As soon as Gwen opened the door, she saw her father sitting stiffly on the sofa, his expression unreadable.
"Dad?" she called cautiously.
George Stacy didn't move. The room was dark, the only illumination coming from the dim glow of the city lights filtering through the curtains.
"Why don't you turn on the light?" she asked, flipping the switch by the door.
The sudden brightness pushed back the shadows, revealing her father's stern face. His expression made Gwen's heart skip a beat.
Did Dad see what I did?
A wave of guilt surged through her. She wasn't sure what had come over her earlier. One moment, she was talking with Peter, and the next—she had kissed him. In broad daylight, no less!
What was I thinking?
It was reckless. Impulsive. Not at all like her. Maybe Peter was right—maybe she had been affected by something, just like her father had been at the police station.
She didn't even know how to process what had happened. It wasn't romantic in the way she had imagined. No candlelit dinners, no roses or soft music. Just the chlorine-scented air of the swimming pool and a moment that spiraled out of control.
But deep down, she couldn't deny the truth—she had wanted to do it.
"We need to talk, Gwen," George finally said, his voice heavy with authority.
Gwen swallowed hard, masking her nervousness with forced nonchalance. "About what, Dad?"
George's tone sharpened. "I don't mind you spending time with Peter, but you need to understand the consequences of your actions."
Gwen tensed. "I don't know what you mean."
"Don't play dumb," George snapped. "You know exactly what I'm talking about."
Gwen felt something stir inside her—an unfamiliar defiance.
"Why does it matter?" she shot back. "You take the subway home every night, rubbing shoulders with the people you swore to protect. You've always told me that looking into someone's eyes reveals who they truly are. That's the life you taught me, Dad. But when you look at me… I don't know what you see anymore."
George exhaled sharply. "This isn't about that, Gwen."
"It is," she insisted. "You think I don't know what I'm doing. That I'm just some naive little girl. But I do know."
George's frown deepened. "You're not old enough to be making these kinds of decisions."
"Dad, I'm not a child anymore!"
Gwen's voice rose, frustration bubbling to the surface. She clenched her fists.
"And maybe… maybe what you said to Peter at the police station wasn't just something you blurted out in a moment of madness. Maybe that's what you've truly believed all along."
George's eyes narrowed. "What are you implying?"
"You don't like Peter, do you? You never have. You think he's dangerous, that he'll hurt me. But guess what, Dad? He's the one who saved me. He's always been there for me, even when I made stupid, reckless choices."
She took a deep breath, then delivered the final blow.
"I like him, Dad. And I don't need your permission."
Silence hung heavy in the room.
George Stacy stared at his daughter, stunned. The well-behaved, obedient girl he had raised was gone. In her place stood a strong-willed young woman, unwilling to back down.
And it was all because of Peter Parker.
Anger flared in George's chest. His little girl had slipped through his fingers, and Peter was the reason.
Meanwhile…
Peter walked down the rain-slicked streets, his umbrella shielding him from the drizzle.
He had no idea that, at this very moment, Gwen and her father were locked in an argument because of him. He had no clue that George Stacy had just labeled him a bad influence.
Right now, Peter had bigger things on his mind.
The scent of oil and smoke lingered in the damp air, mingling with the sharp tang of rain. He tightened his grip on the yellow slip of paper in his hand—a leave of absence note from Miss Fish.
It bore an address.
Helen Nolan's address.
The Canal District of Brooklyn was a rough part of town. The streets twisted and turned in a chaotic maze, potholes littering the cracked asphalt.
Finally, Peter arrived at his destination—a three-story Victorian house with the numbers 965 bolted onto the door in rusty iron. The house stood out in the decaying neighborhood, its once-grand facade now worn and weathered by time.
Peter folded the note and tucked it into his pocket.
A gust of wind rattled the wind chimes on the porch, sending a haunting melody through the empty street. The doorbell button was old, the edges corroded with age. He pressed it.
The chimes barely settled before the door creaked open—on its own.
Peter's instincts flared.
He closed his umbrella, stepping cautiously inside.
The moment he crossed the threshold, the door slammed shut behind him.
A blade flashed in the darkness.
Ambush!
Peter's body reacted before his mind could catch up. He dodged the incoming strike, his enhanced senses guiding his movements. His right arm tensed, the black exoskeleton forming over his skin in an instant.
With a sharp whistle, his fist shot toward his unseen attacker's throat.
Clang!
Metal met flesh.
The figure in the shadows stumbled back, absorbing the blow with inhuman resilience. Peter's enhanced vision quickly took in his opponent—a ninja, clad entirely in red, his face concealed beneath a mask.
No emotion. No hesitation.
More of them.
Peter sensed movement to his left. Another figure lunged, katana slicing through the air.
His body twisted, barely avoiding the blade. His muscles coiled, ready for battle.
This was no ordinary house.
This was a trap.
TO BE CONTINUED…