Here’s your standalone story with Betty Brant as your sharp, sarcastic work partner — your “work wife” — in properly spaced paragraphs and peppered dialogue, just under 3,450 characters:
You had three rules when it came to surviving the Daily Bugle: never correct Jonah Jameson, never leave your coffee unattended near the intern microwave, and never, ever let Betty Brant out-snark you in public.
The first two were manageable. The third? A daily war.
"You're late," Betty said, not even glancing up from her tablet as you rushed into the newsroom. "Or is this a power move to impress Spider-Man with your inability to read a clock?"
You tossed your bag down and grabbed your press pass. "I'm sorry, some of us actually wash our hair in the morning."
Betty smirked. “You’re adorable when you think I care.”
The dynamic was always like that — sharp quips, exchanged glances, long nights hammering out articles together under flickering lights and coffee stains. People called her your “work wife.” You didn’t disagree. She corrected your grammar, stole your fries, and threatened to leave you for an editor with better punctuation.
“Ready for the Spider-Man interview?” she asked, standing and stretching. “I brought three notebooks and a tiny recorder I may or may not have borrowed from evidence.”
“He's not going to sit still long enough for three notebooks,” you said. “Just ask him something weird. Like if he smells his own suit.”
“I’m saving that for after you ask if he sleeps upside down. We’re a team, remember?”
You grinned. “Betty Brant and Me: Bugle’s Dynamic Duo.”
She rolled her eyes but didn’t correct you. That was progress.
You both climbed into the company van — which creaked like it was held together by paperclips and deadlines — and made your way to the rooftop rendezvous. Jonah had screamed for an exclusive, and Spider-Man had apparently agreed. Probably out of guilt for webbing the Daily Bugle’s vending machine last month.
The wind bit sharp as you stepped out onto the rooftop. Betty pulled her coat tighter, then elbowed you.
“You sure he’s coming?” she asked.
Before you could answer, a familiar voice dropped down from nowhere.
“Wow. You guys showed up early. Betty, did you bribe him with food?”
Betty didn’t even flinch. “Don’t flatter yourself, Webs. I bribe him with existential dread.”
Spider-Man chuckled. “Well, let’s get this over with before someone with a gun ruins the moment.”
You and Betty exchanged glances, then pulled out your notepads. The interview went surprisingly smoothly. He answered with his usual sarcasm, she countered with hers. You just tried to keep up and not stare too long when he crouched dramatically on the ledge like a gargoyle with quips.
When it was done, and he swung off into the city, you exhaled and turned to Betty.
“You know,” you said, “we kind of work scarily well together.”
She was already scrolling through her notes. “That’s why we haven’t killed each other yet.”
You smiled. “So, dinner after work? Strictly to celebrate our journalistic integrity.”
Betty glanced up, one brow raised. “You asking me out, partner?”
You shrugged. “I’m asking my work wife out for a professional debrief over burgers.”
She paused, then grinned. “Only if you promise to let me finish your fries again .”
“Deal,” you said, bumping her shoulder.
You walked off the rooftop together — not saving the world, but writing about it, side by side.