It was a sunny afternoon on a day fairly free of crime, relatively speaking, as Spider-man swung across the cityscape of New York. Any onlooker quick enough to notice him would think that he didn't have a care in the world. Under the mask, however, Peter Parker was anything but carefree. He knew the city like the back of his hand, but this part he knew particularly well. Ahead, the offices of the Daily Bugle loomed.

He changed clothes in a shadowy area on the building's roof, then ran down the stairwell toward the inevitable showdown with J. Jonah Jameson. He had even fewer pictures to offer than the day before, but money was so tight for him and Aunt May that he had to try his luck on an almost daily basis. At least he always had shots of Spider-man.

Peter sighed as he entered the Bugle's offices. Someone had beaten him to the punch. A shabbily dressed man was already hounding Jameson's secretary, Betty, demanding to see him. Peter flopped into a nearby chair and stared at the clock, hoping the wait wouldn't be long.

"You need to tell Mr. Jameson that I have important information," the man insisted. At that moment, the cigar-chomping publisher himself stormed out of his office, briskly looking over copy with Joe "Robbie" Robertson close on his heals. The man at Betty's desk ignored her shouts of protest and marched straight up to Jameson.

"Look, I am tired of getting the runaround from your secretary," he said. Jonah spared him only a glance before returning his eyes to the copy.

"Oh, it's you again," he said dismissively. "If you're back looking for your friend Joe, he's dead. Don't you people read the papers? Or do you just sleep under them?"

"He's not… he wasn't my friend," the man explained. "I found his body, and I know something that the police aren't telling the press." Jameson instantly shoved the papers he held into the arms of a passing intern. With a smile as large as it was fake, he threw his own arm around the man's shoulders, ushering him back toward his office.

"You don't say?" Jameson asked, beaming. He closed the door behind Robbie, the man, and himself, then reflexively shook off the arm that had been touching the man.

Peter watched as the blinds on the office windows were shut. He slammed his fist down on the arm of his chair in frustration. He'd heard everything, from the moment the name "Joe" caught his attention. His guilt over Joe's death demanded that he find out what the stranger in Jonah's office knew. Consequently, he was most definitely going to be late for lunch with Aunt May. As inconspicuously as possible, he had to bend the metal chair's arm back into shape.

"So whatcha got?" asked Jameson. He leaned back in his chair and took a big puff of his cigar. He could tell the man in front of him was no dirt-stupid bum, but he was also sure he had the upper hand in any negotiation.

"Okay, here's my story," came the reply. "My name is Leonard Rosenbaum. I was the Super for Joe's apartment building, before he got kicked out. He had some stuff--"

"Joe had stuff," Jameson interrupts. "That's great. Can we get to the point?"

"You remember I was here looking for him the other day?" Leonard continued. "Well, I didn't get any help here, but I managed to track him down at his new job. He'd just headed out on a delivery, and the pizza-shop guy told me about where to look for him. I guess he didn't care if I was a mugger or what. So I found the body, right? And the cops aren't telling anyone this… but there was a note on the body."

Jameson and Rosenbaum stared at each other for a while in silence. Jonah was beginning to feel the strain of maintaining the fake smile, while Leonard just raised his eyebrows and nodded emphatically. In another second, the smile was gone.

"So what did it say?" Jonah yelled furiously. Rosenbaum was momentarily stunned by the sudden outburst, but soon recovered.

"One thousand dollars, and the exclusive is all yours," Leonard said.

"I thought I smelled something," Jameson muttered vaguely. "Look, pal, I don't know what you came here expecting… but all you're leaving with is the good feeling you get, knowing that you've satisfied the public's right to know. That, and maybe a free trial subscription."

"Well, then I'll have to go elsewhere," Leonard retorts. "It's a shame… the note seems to me to imply a direct connection to Spider-man. But I'm not the expert that you are." With frustration, Jameson felt his upper hand begin to slip. As it happened, Robbie felt it too.

"How do we even know if this guy is legit, JJ?" he asked pointedly.

"Good question," Jameson answered. "Another would be: "Do I care?". Okay, Rosencrantz, you drive a hard bargain…. How about fifty bucks, and a free trial subscription?"

"I'm sorry, you're going to have to do better," Leonard said firmly. Jameson just rolled his eyes. If some building Super was too dumb to take a free fifty bucks for making up a printable headline so that he didn't have to, too bad.

"Okay, I'm not wasting anymore of my time on this," he snapped. "I'm sorry we couldn't come to an understanding. But after every other paper in town has thrown you out on your ear, feel free to come on back. The subscription offer still stands. Trial subscription." No sooner had Jonah shooed Leonard from his office than he turned to Robbie as if Leonard was no longer there. "I mean, how do we even know if that guy was legit…? So… what's next, Robbie?"

"Well, actually, we've got another one of those people from the train coming up here to give a statement any minute now."

"You do?" Leonard asked, overhearing. "Well… they won't know about the note."

"Didn't I just say I was done with you?" Jameson threw back at him. Leonard was about to say more, but the gruff publisher just waved condescendingly. "Bye-bye!"

With an angry sigh, Leonard marched out of the Bugle's offices. Betty watched him go, and then called out the name of the next scheduled appointment. She looked around for anyone to answer, but no one did. Then she remembered the photographer whom she'd seen come in earlier.

"Oh, Peter!" Betty said. "Mr. Jameson is free for a moment if you…. Peter?" But the young man was gone.

"Hey!" Peter called. "Hey, mister, wait!" He was running down the hall toward the elevators, as Leonard was about to board one. Peter managed to edge in behind him as the antiquated doors threatened to crush him. Leonard just stood watching.

"What do you want?" he asked suspiciously. Peter's head was spinning, wondering how to broach the subject. He decided to stick as close to the truth as possible, but he still hated how good a liar he was becoming, thanks to Spider-man.

"Look, I'm the one who helped Joe get that pizza job," Peter admitted. "I saw him in here the other day, and I wanted to help him out. I feel really bad about what happened. Please… can you tell me about this note you were talking about?"

"I'm sorry," Leonard said. "Jameson wouldn't pay, but somebody will. Hey listen, I feel bad about Joe, too. He seemed like a decent guy. I'm not doing this just for the money; I really think the public should be informed. Things are just tough, financially, you know? So… don't be too hard on yourself. Take care, okay?"

Peter didn't know where to go from there. He stood dumbstruck, until the elevator bell rang and the doors opened onto the ground floor. The lobby was crowded with people coming and going during the lunchtime rush. Peter tried to follow Leonard out through the bustling throng of commuters, but he was immediately hit by a sharp stab from his spider-sense.

Scanning the crowd, Peter's attention was drawn to a middle-aged black man at the information desk. The man was staring intently at him, with a searching look in his eyes. Then, his eyes grew wide for a moment, and he smiled a small smile at Peter before deliberately turning away. With a sinking feeling in his gut, Peter continued to the building's exit. Searching up and down the street outside, he could find no sign of Leonard. He then turned back around, feeling very reluctant to return inside.

The look the man at the desk had given him was undoubtedly one of recognition. But Peter had never seen the man before. He'd heard Robbie saying that another person from the train was coming to interview today. The man's friendly smile was only barely reassuring. He couldn't help but wonder how many more people had seen his face, and how many of them might be like Joe.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Hold the elevator, please!" someone shouted. George Anderson stuck his hand out just in time to let the newcomer squeeze on. George smiled at his new companion, who returned the smile graciously.

"What floor?"

"Oh… the one with the Daily Bugle offices," George said absently. "Darn it, the girl at the desk just told me which one…"

"It's okay, I know it." The button was pressed, and the elevator took its two passengers upward. George had the uncomfortable feeling he was being stared at. He tried to smile again, but this time it wasn't returned. Finally, the stranger spoke. "I remember you… from the train that Spider-man saved."

"Yeah, that's right," George replied. "Were you there, too?" His companion just smiled, apparently recalling the memory with fondness. George relaxed at this. "Boy that was something, huh? I'm here to tell the Bugle all about it."

"You probably got a better look at Spider-man's face than that "Joe" person," the stranger added, laughingly slightly. The elevator doors opened, and George let his fellow passenger lead the way.

"I read about him," George said, trying to remember. "Drunk-ass fool got himself killed the next day. The paper said Spider-man did it, I think. They're always blaming him for something. Yeah, I'll never forget that boy's face. I'll never forget anything about that day. I almost died."

"A lot of people almost died."

"And that's why I'm here," said George, grinning. "I told that Robertson fellow on the phone, I don't want to talk about what Spider-man looks like. I want to set the record straight about him, let everyone know what a hero he really is!"

"I wish I could trust you," George's companion said sadly. As they'd walked, George had noticed the sound of the newsroom growing fainter, not louder. He looked around, finding only stairwell access and a janitor's closet.

"Are the Bugle offices this way?" he asked.

"No," was the reply.

George didn't see the knife until it was too late.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Parker!" he heard a voice shout. Peter turned to see one of the Bugle's staff rushing toward him. It was a nerdy-looking man, a little older than himself, in a dark suit with thick glasses. Peter thought the man's name was "Ted" or something like that. Working for Jameson normally made people frantic, but "Ted" was registering off the scale. "Have you got your camera with you?"

Peter cursed the time he'd spent sitting on the curb. The weight of his mounting problems had forced him to just sit and collect himself for a time. Time enough, it seemed, for another problem to arise. Peter finally nodded in answer to the question that could have easily answered itself if "Ted" had noticed the conspicuously camera-shaped case he was carrying. Then he allowed himself to be dragged swiftly back into the building.

"Parker!" Jameson exclaimed, wrenching him from the elevator. The entire ride up, "Ted" had been sweating furiously and appeared to be on the edge of vomiting. Still, Peter wasn't sure how glad he was to be in Jonah's sweaty grip.

"One side, move it!" Jameson commanded as they went. Building security personnel did as he said, rather than face his wrath. They weren't paid enough for that. Peter wondered briefly why so many of them were gathered up here. He got his answer as Jameson ground to a halt in front of an open janitor's closet. "Don't just stand there gaping, Parker! Take a picture!"

Peter swallowed hard, and shakily freed his camera from its case. In front of him lay the black man from the lobby, covered in blood from multiple stab wounds. He tried to steady his hands and focus the lens. Someone had stuffed the man in this closet like garbage. The shutter clicked again and again.

It wasn't the gruesomeness of the scene, or even the identity of the victim, that bothered Peter the most. He'd seen plenty of blood before, and had carried home the corpse of his best friend's father. No, what made Peter's own blood run cold was the note. It was pinned carefully to the man's sleeve, where none of the gore would mar it. The letters of its words were cut from the Bugle itself, rearranged in a new order.

"Keep the secret, or pay the price," it read.