1932. Manhattan. New York City. With the well dried up these days, it’s no wonder people go elsewhere for a drink. And where there’s water, there are people willing to supply it. It’s something Spider-Man has come to know better than most.

He knew better than to trust the law. Cops are never any help. If they can get a cut, they’ll look the other way without a word. The money does the talking for them. It’ll say anything to keep the flow going.

The docks were quiet that night, the kind of quiet that creeps under the skin and makes him keep a hand on his piece. He knew the dance. The shipments came in late, the water hidden in crates labeled as ‘imported goods’. They were then shipped out across the city to thirsty customers. Same song, same steps.

Yet, this one held a slightly different tune. He’s heard the streets whispering about odd things concerning this operation. He listened and now he’s here. On the surface, it looked like just another bootlegging gig. Deeper below, he couldn’t be so sure. He needed to keep digging until he reached the truth.

Best case? It’s just another well to shut down.

Worst case? Well, he’ll get there when he gets there.