Miles deposited his backpack of supplies on a Manhattan rooftop a few blocks away, webbing it to a vent. As he looked back at it, one foot stepping up onto the railing and preparing to swing away, some gut feeling told him it would be a while before he came back for it.

Nerves . It was just nerves, he tried to tell himself. Cracking his neck side to side, he stepped off the edge and swung towards his destination. He enjoyed the afternoon sun that warmed his body, letting himself swing just that little bit slower on the way.

When he got into Times Square, he quickly found the designated spot. Barricades had been set up from the Red Steps to 46th Street with police officers standing intermittently along the barriers to keep the growing crowd of people at bay.

A few people spotted him, excitedly pointing, and a cheer went up. His cheeks went warm, grateful for the mask that kept his expression hidden. He really didn't want a crowd, but the chance to meet the surviving spider-themed hero had enticed many.

That was the point, he supposed. Draw him out of his element and make him face a villain in a public setting.

He dropped down to the ground in a roll, springing up to his feet in the same movement. He looked around for a moment, trying to decide what to do while he waited for Kravinoff. Then he spotted a familiar police officer - the one he had hauled out of the way of the car.

"Uh, hi," he started, casually approaching him.

"Spider-Man," he greeted, tipping his hat at him.

Miles gestured broadly to the scene. "I wasn't expecting this. Look, I'm sorry for all this, really, I would rather it be anywhere else."

The officer only gave him an amused smile. "You're fine. Normally we have to set up barricades in a rush, this is a nice change of pace."

"Right, yep." He couldn't stop himself from wringing his fingers together. "Just, you know, thank you."

"Anytime. Good luck, Spider-Man."

He began to turn around to go to a better spot when he heard a "Spider-Man! Spider-Man! How true are the rumors that you were involved in the facility full of super-powered children! Spider-Man!"

He took a deep breath, looking up to see an obnoxiously big camera on the shoulder of a bulky man and a petite journalist with a microphone in her hand leaning over the barrier. Was it a good idea to talk to them? Probably not. Did he have to at least get his own story out there? Yes.

Reluctantly he approached the barrier. "I have been involved in trying to take them down, yeah," he evasively answered.

"And is this fight linked to that?" she asked, pushing the microphone closer to his face.

He shrugged. "At this stage, I don't know. I had never even heard of him before Sunday."

"Does he really know your secret identity?"

He couldn't help but nervously rub the back of his neck. "He might. I hope he doesn't. Um, anyway, I'm going to go. Please keep well away from the fight!" He unceremoniously turned and walked away, feeling the weight of hundreds of eyes, if not thousands, watching him go.

He kept an even pace, despite wanting to jog out some of his nerves. Instead, he climbed up to the top of the Red Stairs and sat on top of the railings.

Swinging his legs back and forth, he kept an eye on the crowd that excitedly waited for the fight. He felt like a wrestler in a WWE show, surrounded by adoring fans that were ready for a good match. Except he was an unwilling participant.

He didn't have to wait too much longer before Kravinoff jumped down from one of the buildings. He wore a jacket with a lion pattern on it, the mane represented in the fluffy collar. Shiny metal guards on his wrists glinted in the dying sunlight, reminding him of a cheap knock-off Wonder Woman toy.

"So the contender turned up!" he greeted loudly, gesturing towards him.

Miles couldn't help but roll his eyes. "Yeah, Kravinoff, you literally threatened my family."

Kravinoff cracked a toothy, confident grin. "I had always wanted to face your predecessor, Peter Parker, but now, now I get to face you , Miles Morales."

It felt like the world tilted under him, mercilessly dropping him into his worst fear.

His name had been uttered to a crowd - to a recording, filming crowd. Does he deny it? Does he refuse to acknowledge it? He didn't know what to do - and that was the point. He knew immediately that Kravinoff had broken the agreement just to garner another advantage.

"I- I don't know who that is," he tried to deny. The eyes of New York were bearing down on him, and he was buckling. "Besides!" He tried to recover, straightening his back. "The deal was that if I turned up, you wouldn't reveal my secret identity! Why did you throw that random kid under the bus like that?"

Kravinoff's grin widened. "We shall see. It won't matter in the end - your head will still be displayed on my wall."

"You're insane," is the only thing he could think to say, too out of his element to even be angry.

Superhumanly fast, Kravinoff darted across the gap between them, going for his throat. Miles jumped out of the way, diving off the Red Steps and landing with a roll.

Okay, head in the game . He needed to take Kravinoff down as fast as possible and prevent as much damage as he could. Simple, right?

Kravinoff vaulted over the railing, pulling a knife from his belt. He could see his reflection in it, and somehow he felt even smaller looking at it. "Look, can't we just discuss this over coffee like civilized adults?" Miles tried, backing away and moving closer to the middle of the clearing.

Kravinoff darted towards him, going for his head. Miles ducked down, webbing his foot at the same moment. It only slowed him down, as the knife slashed through the bindings. New goal: get rid of that knife.

He thwipped a web, grabbing the blade by its edge. He yanked, and quickly realized his mistake. Kravinoff grabbed the web with his other hand, twisting it around his arm and pulled Miles off balance and towards him.

He ducked beneath the blade that was aimed at his face - but still got a nasty slash to the forehead. Arching his back, planting his hands on the ground, he kicked up as hard as he could. It earned him a solid 'crack' as he got Kravinoff in the chin.

Flipping back to a safe distance, he crouched low and felt at his forehead. Warm blood trickled from the cut and down to the lens of an eye. He wiped it away. Glancing up to check on Kravinoff, Miles barely suppressed his frustration that he barely looked fazed by the brief squirmish. He was rubbing at his jaw, though.

Miles couldn't help but look over at the gathered crowd. So many phones, so many cameras obscuring their faces, and a wave of irrational anger swept through him. All he seemed to be was entertainment these days.

"What is this really?" he demanded, hands curling into fists. "Because I don't believe you. You can't seriously want all this just for my head ."

Kravinoff adjusted his grip on the knife, a flicker of something in his eyes. A shrill alarm went off, distracting Miles in his brief search for the sound. The moment of inattention was all Kravinoff needed.

From one moment to the next, he grabbed Miles by the throat, but instead of squeezing or stabbing him, he threw him across the clearing and into a nearby shop. He crashed through the glass, rolling uncontrollably before slamming into some shelving.

Plush toys fell onto him as he anchored himself on one elbow. He didn't have time to assess his body before Kravinoff was coming at him. He rolled onto his back just as Kravinoff stabbed the knife down, barely avoiding it. He rolled out of the way of the next stab, grabbing Kravinoff's wrist and pulling him down.

Kravinoff stumbled and Miles grabbed the knife's handle, trying to wrench it out of his hand, but he recovered quicker than anticipated.

Using Miles's momentum against him, he aimed the knife's tip downwards and let Miles pull it towards himself. The knife embedded itself in his right shoulder and was pushed further in when Kravinoff planted his knee into Miles's stomach.

He gasped out as the air was driven out of him, then clenched his teeth as the burning pain swept through him.

"You're correct, Miles," Kravinoff gloated, finally answering his question. "I don't need your head. That's only a bonus. I'm a distraction ."

He heard three gunshots echo through the square, followed by terrified screaming. Miles didn't dare look away from Kravinoff. "For who?"

"OWL."

Miles let go of the hilt with one hand, instead grabbing Kravinoff's wrist and venom striking him. His whole body tensed and Miles used the moment of weakness to grab him by his jacket. Pulling him off balance, he got a leg up and kicked him squarely in the stomach. Kravinoff sailed across the room, crashing into the wall.

He stumbled to his feet, grabbed the knife with his left hand and choked through a scream as he ripped it out of himself. He broke the hilt off quickly before bending the metal and throwing both pieces deeper into the store, rendering it unusable.

It was all he had time for before Kravinoff was in his face again and he was forced to block punch after punch. Each block jarred him and sent agonizing pain through his shoulder. It culminated in a punch to the jaw that Miles was too slow to avoid.

He hit the ground as more gunshots sounded nearby. He didn't let himself recover. With screaming muscles, he got his hands on the ground behind his head and pushed himself off the ground and onto his feet.

Blinking stars out of his eyes, he knew he had to finish this.

Gritting his teeth against the pain, he stepped into his next move and punched Kravinoff in the stomach. The punch was so strong that he sailed across the room and crashed into the next-door jewelry store.

He jumped in after Kravinoff, webbing his arms and legs to the floor before he could get up. He stood above his foe, who wriggled but couldn't escape, and knew he had won the fight. It didn't feel very satisfying.

Keeping a wary eye on Kravinoff, he looked into one of the mirrors in the jewelry store and webbed the wound on his forehead, then his shoulder. He gave himself a once over, growing even more grateful for the new and improved Spider-Man suit as he realized how much it had protected him. There was no glass embedded in him, having sliced the outermost layer of the suit but no deeper. One less wound to worry about.

Assured that he was okay, he walked over to Kravinoff and grabbed him by the legs. He ripped him out of the temporary webbing before rapidly wrapping him in a thick layer until he was just a wriggling, protesting cocoon. He grabbed him by the back of his jacket and began lugging him outside.

Outside was carnage. The crowd was gone - including the police. The barriers had been knocked to the ground, complemented by scattered items left behind in the carnage. He couldn't see anyone with guns, but he could hear gunfire in the distance.

"What's happening?" Miles demanded, his grip on Kravinoff's jacket tightening.

Kravinoff laughed, looking at him like he was an idiot. "Isn't it obvious? Owl is becoming the new Kingpin of New York! He knew you would try to stop him and paid me big money to try and kill you, or, at least slow you down."

Miles dropped his hold on him, letting him unceremoniously fall to the ground. He stood over him, hands clenched into fists. "How do I stop this?"

"You can't! It's too late. Owl will be the new kingpin by morning."

His eyes darted around the square as he tried to think of a plan. How could he stop an all-out gang war? He wasn't a one-man army. The best he could do was cut the problem off at the head. "What's his address?" he demanded, grabbing Kraven by the collar and raising a fist.

Kraven grinned, all teeth, not scared in the slightest. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up, an instinctive sense of dread falling over him as he got the address without a fight. It couldn't be this easy.

He slung Kravinoff over his shoulder and marched them to the police station a few hundred feet away. He dropped him at the entrance, securing him with another layer of webbing, before turning his back to go to his next fight.

"Good luck little spider," Kravinoff taunted. Miles paused, stopping to look back at Kravinoff. The enemy that had revealed his identity to the world for no real reason, except to distract him. It hadn't been revealed by dying, like Peter, but because months ago he had messed up on a patrol and been kidnapped.

He took a deep breath, knowing nothing he could say would be adequate to summarize the myriad of emotions welling inside of him. But his identity didn't matter right now. What mattered was stopping Owl.

He webbed away without looking back again, making a beeline for Owl's address.

Only a block away from the fight a shadow fell over him and his spider-sense practically yelled for him to get out of the way. He let go of the web he was swinging with and let himself fall rapidly, using his next web to grab onto a light pole and land on it.

He didn't have a moment to figure out what was going on when the light pole gave way under his feet. He fell to the ground, rolling to absorb the shock, and turned around to face the new threat.

Wrapped in brown body armor with owl eyes on the front, he found himself facing a man and a woman whose eyes were completely black. The woman, still in the air, had angel-like wings that distinctly reminded him of Amy's. He looked over at the man and didn't have to wonder for long what his power was when he opened his mouth and spat a liquid at him. He dodged out of the way, watching in astonishment as the man's spit dissolved part of the sidewalk.

Miles thwipped a web at the woman's wings, grabbing one of them and yanking her out of the sky. She screeched in astonishment, landing in an undignified heap. He narrowly sidestepped the man's acid spit, before he lunged forward and punched him in the jaw.

He webbed his mouth shut before webbing his arms to his side.

The winged lady had recovered, but not quick enough. He again attached a web to one of her wings and ran around her, trapping her in her own wings. Unable to fight, he simply shoved her onto the sidewalk and webbed her down.

He did the same to her companion.

Without their weapons, they seemed to entirely give up, heads lolling to the side. He couldn't help but feel sorry for them. They were probably victims like him, dragged into a fight that wasn't their own.

More determined than ever, he took a running start and continued swinging to the real enemy. He didn't let himself stop for other fights he saw along the way despite the guilt that caused, knowing the quickest way to end this was to get to the source.

He quickly got to the skyscraper in question. Landing on the neighboring building - which was two stories higher than Owl's - he found the man in question easily. Just like Fisk, he had obnoxiously chosen to have an open-plan, floor-to-ceiling windows, penthouse office and was leisurely leaning back in his plush throne like he was already the kingpin. Owl wasn't alone though: he could vaguely see the shape of someone else obscured in the shadows. Their head was an odd shape, too large and rounded. Mysterio, probably.

He took a few steps back, shaking his hands out to try and get rid of his nerves, before taking a running start and jumping. Hands crossed in front of his face to protect himself, he crashed through the window and landed with a roll.

The room rapidly began to fill up with smoke, and he knew exactly what Owl was trying to do. He was sick and tired of them trying to capture him and use him. He had had enough .

He lunged at Owl but was snapped back when something wrapped around his chest and yanked him back to the floor. Miles grabbed the chain with both hands and snapped it in half, yanking one half out of the ground and whipping it at Mysterio.

Mysterio ducked, letting out a yelp of surprise. Miles thwipped a web at his legs and pulled them out from under him. He heard the already-dented fishbowl crack and Mysterio began to frantically yell for the smoke to be turned off, voice slurring as he fell unconscious under its effects.

Chest heaving, Miles turned towards Owl. Owl, the man who had tortured him. Who had tried to take his powers for his own gain. Who was experimenting on anybody he could get his hands on, including children. Who had sent someone to shoot his Dad in the foot to try and stop Miles from tracking him down.

The man who had a gas mask on and hadn't even left his chair to face him.

He let out a guttural snarl. This wasn't just about New York. This was justice. This was revenge.

"Hello, Miles Morales." Owl finally stood up, clawed fingers tapping obnoxiously on the wooden desk. His voice was muffled by the mask. "You have been a thorn in my side."

"Good," he snarled, and lunged at him again. Miles vaulted over the desk, sliding under Owl's attempted swipe, and kicked him so hard he went stumbling back. He didn't fall out the window, much to Miles's disappointment.

Instead, he managed to catch Miles by surprise, grabbing him by the throat and lifting him into the air. Miles clawed at the hand, trying to wedge the fingers open to little effect. "You've been absolutely useless to me!" Owl raged. "All these months of wasting resources on you when we can't even use you for anything! Your DNA is complete junk! It doesn't make sense!"

Miles, rapidly losing air, felt his body light up in a fantastic light show. Owl yelped and threw him across the room and into the wall.

Miles was quick to get up, leveraging the wall to help get to his feet, taking rapid gulps of air in. "You… should have never… come after me," he snarled between breaths.

Owl picked up his desk, everything on it clattering to the floor. "You're ruining my plans!"

He narrowly jumped out of the way of the desk that smashed through the wall. "You gave me hell!" he yelled back.

His spider-sense warned him just in time for him to side-step a knife that embedded itself in the wall. Before he even glanced back, he knew who it was.

Twisting out of the way of another, he grabbed a cartridge of extra-strong webbing. He cracked the top and threw it at Taskmaster. There was no time to fiddle with swapping cartridges.

The pressurized cartridge exploded upon impact with Taskmaster, the webs shooting out everywhere and thoroughly cocooning him.

In that short span of time, Owl was upon him. He slammed Miles into the ground so hard the floor cracked, driving the last of the air out of his lungs. He heard something in his chest ominously snap .

"You set back my timeline by a month," Owl hissed next to his head. "A month!"

Miles clenched his teeth and webbed Owl in the face. Owl stumbled off of him, tearing it away. He tried to clamber to his feet, but Owl had torn the webbing off quicker than expected. Piercing pain zapped through his left thigh as Owl lifted him into the air by it, digging his claws into his muscles.

"Just DIE !" Owl raged, and then he was sailing through the air. The night sky greeted him for a brief moment before he was crashing through glass and sliding across tiled floors.

Miles, dazed, struggled to open his eyes. It was made worse by his reopened forehead wound soaking his mask with blood. The blood leaked under his lenses, effectively blinding him. He rolled onto his back, tearing his mask off. Wheezing with every breath, he struggled to figure out if it was because of a broken rib puncturing his lungs or from the bruising around his neck.

Even when he wiped the warm blood out of his eyes, he still couldn't see around himself. Giving up on surveying his surroundings, he tried to roll onto his side and propped an arm but quickly gave up when his whole body seized with agony. Whining like a kicked dog, he was forced to lie in place and assess his body.

Slowly he began to distinguish the wounds from each other. His thigh had multiple puncture wounds. His rib was bruised, if not cracked. His throat was bruised. His forehead was slashed and bleeding. His shoulder was stabbed and throbbing angrily.

All of this was survivable. All of it was just pain and sore muscles from fighting and swinging for hours straight.

"C'mon, Spider-Man," he hissed, reaching out beside him and finding a wall to assist him. He attached his fingers to it and forced himself to sit up.

He rested his head against the wall, finally taking in his surroundings. He was in an office kitchen. Against all odds his stomach decided that now was the time to make itself aware, grumbling at him.

He huffed a laugh, wincing as the movement caused him more pain.

One hand wrapped loosely around his chest, he whispered, "One… two... three," and forced himself to stand, whimpering in pain. He blinked through the dots in his eyes, catching himself against the wall before he could slump down again.

From his new perspective, he spotted a fruit bowl next to the office fridge. Somehow, he didn't think they would mind a few pieces of missing fruit. They probably would mind the blood puddled on the floor and handprints on the wall making it look like someone had been murdered here.

He gingerly took a step forward, then another, limping through the pain. He grabbed a banana and with shaky fingers unpeeled it. Biting into it was like heaven. He devoured it in a few quick bites before reaching for another one. He consumed three pieces of fruit mercilessly before finally feeling full.

He shifted through the cupboards until he found a glass and filled it with tap water, downing it quickly. One thing was sorted, at least, now for everything else.

He grabbed some paper towels and gingerly pressed them to his forehead, putting pressure on it for a moment before grabbing some fresh ones when the first lot soaked through. After a few frustrating rounds of that, it finally scabbed over enough that he could move on.

Leaning over the sink, wincing through the pain of doing so, he washed the blood off of his face. Bending down, he picked up his mask and took his gloves off. He washed all of them thoroughly, wringing them out. He was grateful for the darkness of night, leaving him blissfully unaware of how much blood there was. He left them to the side to dry.

Miles grabbed some more paper towels and hastily cleaned each of his wounds before webbing over them. He didn't have anything life-threatening, nothing that meant he couldn't go for another round, and for that he was grateful.

He searched around the empty office for a minute, looking for and finding a spare piece of paper and pen. He scribbled out a brief thank you note and left it by the half-empty fruit bowl.

Miles reached for his clean mask and gloves, pausing for a moment as the healed scars from the facility caught his eye. In a straight, clean line they stood out from the rest of the scars he had accumulated being Spider-Man. He hadn't let himself look at them, or think about them, in all this time. Hadn't let himself think about why they had made the incisions in the first place.

They had probably been searching for the source of his webs, lacking the knowledge that he didn't produce them like an actual spider. He just borrowed the late Peter's recipe. They didn't understand his powers.

He swallowed and finally put his gloves back on, covering them back up again. If they had enough time, they would eventually figure them out. His and any other superpowered kids they had kidnapped. He had to prevent that.

Miles pulled his mask back on, shivering as the damp mask covered him. He was ready. He cautiously approached the broken window he had come through, looking up at Owl's office that was three floors above where he was. He couldn't see any movement from his vantage point but knew that he was probably still there.

He had to approach this better. He couldn't go in there angry and reckless: he was too injured to brute force this and fight for a lengthy period of time. He had to fight smarter, not harder. At least Taskmaster was out of the fight.

That gave him an idea. He swabbed out his normal webs for the stronger variety on his left webshooter. Owl was as strong as him at least, and if he couldn't get out of this web neither would Owl.

Thwipping a web across the space, Miles stepped onto the window's ledge and swung across. He camouflaged as he climbed up to the broken window, peering inside.

Mysterio was back awake, helmet off and angrily tugging at the cocoon of webs around Taskmaster. Owl was nearby, on his phone and watching Mysterio with a sneer on his face.

Fingers beginning to tingle, he carefully climbed inside and moved across the space. He couldn't attach Owl to the floor, or he'd be lugging a body and the floor.

He moved until he was facing Owl's side. Carefully aiming, he shot the web and plastered Owl's arm to his body.

Owl dropped his phone in shock, whirling around only to meet Miles's fist. Owl smacked to the ground, free arm coming up to defend his face, and he webbed that to his body too. Mysterio looked up in astonishment but was too slow as Miles used the normal webs to pin him to the cocoon.

Miles grinned. That was easier than he had expected. "You really should have been paying more attention."

"Miles," Owl snarled, trying to get to his feet without his arms. Miles rolled his eyes and kicked him back down, grabbing his legs a second later and webbing them together.

"Alright, Mr. Owl, you have an appointment with an old friend of yours," Miles crowed, picking up Owl and throwing him over his uninjured shoulder. That made Owl start wriggling in alarm, almost enough for him to topple over before he readjusted.

"W-wait! Don't take me to Fisk!" Owl pleaded.

"I will venom strike you until you're unconscious if you don't keep still ," Miles snarled, striding over to the window. "In fact, you're lucky I haven't killed you myself."

"I can- I can pay for your college! Name your price, twenty thousand? Fifty thousand?" Owl tried to bargain.

Miles stepped up onto the window ledge, reorienting himself until he knew which way to go. "Maybe I would have felt more open to a deal if you hadn't let your friend Kravinoff reveal my identity, you asshat," he said, though that was a lie. He would have never made a deal with Owl. Not with everything that had happened. It did wonders to make Owl stutter through an apology, though.

It took no longer than five minutes before Miles was at the bottom of Fisk's tower. He landed with a small stumble as Owl started struggling again, his pleas to be let go growing increasingly desperate.

He walked into the lobby to be greeted by the receptionist. She was the same one from last time, but this time she smiled at him as he approached the desk. He hoped she was getting a decent amount of overtime, considering it was approaching midnight. "Hello Mr. Morales, Mr. Owlsley. The elevator is waiting for you," she instructed, professionally ignoring his wriggling cargo.

Tilting his head in acknowledgment, he got into the elevator and pressed the button to go up. The same disdain for how fancy it all was bubbled up, but he just took a deep breath and ignored it. He was too tired to be mad over this.

He would drop his cargo with Fisk and go home. He would give Mom and Dad a big hug, tell them about how he really had handled the whole thing and he should keep being Spider-Man, deal with his wounds, and then go to bed. He just wanted this day to be over.

He knew that the fallout from Kravinoff was still going to be… big. Something he wasn't prepared to deal with. But at least his parents had found out about his identity before the fight and weren't going to learn about it from the morning news.

Dealing with his arrangement with Fisk was going to be another matter. With Owl out of the picture, and his identity known to everyone now, it probably wasn't needed at all. He probably could give it a week and start taking Fisk down too - once he was healed.

The elevator doors opened with a ding and Miles strode in. Fisk was waiting for him, hands clasped in front of him on the desk and a grin on his face.

When he was a few meters away from the desk he dropped Owl ungraciously, letting him hit the floor with a yelp of alarm. He didn't look down at him though, eyes trained on the shark in front of him.

"I fulfilled my side of the bargain," Miles stated simply, crossing his arms. "Do whatever you want with him, I don't care."

"Indeed you did," Fisk grinned, his eyes almost manic in delight. He pressed a button on his phone and two guards came out of the elevator a moment later. They barely even looked at Miles as they grabbed Owl between them and began dragging him out of the room.

Owl screamed and hollered, begging desperately for help, but Miles refused to look at him. A slimmer of guilt struck him, but all he had to do was remember the months of pain he had endured specifically because of him and he was able to stamp it down.

"I protected your family, and now the deal is done," Fisk's grin turned toothier, morphing into something that sent a shiver running down Miles's spine. The hairs on the back of his neck began to stand up as Fisk reached into one of his drawers, reaching for something inside.

But his spider-sense wasn't going off. There wasn't an explosion. The floor didn't drop out from under him. Chains didn't wrap around him. Instead, a TV lifted out of the ground to Fisk's right and flickered on.

The blood drained from his face, his heart racing as his legs threatened to give out under him. Oh, god, no!

Mom, Dad and Mrs. Parker appeared on the screen. Completely unaware of the danger, Miles could only choke on a scream as sand swept into the room, beginning to flood the room. He watched as they spotted what was happening: Mrs. Parker desperately trying to reach for something by the computer, his Dad reaching out for Mom's hand - but they were too far away from each other, and then they were up to their chests in hard, compact sand.

All from one source: Sandman. A villain that hadn't been seen in years, but who had fought the previous Peter before. His distinctive green-striped shirt betrayed his identity even as he hid in the background.

It struck him a moment too late who exactly Fisk had hired to protect his parents. The stray bits of sand he had noticed hadn't stuck out to him, seemingly innocuous.

Of course when the deal was done Fisk would have set up his revenge with the one person who could instantly kill them. Fisk had called him a threat, had called him powerful . Of course he would get rid of the biggest threat to his empire as soon as it was convenient. And of course Miles had taken the deal, too afraid to take on two enemies at once when they both knew his identity.

It was all his fault.

A small part of himself was grateful that they couldn't see him or the state he was in. The webs over his wounds, his costume frayed and torn. They wouldn't have to see how helpless he was, how he couldn't do anything to save them. They could die thinking he had done everything in his power to stop this from happening - instead of the reality that he was frozen to the spot.

Fisk had played him. Fisk had convinced him to let him guard his family, and now with one word, he could kill them.

Fisk stood up, eyes manic with the power he held over Miles. " Kneel ," he ordered.

He couldn't drag his eyes off the screen. He was ice cold, so tense he was shaking. Numbly, he obeyed. "Please," he begged, eyes brimming with tears. "I did what you wanted. I-I stopped Owl. I'll- I'll never go after you. Please ."

He had run out of options. He couldn't fight Fisk and risk him giving the order to drown them. If he fought Fisk to try and get him to order Sandman to stop, he would just bring the gavel down sooner. He couldn't swing to them. He would never be fast enough. They were in Queens, he was in Manhattan.

He couldn't do anything.

He could only watch them die.

He had failed them.

Fisk shoved his desk away from in front of him, lumbering over to tower over Miles.

"You took everything from me," he snarled. "You took my family, my business, my freedom from me. Yet you thought I would just let you get away with murdering my wife and son!"

"No!" Miles protested, unable to bite his tongue at the accusation. "Bringing them from another universe would have never-"

"Silence!" Fisk bellowed. He flinched away too slowly: Fisk's hand was around his throat, lifting him into the air and squeezing harder by the second. Miles choked on his words, clawing desperately at his arms, kicking with all his might.

He lit up in a desperate attempt to venom strike Fisk, but Fisk only laughed at him. "Your old tricks won't save you this time," he hissed. "My suit is fully insulated against that little power of yours."

He slammed Miles back down onto the ground, the floor cracking under the force, and he felt something in his shin snap . Miles hacked and heaved, collapsing onto his side. Iron filled his mouth, choking him and preventing him from sucking in any air.

"I won't let you interfere ever again," Fisk sneered. "I'm going to make you feel every shred of grief I have."

Miles looked past Fisk's face, to the TV. Sand had filled up the room even more, but he could still see in perfect clarity their struggling forms. He was never going to go home again. Even if he somehow survived, his whole family would be dead. It would never be home without them.

"Get up," Fisk snarled at him, and Miles struggled to comply. His whole body was aching, his spider-sense was screaming, and he was drowning in grief. But he managed to get to his knees.

"Please," he choked out again, despite knowing it wasn't going to change anything.

Fisk looked back at the TV again, and Miles did too. The screen was completely covered by sand now. They were dying. He had failed them. He was a failure. He was a coward .

Movement caught his eye and he jerked back. Fisk's giant fist was raised high above his head.

His manic eyes would be the last thing he saw.

As useless as it was, he shielded his head with his hands - like that would do anything to protect himself.

"Goodbye."

He was out before he hit the ground.