Several others at the viewing point took turns observing the scene below through the binoculars, one by one, falling into a stunned silence.
These were men who prided themselves on having seen it all—or at least, that's what they claimed. They were veterans of Riverton's most violent streets, men who had witnessed countless bloody turf wars and chaotic clashes. Some had even survived encounters with the legendary "infected," those deranged lunatics whose madness had become the stuff of nightmares in the underworld.
But now, as they watched the bizarre spectacle unfolding below, their hardened minds struggled to make sense of what they were seeing.
It was as if their brains had overloaded, the images and scenes in front of them clashing violently with everything they had come to believe about the world. The logical contradictions were too much to process, causing their thoughts to short-circuit, leaving nothing but a numb, blank space in their minds.
On the ground, the minions fared no better. To them, the figure they were attacking—a skinny man in bright red and blue tights—should have been nothing. His slight frame, barely enough to throw a decent punch, and his childish costume, more suited for a pajama party than a street brawl, made him seem like an easy target. He was no Batman, cloaked in the shadows, striking fear into criminals' hearts. This guy looked like a cartoon character brought to life.
And yet, here he was, impossibly dodging every bullet they fired at him. Not just dodging, but doing so with a kind of fluidity and grace that seemed unreal.
He wasn't just dodging—he was dancing.
Actually, calling it dancing didn't do it justice. His movements were more like those of an Olympic gymnast, flipping and twisting through the air with jaw-dropping precision. Bullets whizzed past his limbs and torso, narrowly missing him by inches, as if afraid to touch him. His body seemed to glide through the torrent of gunfire, evading each bullet with a kind of effortless ease that defied explanation.
It was as if the laws of physics had been rewritten just for him.
Everyone knew what they were seeing, but their brains refused to accept it. It made no sense. It was impossible.
But there he was—dodging one bullet after another, like a man waltzing through a hailstorm and never getting wet.
And it begged the question: was this really a human being? Could any living thing possibly pull this off?
Of course, the phrase "hail of bullets" often comes with a hint of exaggeration. Sure, assault rifles fire fast, but they don't actually create a solid wall of lead. There's room to breathe, even if it doesn't seem like it.
But to the naked eye, the speed of the bullets was enough to make it seem like an impenetrable death trap. In most people's minds, once you're caught in that kind of firepower, you're done.
But Spider-Man wasn't like most people.
He could see the trajectory of every bullet, each gun line clearly visible in his heightened senses. To him, the so-called "death trap" was full of gaps, like an elaborate but flawed puzzle waiting to be solved.
On top of that, the thugs firing at him were hardly crack shots. Their marksmanship was average at best, and between the constant reloading and the overheating barrels, there were plenty of openings. Spider-Man not only dodged the bullets with ease, but he also had time to throw in some insults while he did it.
"Come on, guys, is that all you've got? Did you miss the memo? We're not shooting at the birds in the sky here."
He flipped through the air, landing briefly on one hand before springing up again. "Hey, don't get lazy now! Haven't you had your breakfast?"
Another leap, and he twisted mid-air to avoid a barrage of bullets, his voice echoing in the alley. "Haha, missed again! But I'll give you credit—those guns? Top quality. Now, if only you could aim…"
The gangsters, their ears ringing from the deafening gunfire, couldn't hear the words exactly, but they knew they were being mocked. The tone alone was enough to make their blood boil.
But none of them dared to act on their anger. How could they? They were facing something completely beyond their comprehension. The man in tights wasn't just dodging their bullets—he was practically toying with them, defying everything they understood about the world. He was faster than humanly possible, his reflexes sharper than any they'd ever seen.
Many of them were seasoned criminals, used to facing tough opponents. In situations where their enemy had a slight advantage in skill or strength, they would be frustrated, maybe even motivated to fight harder.
But this wasn't a man they were fighting. It was something else entirely—something they couldn't even begin to understand. And in the face of that, there was no room for anger or defiance. There was only fear.
For Charlie, the player controlling Spider-Man, the whole thing was almost laughably easy. A series of acrobatic, bullet-dodging moves that looked like the stuff of superhero legends were, in reality, as simple as pressing a button.
The game had been designed to show off Spider-Man's unique abilities. Unlike other characters, where timing and strategy were key to survival, Spider-Man's controls were practically foolproof. All Charlie had to do was hold down a defense button, and Spider-Man would do the rest.
In defense mode, Spider-Man's spider-sense was on full alert, automatically guiding him to dodge or deflect every attack. Whether it was a punch from an opponent or a barrage of bullets, the outcome was always the same: MISS.
By pressing a few directional buttons, Charlie could make Spider-Man flip and dodge in style, adding flair to the already impressive moves. If he threw in some web-slinging, Spider-Man could zip from one end of the battlefield to the other, never staying in one place long enough to become a target.
Spider-Man's agility was his defining trait, making him unlike any other hero. Sure, there were stronger characters in the superhero world, but finding someone who could match his evasiveness was next to impossible.
If Charlie had wanted to, he could have sent Spider-Man charging into the crowd, knocking out every gunman in the blink of an eye. But where was the fun in that? This was a rare chance to push Spider-Man to his limits, to see just how far his abilities could go.
After all, it wasn't every day that someone set up such a perfect circle of firepower just for him.
In fact, using Batman's detective mode earlier, Charlie had scanned the entire area before Spider-Man even landed. He'd seen through their traps, identified their ambush points, and grinned. This was going to be fun. The thugs had no idea they were offering themselves up as practice dummies for his newest hero.
The gunfire eventually began to die down. One by one, the gangsters' magazines emptied, and their once-deafening roar of bullets fell to silence.
In the middle of the alley, Spider-Man stood unharmed, his bright red and blue suit untouched, not even a thread out of place.
And then he moved.
In the blink of an eye, Spider-Man leaped into the crowd. He was a blur of red and blue, flipping through the air with such speed that none of the gangsters could track him. One moment, he was above them; the next, he was on the ground. Two men flew in opposite directions, slamming into the walls with bone-crushing force.
Before anyone could react, a mass of sticky white webbing shot from his wrist, binding several men together in a tangled mess of limbs. They thrashed and struggled, but it was useless. The more they fought, the tighter the webbing became.
The gangsters were in complete disarray.
"What the hell is this?" one of them screamed, his voice trembling with fear.
Another rushed forward, but before he knew it, Spider-Man was there—flashing past him in a blur. The next thing he knew, he was on his back, staring at the night sky.
Several more charged together, thinking strength in numbers would help. It didn't. One after another, they fell, as if they'd been struck down by an invisible force. Their heads hit the ground in perfect sync, like puppets whose strings had been cut.
It wasn't just the speed that terrified them—it was the constant stream of trash talk that accompanied it.
"Hey, buddy, for your own sake, have you thought about retiring? I'm just looking out for your last few strands of hair."
A voice came from behind one of the gangsters. He spun around, panic flooding his chest, only to be met with a punch to the forehead. Darkness consumed him.
Nearby, others heard the taunt and turned to face it, only to see Spider-Man somersaulting over their heads. He landed gracefully among a new group of thugs, a smirk on his face.
"Whoa, garlic breath much? You should be fined for assault with that stench."
As he spoke, more men hit the ground, webbed up or knocked out with ease.
Spider-Man was everywhere and nowhere at once. His voice seemed to come from all directions, adding to the confusion and fear. The relentless trash talk wasn't just annoying—it was psychological warfare. It made them feel like they were surrounded by one man.
The craziest part? Even if Spider-Man had outright said, "You're all surrounded," none of them would have questioned it.
Because, in that moment, that's exactly how it felt.
On the high platform, the faces of the four leaders—Hades, Ian, David, and Matthews—had turned an unsettling shade of green.
When they finally snapped out of their stupor, the remaining three turned to Hades, their gazes sharp and accusing.
He didn't need to say a word. The meaning of their looks was clear:
This is what you called an ordinary man? This is what we have nothing to fear?
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