Why Such a Hurry

Faced with the sharp, accusing gazes of the other three leaders, Hades maintained a façade of calm, standing with his arms crossed, his expression as composed as ever. But beneath that stoic exterior, his mind was in turmoil, an internal storm of disbelief and confusion raging within him.

What the hell is going on?

The information they had gathered, supposedly from reliable sources, had indicated that these strange, costume-wearing individuals were just highly skilled humans. Sure, they were well-trained, perhaps former military or mercenaries, but humans nonetheless. People with great combat awareness, sharp reflexes, and advanced technology or armor—nothing more. 

There had been rumors about some of them possessing supernatural abilities, like invisibility or casting spells, but those had been dismissed as exaggerated urban legends. Hades had been confident that, with the right strategy and enough firepower, these so-called heroes could be taken down just like any other well-armed opponent. Their armor might be state-of-the-art, their skills top-tier, but no one was invincible. As long as you could trap them and focus enough firepower, they'd have no choice but to fall.

But the figure in red and blue tights leaping through the air in front of them was anything but ordinary.

This can't be real… What is that thing?

Below them, the battle was still raging, though "battle" wasn't quite the right word for it anymore. It was a massacre. Hundreds of thugs from the four most powerful gangs in Riverton City had converged on this single target—a seemingly frail, pajama-wearing figure that looked more like a sleep-deprived teenager than a threat. Yet, in less than two minutes, over half of their forces were down, strewn across the asphalt in tangled webs or lying unconscious, completely incapacitated. 

From the high platform where Hades, Ian, David, and Matthews stood, the scene below looked like something out of a twisted action movie—one of those far-fetched blockbusters where a lone hero decimates an army of foes. But this? This was even more absurd. Reality shouldn't work this way.

And then, they realized that their adversary wasn't just fast.

Tang, a towering behemoth from Green City Gate, stood at over two meters tall, his hulking mass of muscle and bone radiating pure physical power. Tang wasn't just big—he was strong, the kind of strong that made people hesitate before picking a fight. His reputation for brute strength was unrivaled in the city's underground circles. Even seasoned fighters avoided a direct confrontation with him, knowing that one punch from Tang could shatter bones.

So when Tang stepped forward, his massive fists swinging toward the red-and-blue-clad figure, every thug present expected Spider-Man to go down, hard.

Instead, Spider-Man didn't even turn around.

Without so much as glancing at Tang, Spider-Man raised a hand—just one hand—casually catching the incoming punch.

Katcha.

The sound was sickening, like bones being ground into dust. Tang's face contorted in agony, his roar of pain echoing across the battlefield. He stumbled backward, clutching his now-broken hand to his chest. The once-feared strongman was reduced to a grimacing, retreating figure, his immense size suddenly meaningless.

The onlookers, thugs and lieutenants alike, gaped in disbelief. Tang's strength was legendary, a force of nature that could demolish anyone in his path. And yet, this kid—this skinny, spandex-wearing freak—had stopped Tang's punch like it was nothing. 

No, not just stopped it. Caught it. Without so much as blinking, without even looking.

The absurdity of the situation made it all the more terrifying. Tang, a giant among men, reduced to a whimpering wreck by a kid who couldn't weigh more than 70 kilos soaking wet. It was as if gravity had stopped working, and the laws of physics no longer applied.

"Whoa, that was a solid punch!" Spider-Man quipped, his voice light and playful, as if he hadn't just crushed a man's hand with ease. "And man, you're huge! Bet your mom always told you to eat your veggies, huh?"

Without missing a beat, Spider-Man launched into a flying kick, his foot connecting with Tang's chin in a perfect arc.

The impact was brutal. Tang's head snapped back, his eyes rolling up into his skull as consciousness fled. His massive frame, once so imposing, crumpled like a house of cards, and with a thunderous thud, he hit the ground. The sound of his body hitting the pavement reverberated across the battlefield, a dull, final note that seemed to mark the end of any resistance.

The other thugs stared, slack-jawed, their minds racing to comprehend what they had just seen.

What in the actual hell?

If the scene hadn't already felt like something from a nightmare, the sight of Tang—this massive powerhouse—being casually dismantled by a kid in tights took things to a whole new level of surreal. The stark contrast between the two figures—Tang's hulking mass and Spider-Man's lean, wiry frame—only made the reality harder to accept. 

But that was just the beginning.

Okita, a feared and battle-hardened leader in the River Bank Alliance, had been watching the fight unfold with a calculating eye. He wasn't a fool. Years of street brawling had taught him when to hold his ground and when to cut his losses. But tonight, despite the chaos, Okita stayed cool. He had faced down impossible odds before and come out on top. His reputation wasn't just for show—he'd earned it.

But even he was starting to feel the pressure.

As more and more of his allies hit the ground, Okita's mind raced. The brute force approach clearly wasn't working. They needed a new tactic.

"They're doing it wrong," Okita muttered under his breath. "This isn't how you fight."

Turning to his remaining men, Okita barked out orders, his voice steady and authoritative. "Listen up! We're splitting into four groups. Each group takes a limb. You follow my lead, and we work together. That's the only way we're bringing this guy down."

His thugs nodded, their fear momentarily replaced with a glimmer of hope. Okita had always been their rock, the one who knew how to win when the odds were stacked against them. If anyone could figure out how to take this guy down, it was him.

"Alright, on my mark… three, two, one—go!"

The thugs charged, converging on Spider-Man from all sides, each group aiming for a different part of his body. It was classic street-fight tactics—overwhelm the target with sheer numbers, pin him down, and let brute strength do the rest.

But Spider-Man wasn't a normal target.

With a series of rapid movements, the thugs found themselves flying through the air, their bodies crashing to the ground in all directions. The coordinated attack had failed—utterly and completely.

From the moment they launched their assault, Spider-Man had been in motion. His acrobatic flips and lightning-fast reflexes left them grasping at air, their hands never even coming close to touching him. And before they knew it, they were sprawled out on the pavement, groaning in pain.

One of the thugs, coughing up blood, turned to where Okita had been standing, hoping for some reassurance from his leader.

But Okita was gone.

The "fearless" leader had taken off the moment the attack began. He had no intention of sticking around to face Spider-Man head-on. Okita knew when a fight was lost, and this was a fight he wasn't willing to die for.

As his men writhed on the ground, Okita sprinted toward a nearby van parked in the shadows. He dove into the driver's seat, slamming the door shut behind him. His hands trembled as he fumbled with the keys, but finally, the engine roared to life. He slammed his foot on the gas, sending the van hurtling down the alley at breakneck speed.

The thugs he left behind could only watch in disbelief as their leader—their rock—sped off into the night.

Okita's mind raced as he tore through the dark streets. Forget this. Let the others handle that thing. I'm not dying tonight.

As he sped away, a sense of relief washed over him. He had escaped. The others might hate him for it, but he didn't care. Survival was the only thing that mattered.

But then—a sudden thud from above.

The roof of the van buckled slightly under the weight of something—or someone—landing on top of it.

Okita's heart skipped a beat. His hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turned white.

No… no, no, no! This can't be happening!

He glanced at the rearview mirror, but there was nothing behind him. Then, from the front windshield, an upside-down face appeared, grinning beneath the mask's wide, white eyes.

"Hey there!" Spider-Man said, his voice full of playful cheer. "Mind if I catch a ride? So, where are we headed in such a hurry?"

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