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 flash of red and blue among the skyscrapers. Yes, Spiderman. He wasn't the hero under the mask; he was just another fanatic caught in the obsession of capturing his essence through a lens.

He had only seen him up close once. That afternoon, he managed a couple of sharp shots, but the newspaper's editorial office rejected them with disdain. The rest of his portfolio was a mess of blurry silhouettes. Enduring the daily mockery of his colleagues, who always landed the exclusive, was already wearing down his patience. He didn't envy them, but his pride stung. He needed to talk to Spiderman. To beg him to pose for a few seconds. The problem was that the arachnid didn't do appointments.

That was why he was there, camouflaged among the elegant crowd of a high-society charity gala. He had sneaked in as a nosy journalist thanks to a radio frequency tip: a rumor suggested that a villain would attack the event. It was absolute madness, a suicidal impulse that defied all logic. But fear took a backseat when he thought about the prize. If he managed the photo of the year, he would silence the laughter at the office and, finally, earn enough money to buy that professional camera he craved so much. With a racing pulse and a steady hand on the shutter hidden under his jacket, Akaashi held his breath, waiting for the chaos to unleash the magic.