Chen Mo took the glass.
The man's arm was still braced on the bar behind him, his tall frame blocking him off from most of the surrounding crowd.
The scent of cologne was faint.
There was no smell of alcohol.
His breathing was even, his hand steady.
By the time Chen Mo finished assessing this unfamiliar hulk's threat level in his head, his wrist had already begun turning outward with the motion of accepting the drink.
The glass would pass by his lips.
The liquor would pour into the ice bucket beneath the bar.
Then he would sway a couple of times, pretending the drug had kicked in, and take the opportunity to see where this man planned to take him.
Practiced.
Experienced.
Spider-Man had had his drinks spiked plenty of times over the years.
All right, no, he hadn't.
That seemingly experienced internal monologue above came entirely from various works of fiction.
With Spider-Man's schedule of working an average of three jobs by day and moonlighting as a vigilante at night, how could he possibly have time to go clubbing...
"Good night after you finish sorting the photos? Is this how you sleep?"
A familiar voice came from above his head.
Chen Mo's hand shook.
The entire half glass of liquor spilled into the ice bucket.
He whipped his head around.
Bruce was looking down at him.
They were so close that Chen Mo nearly hit his chin.
"Holy shit!"
Spider-Sense, could you be a little more reliable? Aren't you taking a crisis of this magnitude a little too lightly?
Here, cut to a chibi comic, freeze time, and enter Chen Mo's brain.
Spider-Sense, which had been almost constantly busy taking calls from every direction, slammed its telephone onto the floor.
After a brief pause, it picked the phone