In the dimly lit private office of Wilson Fisk, six guards in black suits stood watch, positioned at strategic corners of the room, their eyes never straying from their posts. Two more flanked Peter, keeping a careful distance, yet ensuring he couldn't escape.
Peter sat in a chair, his back straight, facing Fisk, who stood towering above him.
"Are you still wearing that mask?" he asked, his voice low, almost curious.
Peter met his gaze, his voice as cold as steel. "Yes."
Fisk leaned in slightly, trying to ease the tension in the room. "Aren't we getting a bit too close now?" His tone was casual, as if trying to draw Peter out of his shell.
Peter didn't respond. He simply locked eyes with Fisk, unblinking.
Fisk's smile faltered, but only for a moment. "Where's the money?" Peter's voice was sharp, like a blade cutting through the silence.
Fisk gave a subtle nod, and one of his men stepped forward, carrying a briefcase. He placed it on the table and popped it open, revealing stacks of cash that Peter had earned.
"This is your share," Fisk said, closing the case with a soft click and sliding it toward Peter.
Peter reached out, grabbing the case, his fingers brushing the cold metal as he lifted it. He flipped it open, eyes scanning the bills. They were real.
Without another word, Fisk pushed himself off from the table and walked around, taking a seat beside Peter. "I can offer you more than this, if you want," he said, his voice smooth. "I'm interested in you... as a fighter."
Peter closed the briefcase slowly, locking it shut with finality. He didn't look up as he spoke. "I don't want to."
Peter's muscles tensed as he stood up, the weight of the room pressing down on him. He noticed Fisk's eyes, subtle yet unmistakable an almost imperceptible signal. In that split second, everything clicked into place.
Without a second thought, Peter lunged onto the table, launching himself off with a powerful leap. In mid-air, he reached out, grabbing Fisk's neck as if it were a pole, using the larger man's body to propel himself into a dizzying spin.
He kicked off from Fisk and barreled toward the door, slamming through it with a force that shattered the wood as he flew into the hallway, rolling to absorb the impact before pushing himself to his feet and sprinting.
"Get him!" Fisk roared, his voice filled with rage. His guards quickly moved into action, their feet pounding against the floor as they rushed after Peter, radios crackling as they communicated with the other units stationed throughout the building.
Peter heard the guards shouting behind him, but his focus remained razor-sharp. As the first wave of them drew their weapons, Peter didn't hesitate. He dove through a nearby window, the glass shattering around him as he fell.
The wind rushed past his face as he plummeted toward the ground from the 20th floor, but Peter's body moved with precision, spinning and adjusting his position to glide toward the side of the building.
With a quick, practiced motion, he reached out with his empty hand and pressed it against the cold wall, letting his body fall just enough before using the wall to shift into a running position. His feet hit the vertical surface, and he began sprinting downward, defying gravity with every step.
Inside, the guard who had rushed to check the broken window peered out, scanning the ground below for any sign of Peter. He saw nothing. Confused, he raised his walkie-talkie.
"We lost Bane's position—check the other floors," he said urgently, relaying the information to the rest of the team.
The chase had only just begun.
Peter's feet pounded the pavement as he picked up speed, his mind racing almost as fast as his body. He neared the edge of the building, calculating the distance to the next.
'Would he put a tracker in the bag? Probably,' Peter thought to himself, his instincts telling him it was more than likely. He wasn't taking any chances.
Without hesitation, he pushed off the wall with all his strength, feeling the brick crumble beneath his impact. He launched himself into the air, landing with precision on the next rooftop, rolling into his stride and immediately leaping again.
His thoughts shifted. 'I need to find a bag big enough to stash all of this without any trackers on it.'
The nearest mall was just a few blocks away, and Peter knew it would be his best bet. He arrived in record time, barely breaking his stride as he darted through the doors. In seconds, he was in the luggage section, grabbing a large travel bag. He didn't bother with any pretense, just threw cash on the counter and ran out the door.
But he didn't stop there. Peter wasn't just running. He was running faster than most cars on the road, each step a blur of raw speed. He didn't slow down as he raced through the streets, putting as much distance between himself and Fisk's men as possible.
For the next 100 miles, Peter's legs kept moving. His lungs burned with every breath, but the rush of adrenaline kept him going. It only took him about 46 minutes, but by the time he stopped, he was utterly drained exhausted beyond measure.
He slowed to a jog and then to a walk, his body begging for rest. Finally, he reached a small motel on the outskirts of town, the neon lights flickering as he glanced up. The sun was beginning to rise, casting a soft, golden light over the horizon.
Peter stood there for a moment, catching his breath, the exhaustion washing over him.
"Fuck," Peter muttered under his breath, the weight of the situation sinking in. He knew what was coming Uncle Ben and Aunt May would have a lot to say about returning home late.
He shook his head, trying to push the guilt away for a moment. He rented a room at the motel under the name "John," paying extra to avoid showing any ID.
The last thing he needed was his identity tied to this mess. Inside the room, he quickly transferred the money from the briefcase to the travel bag, making sure everything was secured.
Before settling in, Peter stepped back out, needing to put some distance between him and the chaos.
He ran for a few more minutes.
When he reached a quiet spot with a single, forceful motion, he crushed the case into a ball, his strength bending the metal and plastic with ease. He tossed it into a nearby bush.
Then, feeling the sting of exhaustion finally catch up with him, Peter makes his way back to the motel. He entered the room, closing the door behind him with a quiet sigh.
Peter stepped into the shower, the warm water rushing over his sore body. As he undressed, his eyes caught sight of the cuts scattered across his skin. He gritted his teeth, feeling the sting of the wounds as he shifted, the pain intensifying.
The water streamed down his face as he closed his eyes, trying to block everything out for a moment. But then, the memory hit him like a punch to the gut. The image of Sabretooth, tearing through people with no mercy. The blood, the screams... it all came rushing back in vivid flashes.
Peter's stomach turned, and before he could stop it, he was gagging. The contents of his stomach emptied violently into the drain, his mind unable to shake the horrors he'd witnessed. His brain finally caught up with the reality of what had happened, and the weight of it crashed down on him.
'There's nothing I can do about it,' he thought bitterly. 'But because of my presence, not a lot of people have died.'
The thought barely offered any comfort, but it was enough to calm his heart, just enough to steady his breathing. Slowly, his guilt subsided, replaced by an overwhelming fatigue.
After a few minutes, Peter stepped out of the shower, dried off, and dressed quickly. He grabbed his traveling bag, the weight of it a small distraction from everything else. Without a word, he left the motel room, stepping out into the cold morning air. He flagged down a taxi and slid into the backseat, telling the driver to take him to Queens.
As the cab started moving, Peter leaned back, staring out the window, lost in thought. The city passed by, indifferent to his inner turmoil.
...
Several of Kingpin's men stood in silence, their heads bowed, too afraid to meet his gaze. The tension in the room was palpable, and Fisk's frustration boiled over. With a growl, he slammed his fist into the wall, the impact leaving a massive hole in the plaster.
His voice, cold and venomous, cut through the silence. "Find him," he ordered, his gaze sweeping over the men before him. "I don't care what methods you use. Bring him to me."
...
Aunt May paced back and forth, her hands wringing together in worry. Her eyes kept flicking to the door, as if willing Peter to walk through it. This was the first time he had done something like this, and the fact that he hadn't come back yet was eating away at her.
"Calm down, May," Uncle Ben said gently, his voice steady, though his own worry was written all over his face. He sat in the chair, his mind racing as he tried to figure out where Peter could be.
"How can I calm down?" Aunt May replied, her voice tight with concern. "He's never done this before, Ben. I'm worried something's happened to him."
Uncle Ben didn't have an answer right away. He, too, was worried, but he was trying to keep his thoughts clear, trying to think logically about what they could do.