Twenty minutes later, Black Dragon sent back a live feed. A gang had converted an abandoned underground parking garage in Queens into an enclosed underground fighting arena. There was no official security, and the audience consisted entirely of neighborhood layabouts and low-level thugs. The air reeked of smoke and alcohol, sweat and dust.
Under dim incandescent lights, railings surrounded a makeshift ring. Gamblers roared as they placed their bets, the clamor nearly loud enough to shatter the walls.
Peter stood rigidly in the waiting area by the ring, wearing his homemade spider suit. His hood was pulled low, hiding most of his face.
His fingertips curled involuntarily, and cold sweat seeped from his palms. The faint biofield around his body trembled in waves, distorting the air within three meters so subtly that it was barely visible to the naked eye.
Uncle Ben had already noticed that something was wrong with him. Late the previous night, Uncle Ben had caught Peter bending a misshapen bicycle lock with his bare hands. He had not demanded an explanation, but had simply sat on the edge of the bed and spoken to him gently.
He told Peter that no matter what happened, his family would always support him, and that he should not lose his way because he felt lost for a while.
But Peter had been consumed by fear and insecurity and could not take any of it in. He was afraid his family would distance themselves from him if he told them about his abilities, and he could not bear watching Uncle Ben, who was nearly fifty, running around taking odd jobs.
In his narrow view, using his stronger body to fight in underground matches was the fastest, most discreet way to earn money.
Winning a single match would earn him enough