At the same time, Ethan Cole—still using his alias "Leon" in public—drove his black SUV back to his apartment in Queens.
He casually popped a piece of dark chocolate into his mouth, one of many he'd bought earlier that day along with some new clothes and small essentials. For reasons he couldn't explain, the scent of cocoa had pulled him into a local sweets shop near the university. He normally didn't have much of a sweet tooth, but today, the rich aroma had triggered something nostalgic and… comforting.
Before he realized it, he'd walked out with an entire bag of assorted chocolates.
Bang! He tossed the empty wrapper into the kitchen trash can and licked the melted residue off his thumb.
"I didn't expect to bump into Spider-Man today," he muttered aloud, chewing thoughtfully.
That brief encounter had all but confirmed what he'd been suspecting since his rebirth into this universe: this world wasn't just similar to Marvel's Earth-616—it was some form of it. He had seen too many impossible things lately to doubt it anymore.
In his previous life, while volunteering at the city orphanage, he'd often seen children wearing Spider-Man pajamas, clutching Spider-Man toys, and endlessly mimicking the wall-crawler's iconic poses. That red-and-blue figure had been a source of hope to many—something Ethan hadn't understood back then.
He wasn't interested in comics in his last life. Too busy surviving, too numb to care. But now that he was here, he regretted not listening more attentively to those kids' ramblings. If he had, he might have had a clearer grasp of who exactly he was sharing this world with.
He sighed, speaking aloud again as if to dismiss the thought: "Forget it. It's not like knowing Spider-Man's comic lore is going to change anything now. I just want to live a quiet life."
To him, someone like Spider-Man was a distant figure, one who belonged to the city skyline and newspaper headlines—not the streets he delivered food on. If he could live well, quietly, and under the radar, that was good enough.
He locked the door behind him and set down the rest of his groceries. The weight of recent events lingered in his mind, but slowly faded as the mundane routine of home life took over.
Time passed quickly.
A week before the end of summer vacation, Old York—the cranky shop owner Ethan occasionally worked for—finally handed him back the keys to the delivery motorcycle. Ethan was thrilled. He took the bike for a long, carefree ride across the city, which nearly resulted in York angrily confiscating the keys all over again.
Once he had the vehicle secured, Ethan resumed helping with food deliveries. Business had been booming lately, especially during the lunch and dinner rushes. The summer heat made people lazy and hungry, and York's food was reliably good.
That afternoon, Ethan skipped a few familiar delivery routes and prioritized orders he could finish more quickly using alleyway shortcuts and memorized backstreets. He'd gotten good at navigating the urban maze.
Before long, there was only one order left.
"Let me check this last one," Ethan muttered as he unfolded a small notepad York had scribbled the address on.
"No. 30, East 34th Avenue?" He frowned. "That's… pretty far. Since when do we take orders this deep into Midtown?"
He scratched his head, puzzled. The address was several districts away from the restaurant's usual range. But York was stingy, and any paid delivery was worth the trouble for him.
"Whatever," Ethan murmured. "The pizza's gonna get cold if I wait around."
He mounted the bike again and began planning the fastest route. He knew most of the streets in the surrounding area, but this address was a bit out of the way. Still, he figured he could get there in 20 minutes flat if traffic was light.
But while Ethan calculated shortcuts and traffic signals, trouble was already brewing at the destination.
Inside Room No. 30 on East 34th Avenue, the scene was grim.
A man was bound on the floor, his face beaten so savagely that his features were nearly unrecognizable. His eyes were swollen shut, his lips torn, and blood pooled beneath his broken nose. His name was Joey Baker.
Around him stood a ring of thugs—silent, watchful. And in the center, sitting on a scuffed leather chair, was a bald man with a brutish physique and a face like a brick wall. His fists were still flecked with drying blood.
This was Harvey Harmon, one of the enforcers for the Bloodhead Gang.
The dried crimson on his knuckles spoke volumes about who had delivered the savage beating.
"Joey Baker," Harvey growled, his deep voice cutting through the room like a buzzsaw. "Still playing dumb at this point?"
Joey trembled at the sound of his name. His voice cracked, desperate: "Boss Harmon, there's gotta be a mistake! I swear, I'd never betray the Bloodheads. You know me!"
"I've been loyal since day one!"
Harmon raised a brow, then scratched his ear with exaggerated calm. He stood up, walked forward, and stomped his leather boot down onto Joey's outstretched hand.
Crack!
The scream that followed bounced off the apartment walls, echoing with anguish. Joey writhed in place, tears streaming through his swollen face.
Harmon crouched, bringing his stony face closer. "If my brother didn't insist that you understand why you're dying, I'd have snapped your neck thirty minutes ago."
He paused, straightened, then reached into his tailored jacket and pulled out a voice recorder.
Click.
A tinny playback began to echo across the room.
On the tape, Joey Baker's voice was unmistakable—bragging, mocking, revealing gang secrets to an unknown buyer. The betrayal wasn't speculation. It was confirmed. He'd sold out the Bloodhead Gang for a quick payday, thinking he could disappear before they found out.
But they always found out.
Joey stopped struggling. The hope drained from his eyes.
Harvey pocketed the recorder, rolled up his sleeves, and began the final part of the punishment.
Joey's screams rang out again, shorter now. Less frequent. Less human.
By the time Harvey stood up again, breathing heavily and wiping blood from his knuckles with his coat, the broken man at his feet was unrecognizable. Just a mangled corpse.
"Clean this up," he said to the others. "Then soak the place. We're lighting it up tonight."
One of the men wordlessly retrieved a can of gasoline.
Harvey lit a cigar, his eyes half-lidded with the same savage pleasure he always felt after an execution. He didn't have the brains of his brother—the real leader of the gang—but he had something else: brutality.
He liked killing. He liked blood. And most of all, he liked being useful.
But just as he took a long drag of the cigar, the air in the room shifted.
Ding dong~
The sharp ring of the doorbell sliced through the tension like a blade. Every man in the room froze.
A single, cheerful chime—and chaos held its breath.