Timeline: June 25, 1951, 7:40 AM
Lenore Van Ryn sat comfortably in the luxurious private plane, her polished appearance radiating professionalism. Representing the Chicago Outfit's interests, she was tasked with more than just impressing her guest—she was here to secure a foothold with one of the wealthiest families in the country. Chris Hilton, the 18-year-old heir to the Hilton fortune, sat across from her, eyes drifting lazily across the cabin, but Lenore could see beneath the surface: he was calculating, much like his father.
"Is there anything I could provide you, sir? A drink? Some reading material? Whatever you'd like, I'm here to assist." Lenore's voice was smooth, professional, but with just the right hint of deference. She knew how to navigate these circles, how to play the role of the helpful subordinate while carefully positioning herself to gain favor.
Chris glanced at her, his sharp eyes flickering with a brief, almost dismissive smile. He leaned back into the leather seat, his posture relaxed, yet his gaze piercing. He was no fool; he knew the game Lenore was playing. "No thanks," he said casually, though his voice carried a weight of authority. "If there's anything I want, I'll let you know."
Lenore nodded gracefully. "Of course, sir." Her outward demeanor remained polished and professional, but inside, her mind was working through every possible angle.
This is a crucial opportunity, she thought to herself, her eyes discreetly watching Chris from the corner of her vision. (The young lord from the Hilton family, heir to their vast fortune, heading to Chicago for what appears to be a casual visit. But there's more here. He's scouting potential alliances. And I need him to choose us.)
She subtly adjusted her posture, leaning just enough to appear attentive and eager to please without overstepping. The game was delicate—Chris Hilton was young, but he wasn't naive. He had been raised to sniff out manipulation, which meant Lenore had to take a softer approach. She couldn't overwhelm him with business talk right away. No, first, she needed him to see her as an ally—someone who understood his needs, his ambitions, and someone who could make things happen.
(I'll coax him,) she thought, her lips curling into a subtle smirk. (Not too much. Just enough to plant the seed. Sugarcoat everything—make our company sound like the best thing that's ever happened to Chicago's elite. Once he's softened up, I'll mention the Outfit's business interests. He'll bite. They always do.)
Chris, seemingly unaware of her thoughts—or perhaps aware but unbothered—stared out the window as the clouds rolled by. He seemed distant, but Lenore knew better. He's just observing, gathering information. He's testing me.
"Chicago's a fascinating city," Lenore remarked casually, trying to create a conversational opening without appearing too pushy. "A lot of potential for someone with the right connections."
Chris turned his head slightly, regarding her for a moment before giving a noncommittal grunt of agreement.
Lenore's smirk returned inwardly, satisfied that she hadn't overstepped. Patience, she reminded herself. The young Hilton will come around in time.
She settled back into her seat, her mind already planning the next move.
.............
Atlas Pendragon Holtwood sat in the dimly lit chamber of his secluded manor, a glass of deep red wine swirling in his hand. Despite being 103 years old, his body bore the appearance of a man in his prime—an unsettling testament to the dark magic he had long mastered. His eyes, however, betrayed his true age: cold, calculating, and filled with centuries of anger. The candlelight flickered across the room, casting eerie shadows on the walls lined with ancient tomes and relics.
He murmured softly to himself, "I hope you won't disappoint me, Litzo Tatum." His voice was calm, almost soothing, but beneath it was an edge of cruelty. Litzo, one of his most trusted followers, had been dispatched to Chicago to set the next phase of their plan in motion. The fate of the city—and more specifically, the fate of someone Spider-Man held dear—was in Litzo's hands now.
Atlas took a long sip of his wine, savoring the taste. He imagined the look on Spider-Man's face when his friend died. The thought brought a twisted smile to his lips, his eyes narrowing with satisfaction.
"I wonder," he mused, voice dripping with malice, "what Spider-Man's reaction will be when he finds out his friend is dead in Chicago." He let out a dark, guttural chuckle, a sound that echoed eerily through the room. "The mighty hero, brought to his knees by grief."
Rising from his velvet chair, Atlas walked across the room, his long black robes trailing silently over the polished stone floor. He approached the portrait hanging on the wall—a beautiful woman with soft eyes and a serene smile. His expression softened, a rare moment of vulnerability. This woman, his first and only love, had been taken from him in a brutal tragedy that had shaped the rest of his life.
Her death, along with the deaths of all 69 villagers in the place he once called home, was the catalyst for the man he had become. That day had burned into his memory, leaving him hollow inside, with only one driving purpose: vengeance.
Atlas reached out, his fingers gently tracing the outline of her face in the portrait. "My love," he whispered, his voice thick with sorrow. "They took you from me. They took everything." His eyes glistened, but the tears never fell. His grief had long since transformed into something far more dangerous—unrelenting fury.
"I vowed that day," he continued, his voice growing colder, "that I would make the government pay for what they did to our village... to you. And now, after all these years, the time has come." He clenched his fist, the air around him crackling with dark energy as his rage simmered beneath the surface. "Spider-Man and his world will crumble."
Atlas stepped back from the portrait, his eyes once again hardening with determination. "The vision I saw... it will come to pass. Their fate is sealed."
He turned away, his dark robes swirling around him as he made his way to the large, arched window overlooking the desolate forest below. The storm clouds gathered in the distance, and Atlas welcomed them. They were a sign—a herald of the chaos that was about to be unleashed upon Chicago.
As the winds began to howl outside, Atlas whispered, "Soon, my love. Soon, the world will know the same pain I did. And they will all fall before me."
............
Mark found Loe standing in the shadows of the alley next to the apartment building, the smoke from Loe's cigarette curling lazily into the morning air. The distant hum of the city was faint, and the two stood in a moment of silence, separated from the chaos inside the apartment.
"There you are." Mark said, approaching cautiously, sensing the tension in Loe's body language.
Loe took another drag of his cigarette, exhaling slowly before responding. "Yeah," he muttered, "you found me." His voice was low, almost detached, as if he were miles away in his thoughts.
Mark studied his friend's face, noticing the strain in Loe's usually calm demeanor. Something was bothering him. "What's troubling you, Loe?" Mark asked, his tone soft but insistent.
Loe hesitated, staring into the distance as the cigarette burned between his fingers. "Well... nothing." he muttered, though it was clear he wasn't being honest.
Mark wasn't going to let it slide that easily. "Come on, you can tell me." he pressed, his voice full of concern.
There was a pause, the air thick between them. Loe finally broke the silence. "We met him... okay? We met Alphonse Capone."
Mark nodded, thinking back to the tense encounter they had with the notorious gangster. "Yeah, so?" he said, but then realization dawned on him, and his eyes widened slightly. "Wait... did you tell him about your boss?"
Loe flicked the cigarette, sending ash spiraling to the ground, before turning his gaze toward Mark. His eyes were dark, filled with something deeper than the frustration of their mission. He sighed, looking away again as if the truth were too heavy to face head-on.
"Yeah," Loe admitted quietly. "I told him... I told him about his son. Albert Capone, my boss. The guy who took me in. The guy who... who's dead now." Loe's voice wavered slightly as he struggled to keep his emotions in check. "Killed by that..." he trailed off, unable to finish the sentence.
Mark's eyes softened, knowing this was a painful subject. "Loe," he began carefully, "Albert... he atoned for his mistakes. You know that. Jamal—"
Loe cut him off, his voice sharp. "I know Jamal atoned. He went to jail. He served his time, got released, and now everyone talks about justice and forgiveness like it's all black and white." He took another long drag of his cigarette, the smoke swirling in the air as if it carried the weight of his conflicted thoughts. "But what about the rest? What about the ones who were left behind?"
Mark stepped closer, his voice gentler. "Loe, you're not responsible for what your boss did. Albert Capone made his choices. He knew the risks."
Loe shook his head, pain etched across his features. "It's not about that, Mark. I know my boss was a criminal. I know he deserved what came his way. Hell, I know that better than anyone," he said, his voice cracking slightly. "But that doesn't change what he did for me."
Loe turned to face Mark fully now, his eyes burning with an intensity that Mark hadn't seen in a long time. "I grew up in the slums. No one gave a damn about me. My father was long gone, and my mom... she did what she could, but then she died. I was alone. I was nothing."
His voice lowered, almost to a whisper. "And then there was Albert. He saw me, Mark. He didn't care about the law, or what people thought. He took me in, gave me a roof over my head, food to eat... taught me how to survive. Yeah, he was a criminal. Yeah, he taught me things I probably shouldn't have learned. But because of him... I made it. I'm still standing."
Mark nodded, understanding the depth of Loe's internal struggle. The bond Loe had with Albert Capone was complicated—it was more than just loyalty to a boss. It was survival, family, and gratitude wrapped up in a tangled web of criminality and moral conflict.
Loe exhaled another puff of smoke, his hands shaking slightly. "I get it. I know he did bad things. I know he's responsible for a lot of pain. But when I stood there in front of Alphonse Capone, telling him about his son... I just—" Loe paused, his voice tightening. "It brought everything back. All those years... all the things I owe him."
Mark placed a hand on Loe's shoulder, squeezing gently. "Loe, no one's saying you have to forget what Albert did for you. But you don't have to carry the weight of his choices either. You did what you had to, and so did he."
Loe looked down, the weight of Mark's words settling over him. "I know, Mark. I know... but it doesn't make it any easier."
Mark gave a reassuring nod. "No, it doesn't. But we'll get through it. Together."
Loe took one last drag of his cigarette before flicking it to the ground, crushing it under his boot. "Thanks, Mark." he said softly, his voice steadier now. "I just needed to say it out loud, I guess."
Meanwhile Mindy stood in the shadows, hidden behind a brick wall, just out of sight. Her heart ached as she listened to every word that escaped Loe's lips. Thanks to her telepathy, she didn't need to be close to hear his thoughts—his emotions were loud enough for her to feel them deep inside. Each word Loe spoke felt like a dagger in her chest, and she couldn't stop the tears that streamed down her cheeks.
She wanted so badly to step out from her hiding place, to comfort him, to hold him, to tell him that he wasn't alone. But she couldn't. She couldn't tell him how much she cared for him, how much she loved him, because she knew Loe wasn't ready to hear it.
As Loe and Mark stood together, sharing the pain of Loe's confession, Mindy felt an overwhelming urge to reach out to him telepathically. Just a small nudge to let him know that someone else understood his pain. But she held back. She didn't want to intrude on his moment of vulnerability. Instead, she wiped away her tears with the back of her hand, sniffling quietly as she tried to regain her composure.
"I love you, Loe." she whispered under her breath, her voice trembling. But the words were swallowed by the sound of the city around her. They never reached his ears.
She clutched her arms around herself, feeling the loneliness of her unspoken love weighing heavily on her. Mindy had known for a long time that she loved Loe, but she could never bring herself to say it. She knew that right now, Loe didn't need her love—he needed her support. And that's why she remained hidden in the distance, silently crying for the man who didn't even know the depth of her feelings.
"I'll always be here for you, Loe." she thought to herself, her telepathic powers barely contained. She would wait for him, just as she always had. And even if he never knew the truth, she would still love him, silently, from the shadows. Because for Mindy, being there for Loe—even from a distance—was enough.
To be continue