I promise this is the last chapter in which Peter has no powers!

The abandoned building was quieter than usual. Peter was alone, since Marcos and Rosa had gone out to get food and water. And maybe do a few other things they hadn't mentioned, and frankly, he didn't want to ask.

But one thing he did admit was that... it was strange when he was alone now. Strange when they weren't around. Perhaps he was feeling lonelier than he'd like to admit.

The cold floor didn't bother him so much anymore. Maybe it was habit, or maybe it was just him becoming insensitive to things. The truth was that Peter couldn't tell the difference anymore. Time passed in a strange way in there.

He moved slowly to the window that faced a wall and looked up at the sky. It seemed to be near the end of the afternoon... maybe, it was a bit cloudy. As he had no view of the horizon, he couldn't really tell.

Now that he was clean - or as clean as he could be without a real shower - and fed enough not to drop dead, he finally decided to do something other than exist in that place. The space was small, with exposed concrete walls and a few metal beams on the ceiling. With a small open area at the bottom that had probably once been a door, but now served as the best ventilation they could ask for.

Peter never realized how clumsy he was until he lost his super-coordination. Everything was an obstacle. Everything was in the way. And, apparently, everything made a point of fighting back when he bumped into it.

He moved a few steps and almost immediately bumped into a pile of old boxes. They toppled over with a loud crash, and Peter let out an exasperated sigh.

He took a few steps back soon after, a little more cautiously. It was an old house, used by who knows how many homeless people with who knows how much frequency. There were a few piles of wood lying in the corner, the remains of dismantled furniture and a lingering smell of mildew

He tried to find his way around by touching the walls, but the uneven floor caused him to trip over a loose piece of wood. He staggered, almost falling, but managed to catch himself on a metal beam.

He muttered something low, shaking his head to himself. He took a deep breath and tried again. One step, then another. Success.

Well, at least until he forgot that the ceiling there wasn't the highest.

"Ouch." He hit his head on a pipe and staggered back a few steps. He stared at the support pipe with an annoyed grimace.

Of course. There's kilometers of space here and I hit exactly the one thing that could give me a headache. I hate statistics...

He decided to sit down for a moment, but when he bent down, he ended up sitting in a puddle of dirty water. He stood up quickly, looking down at his wet pants with an incredulous expression.

"Of course. Why not? I'm already deep in shit, why not sink a little deeper?" He grunted aloud, rolling his eyes in irritation.

He continued to explore, but this time more carefully. He found a staircase leading to an upper floor and decided to climb it. He climbed the steps slowly, holding onto the rusty handrail. When he reached the top, he looked around, trying to see something other than smudges.

As he took the first step forward, however, his foot caught on the edge of a small hole in the floor, hidden by the darkness that came with the night. He fell forward, and the thud of his body echoed through the empty house.

He remained on the ground for a few moments, then merely rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling for who knows how long. At least the landing wasn't so bad - if you considered rib pain and an extra layer of dust as a bonus.

... I didn't miss it.

He sighed, spitting out a lump of dust that got into his mouth.

He stood up, coughing a little, and decided to continue exploring. The place was actually quite big, you could hide there well, there was plenty of room for a large number of people. As he advanced towards what he thought was an old sofa, his shin bumped into a wooden box, eliciting a muffled groan from him.

He lifted his leg as he drew in air when he felt a sharp pain in the spot he had hit, so he ended up falling backwards and hitting the back of his head on a cupboard, causing him to stagger and fall onto the old sofa, which, under his sudden weight, broke, causing him to sink to the bottom and be surrounded by pieces of rotten wood and a bit of stuffing.

He stayed there for a few moments, rethinking his life.

Perhaps he should think about the good things, the silver lining of the whole situation. After days of wandering aimlessly, with no real destination, not even knowing where to clean himself or get food, this was a positive step forward.

Well, at least people would say it was a step forward. For him, it was nothing, it didn't mean much. Still... he couldn't exactly find the strength to end it all.

Why?

He sighed and raised his head. The ceiling above looked like a formless blur, lost, just shadows and indistinct tones.

He closed his eyes for a moment, reliving his earlier exploration. Exploration. What a joke. He was exploring a place where he would probably die. But... why?

That question seemed to haunt him. It wouldn't leave his mind.

Why had he bothered to walk around, to memorize the space? Why had he answered those questions and interacted so much with those two? Why didn't he just stand there until hunger consumed him? until time or fate decided his end? He had nothing left.

If he disappeared, if he died, who would really care? Not like Aunt May. Not like Uncle Ben. Not like the people who were part of the life he had lost.

What's to stop him from opening that window and throwing himself out head first? Breaking his neck... it seemed so easy, so simple.

And yet...

His body wouldn't stop.

Was it cowardice? Fear? Or something worse: hope? Hope for what? That things would get better? How could they get better in that situation? And most importantly, for what?

He remembered Marcos and Rosa, the few times they had tried to connect with him. They didn't know him, they didn't owe him anything, but they still cared. Or, at least, they seemed to care.

And he couldn't think of a good reason why.

His eyes burned, but the tears never came. They stopped coming a long time ago.

Time passed, he didn't know exactly how much, but the darkness outside had already swallowed up almost all the visible part of the streets. The rain started suddenly, beating down hard and bringing with it the smell of wet earth and rust.

Peter got up from the wrecked sofa with slow movements, approaching the window and observing the few points of light he could identify. The wind beat hard against his face, along with a few splashes of icy water.

He could hear a few drops of water beginning to fall behind him, and when he saw that there were drips, he used the wall as a support and went back downstairs.

This time he bumped into practically nothing, and sat down in his usual corner, leaning against the wall, knees folded against his chest, enjoying the soothing sound of the rain.

The door creaked open and Rosa, Marcos and a figure he couldn't identify at first came in, soaking wet and grumbling about the weather.

"Well, we'll have to take a rain check. Unfortunately, I have to go to District 13 again tomorrow, so I'll have to sit this one out." It was a man, older by the tired, slightly slurred voice... a smoker, by the smell of cigarettes that spread quickly. "That rain took everyone by surprise."

"You should have gone earlier, that's for sure." Marcos retorted, as he tried to get the excess water out of his disheveled hair. "Rosa said it was going to rain. I said it was going to rain. Even the dog in the bakery knew it was going to rain."

"I was busy." The man gave a half-smile and sat down next to a pile of old crates, resting his calloused hands on his knees. "And who's the boy?" He asked, tilting his head in Peter's direction.

Peter didn't answer. He looked away and pressed his arms against his chest, trying to make himself smaller in his own corner.

Rosa, who seemed used to his silence, just shook her head.

"Well, his name is Peter, and, um... he doesn't have a place to stay. He doesn't talk much, so don't take it personally." She said. "Peter, this is Lopez. He... helps the homeless in the area."

She said, and once again, Peter merely remained silent, at most glancing in the man's direction for a few moments, before looking away again.

"Like I said... he doesn't say much." Rosa said, a little awkwardly.

Lopez just nodded, without seeming offended by the lack of response. Instead, he opened a small plastic bag and took out a half-baked loaf of bread, breaking off a piece for himself before offering the rest to the other two and to Peter.

Rosa handed the piece to the boy without saying a word and went to sit down with the other two, close together, looking for a bit of human warmth to fight off the cold that was rapidly setting in.

It didn't take long for the usual silence of the place to give way to loud, somewhat excited voices, which certainly didn't sound like homeless people trying to survive the cold of a rainstorm in a dilapidated house.

"I swear... the dog looked as thin as me, and refused my food. Have you ever seen a dog refuse food?" He snapped back to reality, catching only part of whatever conversation they were having.

"Of course, this bread is so old that if I throw it at the wall, it'll give it back." Marcos says, throwing a small piece of his bread at the wall, which bounces off and hits Rosa on the head, who just laughs when she sees that he's right.

"See? She's not even offended anymore." He says, and Lopez snorts out a laugh.

"What about your things, Lopez? Did you manage to sort out those problems?" Rosa asked.

Lopez scratched his beard, his amused smile slowly fading.

"Some. But tomorrow is going to be complicated. There's a woman with a small child who was thrown out of her house by her husband. I told her I'd try to get her a place in the residents' building, but you know how it is... The first to arrive get the best spaces." He said with a sigh.

"Are you going to try and talk to them?" Marcos asked. "That old building near the railroad? That's no place for a child."

"I know, but it's what we've got. I'll try to reach an agreement with the others, for the boy's sake." He said. Peter now held his head slightly high, curious about the subject. He helped people, but what about himself? Why didn't he stay in this building too?

"What if you don't succeed?" The smile on Rosa's face was no longer there, and Lopez stared at her for a few moments with a heavy expression.

"... I don't know. If it was just her, we could improvise. But with a child..."

"Yes... children, I understand how complicated it is." Marcos said, pointing discreetly at Peter, who, despite not seeing this small gesture, understood very well what he meant.

"... You know I can hear you, right?" He asked, his voice coming out a little raspy from thirst and from not having spoken for practically the whole day.

"Oh, fuck, sometimes I forget that you can talk." Marcos said with a grimace, feigning surprise.

"I'm not a child." He said.

"But you look like one." Marcos said, and Peter just remained silent, not really wanting to create an argument over something so trivial.

"So, uhh, kid..." Lopez began, his voice soft, and looking a little embarrassed for having called him "boy" shortly after he'd complained about it. "What brought you here? What's your story?"

Peter didn't answer immediately. He continued to stare at the floor as if it were the most interesting thing in the world. Lopez didn't mind the silence. He was used to dealing with people who had difficult stories to tell.

"All right." Lopez said, shrugging. "If you don't want to talk, I can guess."

Peter looked at him, his eyes narrowing in a mixture of curiosity and suspicion.

"I've seen a lot out there. You can recognize a pattern." Peter remained silent. He didn't look away, but he didn't answer either. He just stayed there, motionless, with a closed expression. Lopez, however, didn't bother. He just smiled slightly and crossed his arms.

"So, let me guess... You ran away from home?" He waited a moment, but Peter didn't react. "No? Hm... You came looking for work and got screwed? Not either? I bet you got mixed up with the wrong people... or maybe..."

Lopez narrowed his eyes and then muttered, almost in a tone of certainty

"Someone close to you died, didn't they?

Peter's fingers closed into fists against the threadbare fabric of his pants. He gave the man a sharp look and frowned. This was something he didn't want to talk about, or even think about. Especially with a stranger.

"How do you know?" Peter finally asked, his voice hoarse, almost a whisper.

Lopez just snorted. "I've seen it too many times not to recognize it."

He paused, looking at Peter with a look full of compassion. "Look, I'm not going to tell you how to deal with it. Grief is a personal thing. Everyone has their own way. But don't forget the rest of your life, you know? I've seen many good people make very bad choices because of the pain of loss. Just know that death is a natural part of life."

Peter didn't want to hear that. Those rehearsed little words that always appeared in movies, series, cartoons... it seemed like everyone turned into a fucking psychologist.

"Don't start with that shit." His hands clenched into fists, and he felt a burning anger in his chest. "She didn't die of natural causes. She was murdered." he said, his teeth grinding, his voice filled with a contained rage.

Lopez was silent for a moment, as if processing Peter's words. He didn't look surprised, but his expression was one of deep sadness.

"I'm sorry, kid." He said, causing Peter to grunt low. "I really am."

Really? Well, don't be. That shit doesn't change anything.

"Don't bother, just... don't call me a child." He said, leaning forward slightly and resting his chin on his arms on his knees.

"Look, I didn't mean it. It's because you're so young and all... if I offended you, I'm sorry." Marcos said apologetically, and Peter felt a little bad about it. After everything they'd done... he sighed and his features softened, as did his voice.

"It's okay, no offense, it's just that... I just don't like it." He said in a much softer tone.

"Ahm... okay? Why, exactly? I mean... you seem pretty mature for your age, but..." Lopez asked this time, a little hesitantly, perhaps? Nah, he knew what he was asking, he was just playing ignorant.

"... A child wouldn't do what I did." Peter said somberly, his eyes staring into nothingness with a faraway look. Lopez remained silent, watching Peter with an attentive but unimpressed gaze.

He had dealt with enough people to know what to do and what not to do at times like these.

"She was... the kindest person I've ever saw. She never hurt anyone, always helped others, always did the right thing. She died... slowly... slowly poisoned." He said, with no focus in his gaze, with nothing in his mind but the memories of that day. Rosa, Marcos and Lopez were forgotten, he was talking to himself and no one else.

"Eventually... I found out who it was. She died because of some asshole who saw human lives as nothing but business. A rich guy... who didn't mind stepping on a few people to get what he wanted, to have his own damn control..." He could feel his heart beating so hard in his chest that it felt like it was going to jump out.

"I set his house on fire. I threw him in, locked him in and watched as he tried to get out, as he screamed... and I..."

He closed his eyes for a moment, his fists clenched.

"I liked it." It was the first time he'd admitted it out loud. And the effect wasn't what he'd expected. It seemed so much more wrong now... so much more wrong than it had sounded in his head. "I liked seeing him suffer. I liked knowing that he would never hurt anyone again."

He ducked his head, prepared to hear incredulous sighs, words of judgment, maybe even cries of disgust. The same way part of him felt about himself. But, to his surprise, that's not exactly what happened.

"Damn." Lopez said simply, raising something that looked like a bottle to his mouth.

Peter looked at him, his eyes filled with a mixture of incredulity and confusion. He blinked, once, twice, staring at him as if he expected Lopez to say something more. But the man just picked up a piece of stale bread, tore off a chunk and chewed quietly, raising his bottle to his mouth again. "That's it? 'Damn'?"

Lopez shrugged, his expression serious but without judgment. "What do you want me to say, boy? That you're a monster? That you should feel awful for the rest of your life?"

He paused, looking at Peter with a gaze that seemed to see beyond words. "I'm no one to judge you."

He said, but even with his words, Peter continued to stare at him as if he had two heads on his shoulders, and this drew a sigh from the man.

"Look... I've seen a lot of good people do bad things when they thought they'd hit rock bottom. Desperation shapes people." He said, setting his bottle down next to his feet and resting his arms on his thighs.

"We can want to believe that everything is divided into good and bad, right and wrong." He made a vague gesture with his hand. "But life isn't that simple."

Peter felt a bitter taste in his mouth.

"That doesn't change what I did."

"Of course it doesn't. But it also doesn't change why you did it." Lopez continued, his voice soft but with a firmness behind it, a kind of authoritative tone. "I'm not saying that what you did was right or wrong. But you didn't just wake up one day and decide to kill someone for fun. Your hand was forced. You sought a justice that perhaps the law was never going to give you."

Peter swallowed.

"So you're saying I did the right thing?"

Lopez laughed, short and dry.

"No. I'm not saying it was right, nor am I saying it was wrong. I'm saying it happened. There are things in life that just can't be explained, kid, people are confusing, unpredictable, and things just happen." He said, shrugging. This mere action showed Peter that he had a lot of experience with situations like these.

The whole thing was confusing. So his actions were justifiable, but not right. But the main question was not answered. Was it a good thing, or a bad thing?

Hmm... maybe... there was no answer to that question.

"What if I don't regret it?" Peter finally asked, his voice hoarse, almost a whisper. "What if I still think he deserved to die?"

Lopez shrugged, as if the answer was obvious. "So you don't regret it. So what? That doesn't make you a bad person. It just makes you human."

Rosa agreed, her voice soft but firm. "Life is full of difficult choices, Peter. And sometimes you do things you never thought you would. I've seen many people take horrible paths after something like this. Drowning in what they've done, or what they haven't done. But it doesn't have to be like that. What you do from now on matters just as much as what you've already done.

He looked away, not knowing how to respond.

Peter looked at them, his eyes filled with a mixture of anger and pain. He didn't know what to say. Or even if he had to say anything. But... he knew that, despite all the sense of dread he felt, even if it was ever so slight, it had eased.

The next day, the rain continued, much lighter now, but the damp air made the cold seem to penetrate to the bone.

Peter walked alongside Rosa, both bent slightly by the cold as they picked up crumpled cans and empty bottles along the way. Their hands were shaking, both from tiredness and from the dampness that seemed to cling to every part of their worn clothes.

"This street is usually good." Rosa said, pointing to a row of closed stores. "People leave their bottles by the garbage cans. We just have to get there before the others."

Peter nodded, following her in silence. He was starting to get used to the routine, but something seemed different that day. The streets were busier than usual.

He bent down to pick up another dented can from the corner of the sidewalk when something caught his eye: cars speeding past, lights flashing everywhere. He frowned.

"Busy today, huh?" Rosa commented, also watching the police cars scatter around the city like ants in a disturbed anthill.

They kept walking, and it seemed that every corner had more cops than the last. Something was definitely going on.

Security officers were hurrying around, some in groups, others alone, all seeming to be responding to some kind of crisis.

"What's going on?" Rosa asked, frowning as another police car sped down the avenue.

That's when Peter stopped in front of a small restaurant, one of those that served coffee and bagels in the morning and closed too early for those who needed a nighttime refuge. The smell of grease and reheated coffee escaped through the ajar door, but that wasn't what bothered him.

On the television above the counter, the news showed images of fires, looting, armed gangs taking over entire streets. But, of course, as he couldn't distinguish any of this, it was the woman's voice that caught his attention.

"...Following the death of the tycoon Wilson Fisk and the destruction of his tower, a large amount of his wealth was stolen by an unknown figure. This individual, or group, is using the resources to cause chaos in the city, funding gangs and increasing violence in already problematic areas. The police are on high alert, but so far there are no concrete clues as to who is responsible..."

Peter felt a chill run down his spine, and his skin crawled as he felt his stomach drop. He looked at Rosa, who was standing next to him, watching the TV with a worried expression.

"This is bad." She said, her voice low. "Very bad."

Peter didn't reply. He just continued to stare at the screen, feeling a mixture of anger and helplessness.

"Crime has been on a rapid rise in recent weeks since Spider-Man's disappearance, an increase of more than 40%. And now, it is estimated that the deaths resulting from gang conflicts have exceeded hundreds, from gang members to civilians who were either just passing by or who were caught by stray bullets. We advise everyone to stay away from the impact areas, and for those living in these areas to stay at home. The police have already received calls from people who have been executed by gang members in their own houses..."

The boy swallowed some saliva, and his head drooped slightly, his legs losing some of the little strength they had. He had killed Fisk, thinking it would bring justice, but now someone was using the criminal's wealth to cause even more chaos. And he... there was nothing he could do.

He felt his breathing become heavy.

The streets were literally turning into a field of war.

And he...

Well, he did the only thing he could do at that moment.

He put his head down, clutched the bag of cans in his hand, turned around and kept walking.

That was the only thing he could do...

"... This is... horrible. So many people... isn't there anyone who can help?" Rosa asked no one behind her.

Peter didn't answer, he didn't even make any mention of listening, but his insides screamed.

Really... ever since he lost his powers, he had ignored some subjects. Those mercenaries, those freaks like Rhino, the corrupt politicians who escaped the punishment they deserved, and of course... the Green Goblin.

Now that Spider-Man didn't exist... what then? What would happen now?

Was there nothing anyone could do?

And again, the rain fell heavily during the night. Maybe not as heavy as the previous nights, but still enough to turn the dump floor into a treacherous mud, but Peter didn't care. He rummaged through old boxes, discarded parts, broken glasses and burnt-out circuits, all scattered on the filthy floor. His hands were shaking from both cold and exhaustion, but he kept going.

His grease-stained hands ran through the remains of broken electronic devices, picking up anything that looked remotely useful.

He bent down to pick up the crooked frame of an old pair of glasses. The lenses were scratched, one of them completely shattered, but the frame was still usable. He ran his finger over the surface, feeling the imperfections in the glass, and sighed. That would have to do.

He found a small motor from an old radio and took it apart, removing wires and small screws that could be useful. He also found a pair of magnifying glasses from a broken magnifying glass. It wasn't perfect, but it was what he had.

The magnifying glass was too big... but maybe he could break it down and shape it. He took a piece of wood and began to carefully tap the magnifying glass, trying to break it into smaller pieces. After a few minutes, he managed to get two small pieces that could serve as makeshift lenses.

He took the frame of the glasses and, with a rusty knife, wore away the metal until he could fit the lenses of the magnifying glass. The glass wasn't the same grade, he knew, but it was better than nothing.

He found a burnt microchip and a small piece of circuitry that could stabilize the rods, preventing them from breaking completely with the first impact.

With each adjustment, each piece fitted, Peter wondered why he was doing it. Why waste time fixing a makeshift pair of glasses when his life no longer made sense? He should be dealing with his pain, his grief, his anger. He should be sinking into that darkness that he forced himself to inhabit.

And yet he kept going.

He paused for a moment, holding the almost finished glasses in his hands. He looked at them, as if he expected the answers to be there, in the improvised pieces and the painstaking work he had done. But the answers didn't come. At least, not immediately.

He put his glasses on his face, adjusting the frames behind his ears. His vision still wasn't perfect - the lenses were thick and distorted the image a little - but he could see better than before. He looked around the warehouse, seeing details that were just blurs before: the piles of garbage, the scattered tools, even the rays of light from lampposts coming through the gaps.

He could tell himself that he didn't care about anything, that the world gave him no reason to go on. But there he was, building something, clinging to any vestige of control.

Maybe he still cared. About what? He didn't know. But that little spark, that urge to keep trying, to fix something, even if it was just a makeshift pair of glasses, meant that there was still something inside him that didn't want to go away.

Maybe Marcos had been right all along. Who'd have thought.

The muffled sound of the television filled Gwen's room as she laced up her sneakers. She wasn't paying much attention, occasionally glancing at the screen as she searched for a sweater, jacket or skincare product.

The news suddenly started, and she stopped for a moment. The news was nothing but chaos. The city seemed to be falling apart since Wilson Fisk's death.

First there were the protests weeks ago... Fisk was a very well-regarded figure in the city. And now, the complete chaos she was seeing.

The screen flashed with images of New York in flames - overturned cars, looted stores, cordons blocking off entire streets.

"... Since the disappearance of Spider-Man and the death of Wilson Fisk, New York City has faced an alarming increase in crime." The reporter said, his voice deep and worried. "Gangs that were once fragmented are now acting in an organized fashion, financed by an unknown entity that, according to police sources, is using Fisk's fortune."

Gwen sat on the edge of the bed, her eyes fixed on the screen. Images of destroyed streets, burnt-out cars and clashes between cops and criminals flashed by. Not even the station's reporters and staff were spared, being shot at more than just a few times.

"The number of homicides has tripled in just one month, with cops, gang members and innocent civilians being killed amid the war for control of the streets. The figures are frightening: a 47% increase in robberies, 54% in homicides, 62% in kidnappings and, perhaps most shockingly, an 85% jump in cases of sexual violence. The police are overwhelmed, and many are wondering where Spider-Man is at this critical moment."

Images of the city in ruins flashed across the screen. Cars destroyed, buildings set on fire, stores looted. The death toll was rising. Cops, criminals, civilians. No one seemed to be safe. The most frightening thing was that crime had taken on a new level of brutality. Cold-blooded murders. Kidnappings. Rapes. Entire groups of criminals appearing out of nowhere, armed, ready to take over entire territories.

The news continued, showing an interview with Captain Stacy, her father. He looked tired, but his voice was firm. "We're doing everything we can, but the reality is that we're dealing with an organized and well-funded force. We recommend that you take great care. We are working to open a blockade in the most affected areas. If you see something, say something. And please avoid areas such as 42nd Street, Broadway, Hell's Kitchen and the area near Times Square until the lockdown is finalized. These are the most dangerous zones at the moment."

Gwen looked at her watch. She had planned to go out to talk to Flash, but now she wasn't sure it was a good idea. Just as she was thinking exactly that, she felt her phone vibrate with a message from her father.

"Gwen, don't leave the house today. The situation is getting worse. If you need to go out, let me know first and avoid the areas I mentioned on the news. Stay safe. I love you."

She frowned. Although far from these places, perhaps she would have to leave her plans for later. It was okay, she could always text Flash...

She sighed as she got into bed and focused her gaze on the news. A little over a month ago, the news was saying how Spider-Man was responsible for the drastic decrease in crime in the city, how criminals seemed afraid to go out at night, and there was even a decrease in attempted prison escapes. That made it last, in the midst of so much chaos, so much going on... would Spider-Man still come back?

The cameras focused on the man on the stage, his face serious and sorrowful under the intense lighting. Behind him, a large banner displayed the name "Oscorp". Norman Osborn raised a hand to calm the hubbub of the crowd and the journalists in front of him.

"Today, our city faces an unprecedented crisis. A crisis that began with an accident some time ago. Wilson Fisk's death, whatever one's opinion of him, left a void that was quickly filled by chaos and fear. I deeply mourn the loss of a man who maintained balance in New York. Fisk built hospitals. He built schools, and the rivalry I had with him was certainly a key part of making Oscorp what it is today."

Norman paused, his expression reflecting a carefully rehearsed sadness.

"I feel... dishonored to see how the wealth of a man as imposing as Fisk is being used today. It's disrespectful not only to him, but to all of New York." He said, sighing to himself and adopting the determined expression he had rehearsed for so long.

"But I'm not just here to whine. I'm here to act! As a businessman and a citizen of this city, I refuse to stand by and watch as New York crumbles into anarchy. That's why I'm committed to funding safe havens for those who need them most. Hospitals, shelters, increased public safety - we will do whatever it takes to restore order."

Flashes of light spread through the crowd as reporters took pictures. Norman, for his part, merely looked at them with calculated calm. He saw nothing more than peasants in his empire, oh and how easily they were manipulated.

"Oscorp has already funded hospitals for the wounded this past week. We have created and funded programs for young people who are being recruited by these gangs. We can't let Fisk's legacy be the destruction of our city. We need to rebuild. Together."

The crowd started to applaud, but he raised his hand, asking for silence. "I know many of you are scared. I am too. But fear cannot stop us. We need to act. And out of the respect I had for Fisk, I'm here to lead that change."

The audience erupted in applause, and the reporters kept pressing with questions.

"Mr. Osborn!" a journalist raised his voice. "Do you believe that the police have been ineffective against organized crime?"

Norman adjusted his posture, showing slight indignation.

"The NYPD has done its best in the face of a chaotic situation. We can't blame them for not expecting a situation like this. There aren't enough police to deal with the growing number of criminals, and that's been a known fact for years. But that's exactly why I'm here. Working together with the police and the community. We need to cut the funding for these gangs, offer alternatives for young people and ensure that the law is applied fairly and firmly."

One of the reporters raised his hand, receiving a positive nod from Norman.

"Mr. Osborn, do you believe that Spider-Man is responsible for this increase in crime?"

Norman sighed, shaking his head.

"I'd like to believe that he means well... But the truth is, since he came along, our city has never been so unstable, with all these... freaks appearing out of nowhere and wreaking havoc across the city. He may be strong, he may be fast, but he's not a leader. He's not someone who understands what New York needs." He said, pausing for mere seconds again to look at his watch.

"New York needs stability. Someone who can rebuild everything that was lost." The crowd applauded again, and Norman nodded with a modest smile.

Whatever had happened while he was out of the country, whoever Fisk had pissed off to destroy his tower entirely, he was immensely grateful. It made his job easier.

He thanked everyone for their attention and left the place, heading back to his office.

The cold light of the monitor illuminated Norman's face as he injected another dose of the serum into his arm. He just watched with a neutral expression as the greenish liquid disappeared into his veins. His body trembled for a moment, the muscles contracting involuntarily before relaxing. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, feeling the effect take hold.

In front of him, multiple screens broadcast images of the chaos in the city. Reports of rising crime, police being shot in dark alleys, gangs in open warfare, civilians being dragged into vans and disappearing. And, of course, what interested him most: the destruction of Fisk Tower, a pile of charred concrete and steel, with crews still clearing debris from the site where the notorious "Kingpin" met his end.

Norman leaned forward, analyzing every detail of the footage. The streets were in ruins. The authorities were overwhelmed. Fear was in the air.

He stood up, walking over to the screen as he watched the images of chaos.

"Fisk has always been a rough man." He said to himself, his voice soft but laden with contempt. "He used force to get what he wanted, but I... I use my mind. And now, with him out of the way, my job is much easier."

He stopped in front of the screen, crossing his arms. "New York is desperate for a savior. Sincerely, huge thanks to whoever finished him off." He turned, walking over to his desk and picking up a tablet. On it was a list of projects he planned to "fund": shelters for the homeless, hospitals, programs for young people in at-risk areas. All carefully planned to win the city's trust.

All he needed to do was lie and throw money in the right places. He looked at the screen again, its images now showing the speech he had made hours before. The cheering crowd, the reporters asking questions, the trust he had earned with a few well-placed words.

His attention turned to the images of the chaos in the streets. Yes, a well-laid plan. Stealing Fisk's wealth wasn't difficult... even if his "employee" was more incompetent than he'd thought, things had gone too well for anything to go wrong.

It was a pity that Spider-Man had disappeared... he was hoping that the insect would return, but if he didn't... well, good, his job would become even easier.

Still... he couldn't just let the spider sneak away, he had to find him.

But that was for another time.