Both start in hell: but their talents are multiplied a hundredfold.

Spider-Man didn't answer immediately. Instead, he released one hand, flipped in the air like a gymnast, and landed lightly on the sidewalk three steps in front of Shen Jue.

After he stood up straight, he twisted his neck left and right, making two soft cracking sounds from his joints. He looked more like a high school student who had just finished school than a superhero.

"Know him? Of course I know him." Spider-Man raised a hand, palm facing outward, as if to emphasize his words.

"A friend of mine really enjoys your TV shows."

Shen Jue slowly wiped her blood-stained hands on the inside of her long black coat, then looked at them again, as if to check if there were any remaining traces.

"Your friend?" Shen Jue chuckled softly. "Kid, I'm honored that I'm well-known enough in New York."

"New York? Please, you're well-known all over the country." Spider-Man shrugged, then suddenly seemed to remember something, leaning forward slightly and lowering his voice.

"So what exactly happened just now? I heard gunshots, at least dozens of them, very frequent."

Shen Jue followed his gaze and looked back at the luxurious apartment building. Most of the windows were dark, with only a few still lit by dim lights.

He smiled and turned back.

"The guests came late at night and brought some rather unfriendly gifts. But they were just lost lambs, and I've already sent them home," Shen Jue said casually.

"As for the gunshots, they were probably just setting off a string of firecrackers to celebrate the New York night sky."

"Firecrackers?" Spider-Man tilted his head suspiciously. "That string of firecrackers sounds like a Glock 18 fully automatic, with an extended magazine."

"You're very familiar with gunshots, kid."

"Professional requirement." Spider-Man shrugged.

"I often get pointed at by these things, and occasionally I get shot. So now when I hear 'rat-a-tat-tat,' I know I should remind myself not to be late for home."

Shen Jue laughed out loud.

"Father Shen Jue, if you need help, don't keep it to yourself." Spider-Man raised a hand and said, "The gangsters in New York City aren't like the audience on TV shows; they won't change their ways just because you speak nicely."

"They'll just want to punch a hole in your head because you talk too much."

"I'll remember your reminder," Shen Jue said. "But please don't worry, I can handle it for now."

"I will try to guide lost children back to the right path."

Shen Jue's serious expression touched Spider-Man.

He looked into Shen Jue's eyes, his tone becoming serious: "Yes."

"With great power comes great responsibility."

"You are a priest, urging people to do good."

"I also want to stop those bad guys from doing bad things in New York."

After Spider-Man finished speaking, before Shen Jue could respond, he flicked his wrist, and a silver-white spider web had already stuck to the fire escape of the building opposite.

He swung out like a pendulum, gliding through the air where neon lights and night intertwined, and disappeared into the buildings in the blink of an eye.

All that remained were a few words carried away by the wind: "May the Lord bless New York, and may He bless you, Father!"

Shen Jue watched him leave until his red and blue figure was completely swallowed up by the lights of Manhattan.

He remained standing in the same spot, not in a hurry to leave. Instead, he slowly walked to a bench on the side of the street and sat down.

The iron armrests of the bench were cold and covered with night dew, but he leaned against them without a care, as if enjoying this short, quiet moment.

The night wind blew in from the direction of the Hudson River, carrying moisture and a faint fishy smell of garbage.

Shen Jue gently closed his eyes, as if listening to something.

In his perception, the world is not composed of sounds and images, but rather like a net woven from countless fine threads.

Every thread was trembling, and every fluctuation represented human emotions and actions.

At that moment, the three gang members were running wildly a few blocks away.

They walked through the alley, knocked over two trash cans, and finally squeezed through the back door of a 24-hour auto repair shop.

The repair shop was located downstairs from an underground gambling den, where the air reeked of cheap cigars and engine oil.

A middle-aged man in a floral shirt was sitting in the innermost office, counting money while biting an unlit cigar with his teeth.

When the three gang members rushed in, he didn't even look up, only glancing at them out of the corner of his eye.

"Are you fucking being chased by ghosts?"

The bald, burly man lunged at the table, bracing himself on the edge with both hands, panting heavily.

The dog and cat heads he had been holding had fallen off sometime during the day, leaving only a dark red bloodstain on the front of his clothes, as if he had just participated in a terrible massacre.

"Boss, we've run into a mutant." The bald, burly man said in a low voice, his throat dry and cracked from running.

"That Mormon priest, Shen Jue. He can squeeze a gun like an iron ball with one hand; bullets can't hit him at all!"

He also said...

"What did you say?" The man in the floral shirt put down the banknotes, finally stopping chewing the cigar in his mouth.

He said he wanted to personally visit Kingpin so that the world could be filled with love and peace.

The office was quiet for a few seconds, the ceiling fan slowly turning overhead, making a creaking sound.

The man in the floral shirt slowly stood up, his expression changing from contempt to solemnity, and then from solemnity to fear.

He grabbed an old-fashioned flip phone from the corner of the table and dialed an encrypted number with trembling fingers.

After the call connected, he only said one sentence: "Something has happened, I need to see Mr. Kingpin."

An hour later.

The top floor of a building in New York City that ostensibly sells imported furniture but is actually heavily guarded.

The ceiling of this floor has been almost entirely transformed into huge floor-to-ceiling windows, offering panoramic views of Manhattan.

The city lights outside the window resembled a luminous viscera, winding through the darkness.

The interior furnishings, however, are extremely restrained, with dark walnut wood floors, a few pieces of Italian handmade furniture, and an abstract painting hanging in the most conspicuous position.

There was no smell of smoke in the air, only the cool fragrance of cedar and sandalwood.

Kingpin sat behind that specially made giant desk.

His physique was like a small mountain range, and even when he was sitting, his impeccably tailored white suit could not hide his bulging muscles.

That wasn't a product of a gym, but a body forged from countless years of street fights, prison brawls, and power struggles.

He placed his hands on the table, his fingers as thick as an average person's wrist, with old scars on his knuckles, but no rings.

He didn't look like an ordinary gang leader; he looked more like a monarch who had completely privatized violence.

At the other end of the office, near the floor-to-ceiling window, a person was lounging idly in a single sofa, with their feet propped up on the coffee table.

That's Bullseye, a mutant under Kingpin's command.

He was wearing a black, tight-fitting tactical uniform, bald, and had a thin, old scar on his forehead.

Bullseye is lean and wiry, not exaggeratedly so, but his fingers are thin and long, with calluses covering his fingertips.

At this moment, he was tossing a pure steel dinner knife into the air one stroke at a time, and then catching it steadily, his movements as precise as a mechanical metronome.

Each time the blade fell, it stopped precisely between his fingers without scratching his skin.

As a mutant, Bullseye has a special throwing ability.

He can throw any object in his hand at a target with incredible precision, including tearing a person's throat with a playing card and spitting out teeth to pierce an enemy's skull.

He threw a toothpick into a window hundreds of meters away and killed a person.

This made Bullseye Kingpin's chief assassin and security personnel.