Ultra Responsibility (My Hero Academia X Spider-Man Reader)

Issue 92 - Penny and Dime

The dock lay under a sheet of mist and sodium-orange light, the kind that turned everything ugly and gold at the same time.

A cluster of men waited near the water's edge, boots on wet wood, collars up against the cold. Some smoked. Some leaned against crates. One laughed too loudly at a joke that was not all that funny, mostly because nights like this made people nervous and nerves needed somewhere to go.

"The country's going to hell," one of them muttered, exhaling a stream of smoke into the fog.

Another snorted. "All the better for us."

That got a few grins.

Out on the black water, a fishing boat finally cut through the haze and drifted toward the dock. Its engine coughed once before settling into a low idle. Men on board began hauling crates over, the smell of fish hitting the air hard enough to wrinkle noses.

One of the dockside dealers pried open a lid, looked past the layer of frozen catch, and smiled when he saw the packets hidden beneath.

"There she is," he said. "Enough to flood half the ward."

A fisherman climbed down from the boat, wiping his hands on his jacket. "Told you we'd get it through."

"You told us a lot of things," someone answered. "This is the first useful one."

A round of low chuckles followed.

Another crate was set down.

Then another.

The main ringleader stood a little apart from the rest, thick coat open, cigarette hanging loose between two fingers. He watched the transfer with the calm of a man trying very hard to look like he controlled the night. His gaze kept drifting toward the road behind them.

"It all depends on the buyer," he said at last, flicking ash onto the dock boards.

As if summoned by the words, headlights appeared through the fog.

A white van rolled slowly into view, tires crunching over gravel before coming to a stop just beyond the light spill of the dock lamps.

The ringleader smirked and spread his arms wide.

"Speak of the devil," he called. "Now we're about to have a party."

The men around him turned, some straightening their jackets, others already reaching for the crates.

Then the van's fog lights snapped on.

Too bright.

Too sudden.

The dealers flinched, throwing hands over their faces.

"What the hell is that guy's problem?" one of them hissed.

The ringleader squinted into the glare.

His expression changed instantly.

The smirk fell away. His eyes widened. His whole body took one step back before his brain even caught up.

"That ain't the buyer," he whispered.

Then louder, raw with fear:

"Fuck, it's him!"

He turned and bolted.

The van roared forward.

Gunfire erupted at the same moment.

Two of the dealers were knocked off their feet as the vehicle tore through the middle of the dockside crowd, sending crates of fish and hidden product skidding across the planks. Men shouted, scrambled, fired wildly into the windshield. Bullets sparked off metal and glass, but the van kept coming like it had only one purpose and mercy was not part of it.