil.

Particularly among the board members.

At this moment, none of them wanted to remain associated with the company for even a second longer.

No one knew if this disaster would eventually come back to haunt them.

In America, anything was possible.

Especially for people like them—who were far from being law-abiding citizens.

"This is a disaster!"

"When has Fisk ever let anyone rest easy?!"

"How did things get this bad?!"

Despite the company being named after Fisk, it had been built upon the foundations of the former Osborn Corporation.

Most of the board members present had originally belonged to Osborn's inner circle.

They had always resented Fisk's iron-fisted rule.

Normally, if something happened to him, they would be celebrating.

But this…

This was too big.

Kingpin had just orchestrated the most catastrophic explosion in New York since the Twin Towers.

They wanted nothing more than to distance themselves from him as quickly as possible.

Just then, a secretary's voice rang out from the conference room's entrance.

"Sir, you can't go in! You!"

The doors burst open.

A group of highly trained bodyguards stepped inside, forming a perimeter.

Then, the man behind them finally revealed himself.

Dressed in a perfectly tailored Gucci suit, he exuded an aristocratic air, his presence impossible to ignore.

"Hey! Who the hell are you?!" one of the board members shouted.

The man smiled.

"Wick. Wick John Kane," he said calmly.

(End of Chapter)

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