Chapter 27: Helping Fire Victims
As soon as I arrived, I immediately forced the balcony door open with my shoulder and a hard kick. The door burst open, releasing an even thicker wave of smoke.
On the third floor, the smoke was far heavier. My vision was limited to only a few meters ahead. The air felt like burning embers being forced into my lungs, making my chest burn every time I breathed.
“Someone! Is anyone here!” I shouted again, my voice almost drowned out by the roaring fire devouring everything it touched.
I kicked open every door inside the unit—bedroom, kitchen, bathroom—but they were all empty. The traces of life that might have once been warm had now turned into dark shadows behind the smoke. After finding no one, I smashed through the exit door and stepped into the main hallway of the third floor.
The heat was unbearable. Flames crawled along the walls like a living, greedy creature. Parts of the ceiling had collapsed, blocking sections of the path and forcing me to change direction. Thick smoke hung low in the air, making every breath feel heavy and painful.
“Hey! Anyone! Is there anyone here!” I shouted with all my strength.
For several seconds, only the crackling roar of the fire answered me.
Then—
“Help…”
The voice was incredibly weak, nearly swallowed by the raging flames and the sound of falling debris. Yet I heard it clearly. A desperate whisper coming from one of the units at the end of the hallway that was slowly filling with thick smoke.
Without wasting any time, I pushed through the debris blocking the way. Burned wood and broken pieces of the ceiling were scattered across the floor, some of them still glowing faintly and releasing thin trails of smoke.
My feet kicked aside pieces of wood that blocked the path while my arms brushed away fragments falling from above. The ceiling creaked ominously, as if it could collapse at any moment.
I burst through the door of that unit with a single powerful shove. The door swung violently and slammed against the inner wall. The smoke inside the room was even thicker, blurring my vision. I quickly checked every corner—the living room, the small kitchen that had partially burned, and the empty bathroom.
No one.
But I was certain. The voice was real.
I held my breath for a moment, forcing myself to focus despite the suffocating heat. Then, from the last room at the end, I heard a faint sob.
I stepped inside and yanked open the closet door.
There they were.
Two small children hiding inside, curled up while clutching each other tightly. Their bodies trembled. Their eyes were swollen and red, and their small faces were covered with soot. One of them—the smaller one—was silently sobbing, their shoulders shaking uncontrollably.
“We… we’re scared…” one of the children whispered weakly, their voice cracking.
I knelt slightly so I was at their eye level.
“You’re safe now,” I said firmly but quietly, making sure my voice didn’t sound panicked.
Without waiting any longer, I pulled them out. Their bodies felt light—too light for children their age. I carried both of them, one on each side, their arms wrapping tightly around my neck. The fire had begun spreading into the room, licking the doorframe and the remaining curtains. The sound of cracking wood grew more frequent.
We had to get out now.
The hallway had become even more unstable. A piece of the ceiling collapsed just a few steps behind me, sending small sparks flying as it struck the floor. The smoke grew thicker, making it harder to breathe. The children coughed softly on my shoulders.
I didn’t take any risks. As soon as I reached the balcony, I immediately jumped down without hesitation.
The evening wind swept the smoke away from our faces as our bodies dropped through the air. The children squeezed their eyes shut and held on even tighter.
Before we touched the ground, I fired another web to slow our fall. The strands expanded and caught our momentum, and then I landed firmly on the asphalt, which was already beginning to fill with drifting ashes.
The firefighters rushed over immediately. They carefully took the two children from my arms, wrapping them in emergency blankets before placing oxygen masks over their small faces. Their cries were now clearer—soft, trembling sobs that sounded more like relief than fear.
That was when two police officers hurried toward me, their expressions tense and demanding.
“Stop! Take off your mask!” one of them shouted.
I didn’t even wait for them to get close enough to grab me. With quick reflexes, I fired a web toward another building across the street and swung away from the burning apartment complex.
“Stop!” their voices faded behind me, swallowed by the wailing sirens and the chaos of the scene.
Why would I follow that order? I had just saved a few lives. My identity wasn’t the priority here. They had reports to write; I had other things to do.
At least the mission was complete.
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Some time later, after helping the victims trapped in the burning apartment building and receiving one Spider Robot as a reward, I obtained two additional missions.
Neither of them was particularly difficult—stopping a small robbery and assisting with an evacuation after a traffic accident. I completed both without much trouble.
The reward?
Two more Spider Robots.
Not bad. The little machines were quite useful for reconnaissance, slipping through narrow spaces, or providing quick tactical support. Still, receiving the same reward repeatedly felt a little monotonous.
At least give me something more interesting. Iron Spider armor, perhaps? Or some advanced combat technology. Don’t be so stingy, System.
“Hm?”
I stopped mid-swing between the buildings of Manhattan.
A sharp sound suddenly cut through the late afternoon air—the crack of gunfire.
The sky had begun to turn orange, sunlight reflecting off the glass windows of the tall buildings. But it wasn’t even night yet. There was already a shootout in Manhattan?
The gunshots rang out again, this time clearer and more rapid. Several cars honked their horns in panic in the distance. People on the sidewalks began running, searching for cover.
Alright.
I shifted the direction of my swing, my body spinning slightly in the air before shooting toward the source of the noise. If there was trouble, then something needed to be stopped.
And maybe a new mission was waiting there.
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When I arrived at the scene, I saw several people shooting at each other with pistols. The sharp cracks of gunfire echoed repeatedly, loud and piercing, bouncing between the walls of the old buildings lining the narrow street.
Each shot cut clearly through the cooling evening air, mixed with the sound of bullets striking metal, glass, and the worn walls that had clearly not been maintained for years.
It was already late afternoon. The sun was almost setting behind the rows of tall buildings in Manhattan, leaving a dim orange glow stretching across the street.
The shadows of the buildings stretched long over the cracked and dirty asphalt. Even so, the sky had not yet turned dark. The fading light of dusk was still bright enough to clearly see what was happening down there.
This should have been the time when people were leaving work, walking casually along the sidewalks, or stopping by a small shop before heading home.
So how could these people be shooting at each other in the open as if they weren’t afraid the police would show up?
I thought about that while observing them from the rooftop of a nearby building not far from the shootout. From this height, the entire narrow street was clearly visible.
The evening wind blew gently across the rooftop, tugging at the edge of my clothes and carrying various sounds from below—hurried footsteps, shards of glass falling onto the asphalt, and the continuous cracks of pistols firing back and forth.
Sometimes angry shouts could be heard. At other times, rough curses were thrown between the two groups.
Now that I thought about it, this place did feel rather deserted. The street was narrow, squeezed between old buildings whose walls were covered with dark stains and peeling paint.
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