Chapter 10: First Encounter part 1

I drove a knife into the top of the man’s skull.

The special alloy blade crushed his cranium and spilled his brains.

I grabbed the neck of another man who leapt at me and swung him with brute force.

His body slammed into the wall, his neck twisted at an unnatural angle, turning a dark, bruised color.

The bone had snapped, rupturing blood vessels from the inside, filling the tissue with blood.

I ripped open the stomach of a man who stood frozen in shock.

Drove the knife into the face of a woman who tried to flee.

And shot an old man dead as he begged for his life.

They were scum involved in drug trafficking, kidnapping, and human smuggling.

No one would mourn their deaths.

Neither would anyone mourn mine.

I'm scum too—someone who tramples over lives for my own purposes.

If there's any difference between them and me—

It's that I'm a superhuman, and they're just ordinary people.

They were foreign mafia.

An organization using a taxi company as a front to carry out crimes.

And foolishly, they laid a hand on Vanessa—Fisk’s lover.

It was as if they’d stepped on a tiger’s tail. You could call it an elaborate suicide.

This operation wasn’t born from logic or profit—but from seething rage.

Which is exactly why failure wasn’t an option.

In other areas too, people like me—those with special abilities, near-superhumans—were carrying out their missions.

To ensure none of them escape, and that no one realizes what’s happening, we act simultaneously—and fast.

And I was in charge of Queens.

A slightly run-down vintage shop disguised their base. My job was to kill every last mafia member gathered there.

A bullet whizzed past right in front of me.

I hurled a knife in the direction it came from.

It lodged deep between a man’s eyebrows.

He collapsed, foaming blood from his mouth.

‘That the last of them?’

I now had my hand around the neck of the last man, who writhed in agony from a blow to the groin.

I began to squeeze—

"That’s far enough."

Suddenly, something shot through the air. I lifted the man in front of me as a shield.

On his back was a white… thread?

‘…Spider-Man, huh.’

I whispered his name with a trembling voice.

But the suit modulated my voice into something cold and mechanical—devoid of emotion.

…Well, I guess in times like these, that’s one of its advantages.

Escaping into that thought, I turned my eyes to him.

There he stood—just like the day he once saved me—dressed in that same red-and-blue suit.

My hero, Spider-Man.

…Peter.

"Hm? I’m pretty sure we’ve never met. Are you a fan? If you are, could you let that guy go?"

Ah, maybe he said that as a joke. But yes—I'm your fan.

I’ve been your fan since long before I was even born into this world.

But still—

I tightened my grip.

Crack.

I snapped the man’s neck.

Somehow, I felt Spider-Man’s expression harden, even though I shouldn’t be able to see it through the mask.

…Peter must know. He must know these people aren’t innocent.

And yet, with that overwhelming sense of duty and kindness… he just can’t tolerate someone taking another’s life.

"…Why’d you kill him?"

That’s why he’s angry now.

‘Because it’s my job.’

"My job…?"

‘I don’t kill for fun.’

Making excuse after excuse, I slid my feet toward the window.

‘I don’t want to fight you. My mission’s over. Will you let me go?’

"…You might not have a reason to fight me. But I do."

Spider-Man said that.

Ah, of course.

Spider-Man.

That’s the kind of hero you are.

Thwip—a webline shot out.

The webline was larger than a bullet, but slower in velocity.

Which meant, to someone like me—with reflexes fast enough to dodge bullets—it looked sluggish.

I twisted my body to avoid it and took a step forward.

But then I noticed—the web extending from Spider-Man’s arm hadn’t detached.

The next moment, a wall clock, yanked from behind, smashed into the back of my head.

But I didn’t even flinch. I lunged straight ahead.

Twisting my torso, I delivered a knifehand strike.

The suit I wore now was a full-body armored suit made of alloy.

It was laced with vibranium, making it both hard and razor-sharp.

It wasn’t just for defense—it could be used for offense as well.

“Kh…”

Spider-Man twisted away, dodging it.

I followed through with a spinning kick, but he avoided that too.

Sliding across the floor, I retrieved the knife I’d previously embedded in a corpse.

I threw out a low kick to probe him—but that too was dodged.

As expected.

Using the momentum of my extended leg, I grounded myself and thrust the knife forward.

But again—Spider-Man bent backward, dodging cleanly.

…I see. He really is a superhero.

He has both superhuman physical capabilities and incredible reflexes.

But he still lacks experience.

Peter is probably still in his third year of high school. He’s likely only been Spider-Man for two years or so.

He doesn’t have much combat experience—and certainly hasn’t fought professional killers like me more than a few times, if that.

Right now, he’s just relying on those natural reflexes and his precognitive Spider-Sense to evade attacks.

Whereas I—though inferior to Spider-Man in raw physical ability—have combat training from the organization.

This isn’t some kind of sport martial arts designed to neutralize opponents gently or bring them down softly.

It’s close-quarters combat—CQC—designed specifically to kill.

I retracted the knife in my right hand, twisted my hips with the motion, and thrust out my left fist.

Focused on the knife, Spider-Man didn’t see it coming—my punch landed square on his face, sending him staggering.

…it felt like I punched a tree.

Most likely, it didn’t do any real damage.

“…Not bad.”

Ah, I just got a compliment from Spider-Man.

It gave me a little thrill, but I forced myself to calm down.

No, getting praised for killing techniques—there’s nothing to feel good about.

No—I shouldn’t feel good about it.

I turned my palm toward Spider-Man.

Using the thought-control interface in my helmet, I activated a function in the suit.

In that instant, the air around us trembled.

A shockwave sonic blast.

Vibranium has the property of absorbing impact.

Just like when I punched Spider-Man earlier, and all the hits I took while fighting the mafia—every shock had been absorbed.

I released all of that stored energy now, focused into a directed blast.

The air distorted. The nearby windows all shattered at once.

Spider-Man couldn’t dodge in time—he was blown away and slammed into the wall.

“Guh…”

…Still, it didn’t deal much damage.

He quickly got back up, glaring as he took a fighting stance.

Spider-Man couldn’t land a blow on me, and I couldn’t land a decisive one on him either.

I struck him several more times—at his abdomen, his neck, his face—but none of it felt satisfying.

Then I realized—while he has the durability, he’s also using the natural elasticity of his body to absorb and reduce the impact of my blows.

…But still, in this fight—

I have the advantage.

First, one thing:

In this situation, I’m simply stronger.

Our agility is equal.
In combat skills, I have the edge.
In sheer physical strength, he has the advantage.

But there's also a difference in our suits.

The one Spider-Man wears is probably handmade—a classic full-body spandex suit with no real features.

Whereas mine is a high-tech, high-grade armored suit.

My strikes can reach him, but his attacks are absorbed by the vibranium incorporated into my suit.

If I took off my suit and fought him, I’d lose… but that’s purely hypothetical.

Next—our win conditions are different.

All I need is a window of opportunity to escape this place.

Spider-Man, on the other hand, needs to subdue me and restrain me.

And he can’t kill me.

He also has to hold back.

That difference is enormous.

I centered myself around the knife and launched a thrust.

With my full body weight behind it, even someone like Spider-Man couldn’t take a direct hit and walk away unscathed.

Spider-Man dodged with an exaggerated motion and widened the gap between us.

As he backed away, I stepped back as well.

Realizing I was trying to escape, he charged at me.

I avoided him and counterattacked again.

And again.

And again.

Eventually, after dozens of strikes, Spider-Man’s movements began to slow.

Even if no single hit caused major damage, repeated blows to the same area take their toll.

So I kept repeating it, over and over.

Dodging his kicks and slamming my fist into his side.

Grabbing his outstretched arm and driving my knee into it.

Like a counterfighter, I dealt steady, accumulating damage.

“…Hah… Hah…”

Eventually, he started gasping, his stance unsteady.

‘What’s the matter, Spider-Man? At your limit?’

Please… say you are.

It’s not like I want to keep hitting my hero.

“I can still go.”

He took a very clear fighting pose and came at me again, movements less crisp than before.

Once more, I dodged and swung my knife—

“Guh—”

—I cut his abdomen.

No, his muscles blunted the blow—it wasn’t that deep of a wound.

Even so, Spider-Man was clearly shocked.

Despite his caution, he’d been cut.

Surprised at the blade’s sharpness, at the fact that he was bleeding.

And—

‘!?’

—I was shocked too.

I cut him.

I actually cut Spider-Man.

That wasn’t supposed to happen.

The knife was meant as a feint—to throw off his focus, weaken him with blunt strikes.

I never meant to cut him.

I didn’t want to hurt Spider-Man.

Blood spilled out.

He winced from the pain.

I froze in shock, having wounded the hero I admired.

For a brief moment, both of us stood still.

But I was the first to snap out of it.

I immediately turned, shattered the glass window, and jumped through.

“Wait—!”

Spider-Man called out, trying to pursue me.

“Ah—!”

But he clutched his wound and dropped to one knee.

…Part of me wanted to rush to his side.

But right now, I’m Red Cap.

Not his classmate, Michelle Jane.

I leapt out the window.

It was only from the second floor—didn’t even need to roll. I hit the ground and sprinted.

I heard his voice calling after me, telling me to stop, but I didn’t even look back.

I could still feel the sensation of cutting flesh lingering on my arm.

The knife I held was stained with bright red blood.

I shook it off and stored it in the holster on my thigh armor.

After making sure no one had followed me, I descended underground.

---

Hah… hah…

I slipped into my hideout, out of breath.

But this wasn’t from physical exhaustion.

My breathing was ragged from mental shock.

I cut him.

I cut him.

Now that I was safely back in my sanctuary, my thoughts started racing again.

The persona of Red Cap faded, and Michelle Jane came back.

Cutting someone is different from hitting them.

He was bleeding.

Bright red—Peter’s blood.

Ugh, nngh—

Fighting the nausea, I leaned against the wall.

Trying to erase the sensation still clinging to my hand—the feel of flesh parting beneath my blade—I slammed my fist into the concrete wall.

Crack—my fist embedded itself into the cement.

I’ve killed people before.

Again and again.

Hurting someone isn’t new to me.

I’ve done things far more grotesque, far more visceral, than cutting flesh.

I know that.

And yet, I can’t stop trembling.

Guh—bleh—

I couldn’t hold it back. I tore off my mask.

The red mask clattered to the floor.

“Ugh… hurk…”

Vomit spilled onto the ground.

Ka—khh, hah… hah…

Struggling for breath, I staggered toward the bathroom sink.

I rinsed my mouth with water and spat it out.

The sourness left behind only deepened my disgust.

“…Ahh…”

Even if I apologized, he wouldn’t forgive me.

No—that’s not even the issue.

I can’t afford to apologize.

If the truth about Red Cap comes to light, I’m finished.

Before the police could even arrest me, the safety device implanted in my chest would activate and blow me to pieces.

I don’t want to die.

“Ugh… uuh…”

Once the nausea passed, tears came next.

Guilt for hurting the hero I admired.

Regret for wounding a friend.

And self-loathing, anger directed inward.

All tangled together, spilling out in endless tears.

The face that floated in my mind was Peter’s.

Peter, who had smiled kindly at me.

Yes.

That was it.

I am a villain.

I shouldn’t have tried to seek happiness or friendship like a normal person.

I have to kill others to survive.

And I don’t want to die.

So I have killed others for my own sake.

For someone like me to try to be friends with a hero who saves others—

It’s impossible.

Caught in unending self-loathing and regret… I hung my head, utterly drained.