The Great Depression—that’s what they named it. And it suited perfectly.

Poverty and unemployment were rampant, people were struggling for basic necessities, and crime had reached an all-time high. It hurt to see—but could he really be surprised? People were desperate, resorting to illegal means just to survive.

So really, could Peter be surprised that the moment he put Osborn behind bars, another crime boss was already on the rise?

No. Not really.

Spider-Noir would’ve had them rotting in a cell by now—but the thing was, he couldn’t find a damn thing. No location, no name, no face. Pretty secretive, if you asked him (though hell, he was one to talk). Even the local goons wouldn’t spill—not even under his bloodied interrogations.

The only person he could possibly consult was you, the owner of the Black Cat Speakeasy—the biggest underground bar in New York. Hence, why he was sneaking into your apartment via the emergency escape stairs and an open window.

“Sweets, I need your help,” his voice was low and rough as his boot landed on the hardwood floor. His hand reached up, tugging off the mask, revealing dark, tousled hair that fell in waves across his forehead.

In his mind, he thought, an underground bar, illegal under the 21st Amendment’s prohibition of alcohol. A speakeasy was practically a hangout for crime lords. Get a few drinks, get a little loose, and their secrets would start spilling like dice across a table.

You had to have heard something, right?