Spider-Man and Daredevil

Peter woke up again to find himself in a cramped, dim little room. He saw a man in a red skintight suit with his back turned, organizing his gear.

His whole body still ached, but thanks to his exceptional Self-Healing, most of the wounds had already closed. The man turned his head and said, "Kid, you got lucky. They only slipped you some laxatives mixed with anesthetic—nothing stronger. Otherwise, you wouldn't be waking up now."

Spider-Man's mutated abilities didn't hit their peak the moment he got them; they required a series of training and stimulation. Later on, Spider-Man's strength, speed, and Self-Healing would all be dozens of times greater than Peter's current level.

And while Peter had possessed his powers for a while now, he'd only ever dealt with ordinary people. Since his abilities already far surpassed theirs, it never occurred to him to push himself further.

That was why his body hadn't yet reached the point of being fully immune to drugs. The underground boxing ring's boss had dosed him with a heavy load of laxatives, mixed with some anesthetics, and that was enough to take him down.

Peter said, "I remember you. You saved me, right?"

"You got lucky, kid. And it looks like you've got some abilities beyond the ordinary. Otherwise, you'd be dead by now."

Peter broke out in a cold sweat. You couldn't expect a high schooler to have much of a guard up against people. The neighborhood Peter lived in was simple and honest, the neighbors friendly, and Uncle Ben the same—always teaching by positive example. Peter had never seen the dark side of human nature. Shaken, he said, "I thought..."

Then he slammed his fist hard against the bed, his voice thick with anger: "I'm going back to teach that boss a lesson! He dared to drug me!"

"You don't seriously think there's a fair referee there, like at a world championship, do you?" Daredevil asked.

"Alright, I can see your injuries are mostly healed. Get out of here, kid. Hell's Kitchen isn't a place for you."

"I'm not some kid," Peter said. "I'm Spider-Man."

"You've got a long way to go," Daredevil said. Peter was about to argue when a walking stick whistled through the air and stopped right beside his neck.

And his Spider-Sense gave no reaction—or rather, didn't have time to react.

Cold sweat dripped down Peter's forehead. Daredevil's movements were so fast that even his superhuman vision couldn't track them.

What Matt had learned from Stick wasn't some half-baked martial arts. Though he was just an ordinary man, nearly every one of his stats had been pushed to the peak of human potential. Combined with his rigorously honed combat skills, he was actually a step ahead of the newly awakened Spider-Man.

Peter was nothing but a green rookie. He swallowed hard and said, "That move was awesome, man. I saw you use it to save me too."

He mimed a boxing stance, swaying side to side. Daredevil retracted his stick and said, "If you really want to be Spider-Man, you've got a lot to learn. If you're interested, you can come find me here."

Daredevil wasn't some soft-hearted do-gooder. In the Marvel world, he was a hero who acted decisively, even ruthlessly. He hadn't saved Peter purely out of sympathy—part of it was the memory of his father's death, and not wanting to see anyone else die that way in an underground ring.

But another part was that he was thinking of getting himself an assistant. That day he'd been stabbed and wounded during an assassination attempt had made him realize he couldn't split himself in two. He couldn't dodge his enemies' pursuit while also doling out justice. But with a helper, things would be much easier.

Spider-Man fit his expectations perfectly—strong abilities, high talent, but still raw and clueless.

And so, Peter started showing up at Daredevil's place every few days. He came to realize that while his strength was impressive, his technique was terrible, and he had almost no experience in dealing with people or situations. Otherwise, why would he have needed to earn money at an underground ring? With skills like his, money should have been easy to come by.

Driven by the desire to use his abilities to improve his life, and a young man's admiration for Daredevil's flashy martial arts, Peter quickly grew closer to him and learned what he was doing.

Though Peter respected him, he thought it was unnecessary. One man could only do so much. He couldn't kill every criminal in Hell's Kitchen. With that kind of persistence and drive, if he'd put it into something else, he'd have settled down, started a family, and lived a comfortable life by now.

But soon, as Spider-Man and Daredevil grew more familiar, Peter even spent several nights at Daredevil's hideout during his break. He saw Daredevil bandaging his own wounds countless times, and his attitude began to waver more and more.

Daredevil was truly just an ordinary man. He had no superhuman Self-Healing, and unfortunately, his sensitivity to pain was even higher than most people's. So every time he came back to his hideout to dress his wounds alone, Peter could see him nearly passing out from the agony. Yet the next day, he'd still go out to fight crime as usual.

Hell's Kitchen might not be as dangerous as Gotham, but trying to uphold justice there came with a huge risk of injury. Sometimes he'd get grazed by stray bullets during gang shootouts, sometimes he'd jump off several floors to escape pursuers, and sometimes he'd take a hit in close combat that left a massive bruise. Every time Peter saw those wounds, a complicated feeling welled up inside him.

He'd already come to see Matt as a friend in his heart. Of course he didn't want his friend to get hurt. But how could he talk Daredevil out of it?

Talk him out of pursuing justice? Out of fighting crime? But Peter was smart enough to realize that even these agonizing wounds couldn't stop Matt. How could a few light words from him possibly hold him back?

Finally, one day, Matt got shot in the calf by a ninja who was hunting him again. Peter helped him dig the bullet out. Peter had never seen a wound like that—the pungent, nauseating smell of blood made his head spin, and the torn muscle was so deep he could see bone. Peter's hands trembled with distress.

He wasn't yet the hardened, battle-tested hero Spider-Man would become. Any high schooler seeing a scene like that wouldn't have handled it any better.

As he worked to extract the bullet under Matt's guidance, a dry, raspy voice came from his throat. He said, "Why do you do this? Is it really worth it?"

"I thought you'd ask me that sooner."

Daredevil leaned against the wall, shifting his position. His voice trembled slightly from the pain. He said, "I can tell—your family situation might be average, but you had a loving elder, a fairly happy home. You've lived a stable life from start to finish..."

"School might have had its rough spots, but most of the time, you were safe. I can see you complain about being short on money, but you know what? You're already lucky enough..."

In the dim little room, Daredevil murmured like he was talking in his sleep, his words coming in fragments: "Actually, I'm lucky too. I was born in Hell's Kitchen, but my father wasn't some gambler or addict. He did his best to protect me, gave me a chance to leave this hellhole and study outside..."

"He was a great father. To support me and let me get out of here, he chose to become an underground boxer."

"Yeah, your fate was supposed to be the same as his. He refused to throw a match when I came to watch him fight, so the ring bosses had him killed."

Peter's emotional and physical distress was so overwhelming he barely noticed he was crying. Daredevil was already fading in and out of consciousness from the pain, but he kept muttering:

"You and I are both lucky. Some people aren't so lucky. Their mothers drank or did drugs while pregnant, so they were born with an addiction. Just to survive, they either work for gangs or take on even more dangerous, inhuman jobs. Because life is too painful, they keep drowning themselves in drugs and alcohol, and their children repeat the same cycle..."

"...That's Hell's Kitchen."

"Yeah... I'm lucky. I had the chance to leave, to get a higher education, to train in martial arts. Since I'm luckier than them, since I've been given more, since I have greater ability..."

"...Then what reason do I have not to do this?"

Daredevil often called Hell's Kitchen "this hellhole." Peter had heard him curse the people there countless times, wishing everyone in that damned place would rot in hell.

But for the first time, he realized that Daredevil genuinely wanted to save this place. He was truly driven by a firm resolve to drag Hell's Kitchen up from the abyss.

Peter couldn't imagine it. How could anyone, stuck in an environment like that, still think about saving it? It was impossible.

Yet Daredevil was determined to do it anyway.

Peter was silent. When he pulled the bullet out with his hands, Daredevil let out a scream like a dying man. Soon, pale-faced, he passed out.

Peter stood in the middle of the room, looking at the shabby space. There wasn't even any anesthetic or bandages to be found. Matt's wound could only be wrapped with strips of cloth torn from clothes.

A surge of anger rose in Peter—fiercer and deeper than any complaint he'd ever had about being broke. He felt that Matt shouldn't be in this situation. He was clearly steadfast, persistent, and full of resolve.

And he was a good man. Good people deserved good things.

Why did the bosses and shareholders of those underground boxing rings live so comfortably, and even the drunks who passed out in their seats could enjoy a good night's dreams?

Yet a good man like Daredevil could only endure immense pain, falling into a troubled sleep in this dim, cramped room.

With Peter's life experience, he still couldn't figure these questions out. These emotions churned in his chest.

He left Daredevil's hideout and ran through Hell's Kitchen in the dead of night.

Using his spider abilities, he leaped across rooftops, soaring through New York's night sky. In the distance, the neon lights of casinos and nightclubs blazed all night without rest. In contrast, the alleys sunk in darkness seemed as if dawn would never come, pitch black.