"Fack!"
Jeff's voice cracked in panic as he pointed at the "human skin" stirring slowly inside the bathtub. "George! Look at that freakish thing!"
Hearing his partner, George looked toward the bathtub.
The human skin, twisting and shifting abruptly, seemed pushed by some unseen force as it slid toward the bottom of the tub.
Even George was stunned by the bizarre sight!
Yet maintaining his composure, he drew his pistol and aimed it at the sliding mass of skin.
The next second, a small spider crawled out from the mouth of the skin.
Clearly, the spider was what had made the skin move just now.
"Shit!"
Realizing it was a false alarm, Jeff cursed under his breath.
Holstering his gun, he said to George, "I'll check the other rooms. What the hell, damn spiders!"
After Jeff left, George began inspecting the bathroom for any other clues.
Having checked the cabinet and the sink, he bent down to examine the bathtub, and finally, beneath the drain plug, he spotted a somewhat familiar badge.
It was a light red badge, decorated with symbols like a sun, a book, and a cross.
George frowned as he looked at it, remembering he had seemingly seen one just like it belonging to his daughter, Gwen.
This must be a Midtown High School crest.
Only a few days ago, Gwen had mentioned losing her school badge.
Was this left behind by the killer, or simply something belonging to the victim?
George fell into deep thought.
A few minutes later, Jeff walked back into the bathroom, holding a framed photograph of a man and a woman.
"HQ just radioed. The homeowners are a couple—the guy's Dan, and the woman's Muriel."
Pointing at the skin in the tub, Jeff told George, "The one lying in here should be Muriel, the wife."
Glancing at the badge in his hand, George asked his partner, "Did they have kids? High school age, or college?"
"Probably not. Why ask?"
"Nothing."
George shook his head, let out a breath, and walked out of the nauseatingly foul bathroom.
A spider crawling out of human skin—what did that mean?
Was the Midtown High School badge in his hand really left behind by the killer?
If the badge belonged to the killer, did that mean the murderer was connected to Midtown High School?
His brows knitted tight as he fell into deep contemplation.
Outside the window, the rain grew heavier.
After a long moment, he raised his gaze to look out at the rain.
***
Two blocks away from where George stood, Peter, a student at Midtown High School, walked through the rain-soaked streets and stared at the slums before him.
Hell's Kitchen.
It was a notorious slum across America, teeming with countless criminals and gang members, and a breeding ground for every kind of vice.
To minimize unnecessary trouble, Peter had chosen this place as his target for tonight.
Wading through the puddles, he stopped outside a laundromat and looked up at the darkening, rain-heavy sky.
The ash-gray sky showed not a single ray of light.
The curbside dumpsters were overflowing with garbage, uncollected for days, exuding a faint, sour stench.
Peter tilted his head back, peeling away the black mask to reveal his true face.
He stuck out his tongue to taste the rain.
Acid rain!
A familiar taste.
The exact same taste as the black rain he had endured back in Manhattan.
Shaking his head, Peter stepped inside the laundromat.
Ten minutes later.
Peter walked out of the shop carrying a brown bag.
He glanced back. The laundromat door stood open, revealing chaos inside.
Over a dozen men, dressed as laundromat employees, lay unconscious on the floor, unmoving.
Yet despite their uniforms, they were no laundry workers.
They were gang members hiding behind a "laundromat" front.
American gangs using laundromats for money laundering was a long-standing tradition.
It could be traced all the way back to the 1920s and the Italian mafia in Chicago.
When tallying their daily earnings, these mobsters would bundle their illegal profits from gambling and smuggling into the legitimate business receipts before reporting to the tax authorities, turning dirty money clean.
This was the origin of the term "money laundering."
Having lived in the world of Prototype for over a decade in his past life, Peter was well-versed in such gang operations.
After scouting Hell's Kitchen, he had quickly identified this laundromat as a gang money-laundering front operating under the guise of a laundry business.
So he had walked right in without hesitation, asked these men to hand over the cash, and taught them the consequences of non-cooperation.
"Clang!"
Behind him, the front door was violently shoved open.
A bruised and bloodied thug stumbled out, raising a pistol and aiming it straight at Peter.
His hand trembled from sheer nervousness.
Peter's brutal violence moments earlier had left a deep psychological scar.
His movements had been as untamable as lightning, every strike sending a gang member howling to the floor.
Before anyone could even pull a trigger, their handguns were knocked flying by black matter shot from his hands.
Radiating murder intent, that bizarre mask had struck terror into their hearts.
The guns that once gave them a sense of security offered none at all now.
The only reason he had mustered the courage to run out and point his gun at the demon before him was because he knew how formidable his boss was.
After reporting to the boss, he had been ordered to stall the target until the mutants he dispatched arrived, leaving the thug no choice.
"D-Don't move!"
The thug's voice trembled slightly as he spoke to Peter's back.
"If I were you, I'd lie face down and play dead."
Crawling black tendrils flowed back over Peter's face, forming the "Spider Mask."
He turned around, his hoarse voice echoing from beneath the black mask.
"Put the money down. You have no idea whose stuff you're messing with."
The gang member swallowed hard and glared at Peter.
"Oh? I had no intention of knowing, but now you've piqued my interest."
Peter dropped the bag he was holding to the ground and said flatly, "Tell me, whose turf is this?!"
"Kingpin!"
The gang member blurted out the name that filled him with dread.
"Kingpin... is it?"
Hearing the name, Peter repeated it under his breath.
Of course he had heard of the underground emperor of New York.
Mistaking the bizarrely masked man's repetition for fear, the gangster prepared to press his advantage.
Suddenly, a streak of black lightning surged toward him!
*Bang!*
Before he could react, his throat was grabbed in an iron grip.
A suffocating, agonizing pain struck him instantly, and his vision went black.
"Too bad that name doesn't sway me!"
*Whoosh!*
A strand of black webbing instantly pierced the man's heart.
*Thud!*
The thug's body crashed heavily to the ground, splashing the rainwater.
Picking up the damp bag from the ground, Peter walked back into the curtain of rain without changing expression.
His hyper-activated cells coated his body, forming a thin, scale-like layer that repelled the rainwater, saving him from getting drenched.
Just as he was about to leave, the phone in his pocket suddenly rang.