Chapter Seven: The Lich King at the Crime Scene—An Interview with Spider-Man [New Novel, Please Bookmark and Recommend]

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Midnight, in the basement of a residential block in the Sixth District of Hell’s Kitchen.

In an underground cavern illuminated by flickering candlelight, a crowd knelt in worship before a colossal statue of a spider goddess. Each person clutched a different kind of candle, the flames casting wild shadows across their fanatical faces—these were the gang members under Erica’s control. No one could have imagined these hardened criminals standing together in such harmony.

Some were coerced, some came willingly. The world was never short of zealots. Zazaira incited in these gangsters a thrill and wonder, and as a lord of the underground herself, she had used her own blood to foster a group of fervent followers.

But in truth, all of this was merely a task assigned by their master, Roald.

At the very center, the person controlled by Erica knelt, draped in a black robe, praying aloud with increasing intensity, the chants verging on eruption.

As the incantations swelled, the others holding candles began to move, producing strange guttural sounds, their bodies writhing in a frenzied dance. The candlelight’s reflected shadows seemed to tap-dance upon the walls.

Yet tonight, something was different.

Amid their wildest fervor, the revelry was abruptly shattered by a shout from outside.

“FBI! Open up!”

Before the gang members—caught up in their rapture—could react, several standard five-man tactical teams burst through the doors. Without hesitation, they raised their weapons and unleashed a torrent of gunfire into the throng leaping in the shadows.

When the barrage ended, the FBI agents tossed in smoke grenades laced with tranquilizers. In barely a dozen seconds, these operatives—armed to the teeth and masked with gas filters—had their rifles and short guns pressed against the forehead of the one kneeling figure left intentionally at the center.

But at that moment, they noticed the black-robed one showed not a trace of fear. Instead, he nodded gracefully, offering the surrounding agents a polite greeting. Then, with a crisp “click,” a sound echoed through the room.

“Oh, shit!”

Sensing something was wrong, the agents dove for cover. An explosion thundered, rocking half the district.

Hell’s Kitchen had always been chaotic, but that night’s commotion dwarfed all before it.

With the losses sustained by the tacticals, S.H.I.E.L.D.’s operation was temporarily halted. The cause was evident: Zazaira’s massive plaster statue and the webs strung throughout the cavern offered ample proof.

S.H.I.E.L.D. was no stranger to filth and shadows. Unlike Hydra, who offered one-stop services from massacre to cleanup, they only handled the action—the aftermath was someone else’s problem.

This was common knowledge.

The next day, Roald, accompanied by Erica, strolled across several blocks to the scene, partly to help with the cleanup—or perhaps simply for amusement, to see if anything had been overlooked. He was honored to be approached by a reporter as an onlooker.

“Good morning, viewers! This is Peter Parker from the Daily Bugle, reporting live from the scene! Behind me is the site of last night’s explosion. I think it’s necessary to ask this gentleman here—sir, are you a resident of the area?”

Peter Parker finished his introduction, then thrust the microphone in front of Roald.

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Roald glanced at Peter Parker, unsure whether the young man had become Spider-Man yet. He composed his expression, then nodded. “I am.”

Though his home was several blocks away, that hardly precluded him from claiming as much.

“Do you know what happened here last night?”

“Oh, you mean that…” Roald paused, allowing a hint of lingering fear to creep into his face. “You know, the night was beautiful, and I was in my room baking an apple pie. Then, out of nowhere, there was an explosion nearby, and the FBI rushed in… I tell you, I was scared out of my wits. Have you ever experienced the heartbreak of your freshly baked apple pie crashing to the floor?”

“Oh, I can imagine. That’s truly dreadful.” Peter Parker made a sympathetic face and pressed on, “Sir, can you describe what happened last night in more detail? Did you see or hear anything unusual?”

He held the microphone to Roald’s lips again.

“Explosions—I just heard round after round of explosions, and sirens blaring incessantly. It was so intense my apple pie fell to the ground. In fact, I only learned this morning that apparently, some cultists had been gathering here.”

“Oh my, your apple pie’s tragedy is truly unfortunate. But sir, are you sure it was a cult gathering?”

“Absolutely. Did you see the shoes on that corpse over there?” Roald pointed to a pair of feet sticking out from under a sheet. The nearby bystanders all glanced in that direction.

“That’s Mrs. Anna’s youngest grandson from next door. Lately, the boy’s been obsessed with some spider-worshipping sect, recruiting homeless people on the street. They even offer free lectures with hot dogs and coffee, and eggs to take home after.”

“Well, that doesn’t sound too bad, actually. But what does that have to do with the explosion?” Peter’s question caught the attention of Coulson, who was lurking in the crowd, and many others pricked up their ears.

“How could it not be related? My apple pie was scared right out of my hands!”

“Oh, let’s not dwell on that damned apple pie, sir. Could you elaborate on this so-called cult?” Peter sensed the man was a talker, and the chance to find a kindred spirit put him in a good mood.

But headlines mattered more—his promotion and raise depended on it.

What’s more, as Spider-Man, he had a particular interest in cultist activity.

“Who would choose a spider as their symbol for a respectable faith?”

Wait—

Spider?

Peter Parker faltered.

He stared at Roald, sensing a veiled jab at himself.

He made a mental note: no matter the truth of this man’s words, he would have to investigate. He couldn’t risk being mistaken for a cultist every time he ventured out.

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Not far from their conversation, a nondescript black sedan was parked at the street corner. Inside, two men and a woman spoke in low tones. Coulson watched Roald conversing with Peter Parker, his brow gradually furrowing.

“What are you looking at? Just a helpful citizen chatting with a reporter?”

“A helpful citizen wouldn’t be so calm, nor would he know about the so-called spider.” Coulson seemed to have made up his mind, turning to Natasha and Hawkeye in the back seat.

“Look again. That ‘helpful citizen’ is not as simple as he seems.”

Though his hairline had receded a little, Coulson’s smile was confident—he had found something interesting.

“I admit, the man carries himself well, but Coulson…” Natasha was about to continue, but her pupils suddenly contracted.

That familiar build, that aura…

“You’re right. This ‘citizen’ is no ordinary man.”

“Exactly. Notice how his expression differs from the rest. It’s like you all know I like apple pie for dinner, so you can guess what I’ll eat without me saying it. This explosion—he treats it like a foregone conclusion, as if he expected it, just as you expect me to have apple pie.”

“When did you start liking apple pie?” Hawkeye chimed in from the back.

“It’s just an analogy, my friend. Watch his micro-expressions.” Coulson nodded at Roald. “His reactions are all carefully performed. And the way he looks at the reporter—his pupils first surprise, then relax, but his words remain guarded. And the reporter, when he heard the word ‘spider,’ his expression changed too.”

“Just as I suspected, it boils down to a few points,” Coulson concluded, spreading his hands.

“One, the man might be covering up a murder. Two, he’s skilled in denying involvement. Three, he hides in plain sight, seemingly harmless. Four, he may have had training. Five, he’s an extremely dangerous mutant. Six, he disregards the law and may act entirely for himself. Seven, he possesses power we cannot ignore.”

“And that reporter—his gaze is not as innocent as it seems, either.”

“So, no matter their true identities or involvement in this incident, we must keep them under suspicion. Just as I’m about to investigate Mrs. Anna, I won’t let any opportunity slip by.”

Natasha nodded in agreement.

Hawkeye, in the back seat, listened in bafflement.

A game for three, yet he alone was left in the dark. It was not a pleasant feeling.

Meanwhile, Vikaarn was still searching for Tony.