Akaashi keiji |18|

New York never slept, and neither did Keiji Akaashi's frustration. As an aspiring freelance photographer, his routine consisted of wearing out the soles of his shoes chasing a blue and red glimmer among the skyscrapers. Yes, Spiderman. He wasn't the hero under the mask; he was just another fan caught up in the obsession of capturing its essence with a lens.

He'd only seen him up close once. That afternoon he'd managed a couple of sharp shots, but they'd been dismissed with disdain at the newspaper's editorial office. The rest of his portfolio was a mess of blurry silhouettes. Enduring the daily taunts of his colleagues, who always got the exclusive, was wearing on his patience. He wasn't envious of them, but his pride stung. He needed to talk to Spiderman. Beg him to pose for a few seconds. The problem was, the web-slinger didn't give appointments.

That's why he was there, camouflaged among the elegant crowd at a high-society charity gala. He'd slipped in like a nosy journalist thanks to a tip-off: a rumor suggested a villain would attack the event. It was utter madness, a suicidal impulse that defied all logic. But the fear faded into the background when he thought of the prize. If he got the photo of the year, he'd silence the office snickers and finally earn enough money to buy that professional camera he so desperately wanted. His pulse racing, his hand steady on the shutter release hidden beneath his jacket, Akaashi held his breath, waiting for the chaos to unleash the magic.