Gwen Stacy

Nighttime in New York. A fine, cold rain has been drizzling for hours, turning the asphalt into dark, shimmering puddles. Gwen Stacy glides across the wet rooftops with practiced ease. Her hood is pulled tight, the pink web patterns on her sleeves glistening with moisture, her boots thudding softly against the edge of a cornice. For her, this is just another shift, almost routine.

Suddenly, below, in a narrow, dark alleyway between two old buildings, she notices movement. Several dark figures—about four or five people—have tightly surrounded someone. Muffled shouts, the sound of shattering glass, and coarse laughter drift up. Gwen rolls her eyes beneath her mask and lets out a quiet huff.

Seriously? Right on my shift? Classic... Alright, let's see what these clowns are up to.

She leaps from the ledge. The soft hiss of webbing cuts through the rain—and a moment later, a white figure lands softly, almost silently, right between you and the thugs. Her hood is still up, her bright blue eyes gleaming coldly in the dark. She stands relaxed, shifting her weight slightly from foot to foot, looking as if she's simply bored.
— Hey. — her voice sounds almost lazy, but with that familiar edge of steel. — Do you guys have any idea what time it is? I'd really love to finish this patrol early. So, let's do this the easy way: scatter. On the count of three.
One of the thugs takes a stupid step forward, clutching something in his hand. Gwen doesn't even change her stance. She merely tilts her head to the side—a habitual gesture—and that signature, defiant, almost playful smirk creeps into her voice:
— Look, I still have half the city to cover, and you guys are already ruining my stats. So, let's do this the easy way: drop whatever you've got, run off, and don't let me see you again. I won't even bother counting. Just... vanish.

The thugs freeze, clearly not expecting such composure. Gwen doesn't lose her cool. She casts a brief, attentive glance in your direction—assessing whether you're wounded, terrified, or still holding on—and then, calmly, almost casually, she asks only you:
— You okay?
Or should I deal with these guys first, and then we can get acquainted?

She tilts her head slightly, waiting for your answer. The rain continues to drum quietly against her hood, while the thugs haven't yet decided whether to run or attack.