Peter Parker

Brooklyn Industrial Sector, Lot 47C

The sun had barely cleared the skyline when the reporters arrived—vans skidding to curbs, cameras hoisted on shoulders, microphones thrust forward like weapons.

Detective Mira Vale sipped her third cup of burnt coffee as she watched the storm roll in from behind the police barricades. Yellow tape fluttered weakly in the wind, utterly useless at keeping back ambition.

One woman in a bright blue blazer leaned forward past the line, practically hanging over the burned gate.

"Detective! Was it a meth lab or not? We're hearing whispers of cartel ties—can you confirm?"

Another chimed in, camera lens zoomed in tight on her face.

"Were the bodies victims or part of the operation?"

"Is Spider-Man involved?"

Vale turned to the uniformed officer beside her. "Keep them back. Two meters. And don't answer anything."

"Yes, ma'am."

Behind her, CSU teams continued picking through the still-smoldering remains of the warehouse. Smoke had faded to heat haze, but the stench—melted insulation, scorched chemicals, charred human flesh—still clung to the wind.

Mackenzie stepped up beside her, reading something off his phone.

"Daily Bugle's already running the headline: 'Hellfire in Brooklyn—Masked Killer or Gangland Hit?'"

"Of course they are," Vale muttered. "Nothing sells like mystery."

The temporary podium was just a folding table and a mic clipped to a powered speaker. Sergeant Farrow, the NYPD's designated press spokesperson, stepped up and adjusted his collar.

He didn't smile. The media sharks were already circling.

"We can now confirm that the structure at Lot 47C was being used as an illegal drug manufacturing site," he began. "Preliminary forensics suggest methamphetamine, though other substances may have been present."

He paused as camera shutters clicked furiously.

"At least twelve deceased individuals were found inside the premises. Cause of death has not been determined, but autopsy reports are pending."

"Were they shot?" a reporter shouted.

"No ballistics recovered at this time," Farrow replied. "No gunfire evidence found. However, weapons were present—burned beyond use."

"Was this a gang fight or an execution?"

"That's part of the ongoing investigation."

"Is Spider-Man involved?"

Farrow's face didn't flinch. "There is no evidence linking Spider-Man to this incident. Witnesses and surveillance place him in another part of the city during the estimated timeframe."

"Then who did this?"

Farrow stepped back, signaled the end of the briefing, and left them shouting questions behind the tape.

The glass walls of Police Commissioner Renata Blake's office filtered in gray daylight. The room was clean, sharp—like her. Plaques on the shelf. Minimalist. Professional.

She stood at the window, hands clasped behind her back as Vale, Mackenzie, and Sergeant Farrow filed in and stood across from her desk.

"You've made the morning news," she said without turning. "All of you."

"Respectfully, Commissioner," Farrow said, "we stuck to the agreed language. No speculative details, nothing outside verified facts."

"Then explain why every station in the city is spinning 'masked vigilante execution' theories."

Mackenzie cleared his throat. "The nature of the scene... it gives room for interpretation. We didn't find casing trails, entry wounds, blood pools. It was clean. Too clean."

Blake turned and fixed them with her steely gaze.

"You think this was a professional job?"

Vale nodded. "That's our working theory. The security system was disabled—manually, from inside the network. There's no footage. Whoever did it entered and exited without triggering alarms."

"Victims?"

"All male, ages 19 to 42. Most with sealed juvenile records or ties to narcotics trafficking. We're running facial IDs, but we expect most of them to be connected to Seventh Crown or Dead Lions—both minor players in weapons distribution."

Blake moved to her desk and tapped a folder.

"This doesn't look minor to me. Dozens of kilos of meth torched, over twelve men dead, weapons melted, and no trail."

She looked up. "That's not a turf war. That's a purge."

Vale and Mackenzie shared a glance. Sergeant Farrow said nothing.

Blake narrowed her eyes. "Do you believe Spider-Man was involved?"

Mackenzie shook his head. "No webbing. No eyewitnesses. Spider-Man—was sighted in Manhattan around the time this fire would've started."

"Robbery attempt. Lamborghini. Stopped it clean. No fatalities," Vale added.

"Which means," Blake said, "we're dealing with someone else. Someone new."

Or someone who didn't want to be known.

She leaned back in her chair.

"There's pressure coming down from the Mayor's Office. They want accountability. We've had five vigilante incidents in the past two months—this one's different. Deadly. Controlled. Political damage is inevitable if we don't find this person."

Farrow spoke. "We're working angles. It's possible this is cartel retribution."

Blake waved a hand. "The cartels aren't this careful. This was surgical."

A long silence stretched.

Then Blake spoke again—quietly.

"I want every available resource routed to this case. Digital crimes, gang unit, cyber forensics, dark web monitoring. If someone's moving like this in my city—I want a name."

She turned her chair slightly.

"Use street contacts. Use federal help. Use AI analysis if you have to. Just don't sit on your hands."

Mackenzie shifted. "And if we find someone?"

Blake met his gaze evenly. "You bring them in. Quiet. I don't want another press circus like the Spider mess from last year. We do this clean."

Vale exhaled. "Understood, Commissioner."

"Dismissed."

They turned to leave.

Before they could reach the door, she added:

"If this masked arsonist wants to stay in the shadows, we'll drag them into the light."

Back at their desks, Vale sifted through the case files while Mackenzie pulled up satellite tracking history. Farrow was already updating his notes for a second press release.

"Think we'll find anything?" Mackenzie asked, eyes flicking over thermal map overlays.

Vale stared at the photo on her screen—one taken by a drone of the burning warehouse from the night before.

The roof had caved in.

The ash pile that used to be the gang's stash now looked like nothing more than black dust.

"We'll find something," she said. "Just maybe not what we're expecting."