Hello everyone, and welcome to the beginning of the end for Marvelous Spider-Man: Volume One. It's been 2 years since I posted chapter one, hopefully I can get volume 2 out faster.
The wind howled through the icy labyrinth of skyscrapers, each rooftop glistening with a fresh coat of snow. Spider-Man landed with a heavy thud onto one of them, his legs nearly giving out beneath him. His red-and-blue suit was torn in places, exposing bruised flesh beneath. Frost clung to the edges of his mask, and his breath came in shallow, visible puffs that dissolved into the December night air. The city sparkled below, festive and alive, but he felt a world away. A few days before Christmas, and all he could think about was how much he needed to just stop.
The cold bit into him as he stumbled forward, collapsing onto his back. The snow beneath him crunched softly, the flakes above drifting down like silent accusations. His entire body ached. Every muscle felt like it had been twisted, pulled, and wrung out. Weeks of non-stop fighting had taken their toll—brawls with petty crooks, deadly encounters with supervillains, and desperate attempts to hold the fragile pieces of his double life together.
Peter wasn't doing so well.
Lying there, staring at the starless sky, he reached into his utility belt and pulled out his phone. His gloves, damp and fraying, made the screen difficult to navigate, but he already knew what he'd find. No messages. He sighed, the weight of silence pressing harder than the snow piling on his chest.
He couldn't blame anyone. What kind of friend has he been lately? Eddie, the closest thing he had to living family after May, thought he was scum. Gwen had pretty much ghosted him entirely, wanting to keep her distance for awhile. Harry… well, Harry might never speak to him again after the last time they spoke, and to be completely honest, Peter couldn't blame him. And Liz—how could he even begin to explain to her that her brother was a supervillain? That he'd fought him just last night? There were no words for that, no right way to handle it.
Peter groaned, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes beneath the mask. "Where did it all go wrong?" he muttered to the wind.
The city didn't answer. It never did.
Snowflakes clung to his tattered suit, soaking through to his skin, but he didn't care. For once, he let himself stop. Stop swinging. Stop running. Stop pretending. His mind wandered, unspooling like a reel of all the choices he could've made differently, all the bridges he'd burned, all the people he'd let down. Each memory stung worse than the frigid air slicing through his torn costume.
But even in this moment of weakness, he knew he couldn't stay down. The city didn't stop needing him, and being Spider-Man meant always getting back up, no matter how much it hurt. He clenched his fists, willing himself to rise, but his body refused.
"Just five more minutes," he whispered to no one, letting the snow blanket him as his mind drifted again, searching for peace in a storm that never ceased.
Weeks Ago
Peter leaned back against the couch in Gwen's dorm, his arms folded behind his head as he finished recounting the Thanksgiving dinner fiasco to Liz Allan. He and Gwen had deliberately omitted the more intimate details—namely, the moments after the dinner where they had found themselves tangled up in each other. No need to stir the pot just yet.
"Man, that sounds intense," Liz said, shaking her head as she popped a grape into her mouth. "I mean, I heard Norman Osborn could be... a lot, but I didn't think he'd make Thanksgiving dinner a debate stage for whether Spider-Man is a menace or not."
Peter sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah, well, what else is new? The guy's got a personal grudge against Spidey for reasons I completely don't understand, I mean the guy saved his family."
"Probably because Spider-Man makes him look bad," Gwen quipped, smirking as she rested her elbow on the couch's armrest. "Big-shot corporate guy, supposed to be one of the smartest men in the city, and yet a guy in a mask keeps saving the day instead of him? You know that's gotta burn."
Liz laughed, nodding in agreement. "Yeah, that sounds about right. So, aside from the verbal battle royale, how was the food?"
"Amazing, as always," Gwen said proudly. "Aunt May kills it every year. Best turkey, best stuffing, and definitely the best pie."
Peter grinned. "Oh yeah, it's not even a competition. I swear, if I could bottle up whatever magic May puts into that cranberry sauce, I'd be a millionaire."
"Alright, you two are making me jealous," Liz groaned playfully, standing. "I need a drink. Anyone else want a refill?"
"I got it," Gwen said, hopping up from the couch. "Pete, you coming?"
"Yeah, sure," Peter answered, standing up a little too quickly.
The two made their way into the small dorm kitchen, Gwen heading straight for the fridge while Peter followed close behind. As she grabbed the juice, she turned to find Peter standing right behind her, effectively trapping her against the counter.
"So, can we talk about it now?" Peter asked, his eyes locked onto hers with an expectant look.
Gwen swallowed, suddenly very aware of how close he was. "Talk about what?" she asked, feigning ignorance as she turned to the side, attempting to slip past him.
Peter's reflexes were faster. His hand caught her arm, stopping her in her tracks. "Gwen, you can illustrate my entire face on a piece of paper without missing a single detail," he deadpanned. "So I highly doubt that us kissing could have just slipped your mind."
Gwen's cheeks flushed. "Look, Peter, we can talk about this later. Just not in front of Liz, okay?" She lowered her voice, glancing back toward the living room. "You know Liz? The girl you friend-zoned-slash-dumped not that long ago? Liz is my friend and my roommate, and I at least owe her, like, a week before I tell her about us mashing faces."
Now it was Peter's turn to go red, suddenly recalling all the times he and Liz had made out while they were seeing each other. His mind involuntarily replayed them: the way her hands had tangled in his hair, the way she had whispered his name between breaths—
"Okay, fair point," he admitted quickly, shaking the thoughts from his head.
Gwen gave him a pointed look. "Glad you agree," she teased before turning back to pour the drinks.
"Well how about in a few weeks? Like say… the 21st?" He asked, Gwen turned back around to face him as her interest was piqued.
"A few weeks from now? Why plan it so far ahead, and on such a specific date too?" Gwen questioned. "In any case, I'm pretty sure I have a prior commitment that day. But I'm sure I could find some time for you, for us."
"I chose the 21st because that's when the play is, cuz thanks to our mutual wealthy friend, I scored good seats on its opening day. So I wanted to take you," He explained, purposely leaving out that he was initially given the tickets to take out Liz and pulling the tickets from his pocket. "But if you're busy. we can figure something else out."
Gwen took one of the tickets for a moment, examining it, her eyes widening in light-hearted surprise. "Well I'll tell you this, it doesn't look like you'll need to worry about taking me…"
"...considering I'll already be there."
"Wait, what, huh?" He said confused. "What do you mean you'll already be there?"
"I'm going to be playing in the ensemble." She started. "ESU is one of the sponsors so the production was kind of obligated to use the school's concert band."
"Wow, that's amazing! I have no idea, how come you didn't tell me?" Peter asked, his expression growing confused as he watched Gwen's turn dejected.
"Well because I barely see you these days, Peter." She said, opening the fridge to put the juice away. "I can't say that it's entirely your fault, my life has also been hectic, but I thought with the Connors firing you and Octavius—that things would change and they have. Whether or not for the better? I don't know."
"It's like despite your schedule seemingly opening up, you have less free time than ever." She wasn't wrong, it had been more than a week since Thanksgiving and Peter hadn't gotten the chance to get a wink of rest. The city was getting worse, every hour of the day kept him busy, Tombstone said that he'd be teaching him the hard way and apparently that meant working him to death.
Though Peter didn't regret his refusal of the Big Man's offer, it didn't kill his curiosity about what would have happened if he had taken the deal. "Gwen, I—"
Before Peter could say anything, a new voice floated in from the living room, causing both of them to pause. It wasn't Liz's.
"—so yeah, I figured I'd come over and steal some leftovers from you anyway."
Peter and Gwen exchanged a confused glance. "We'll pick this up later." Gwen said in passing, stepping out of the kitchen and back into the living room. Sitting on the couch across from Liz was a guy Peter had never seen before. He looked about Eddie's age, maybe a little older, with short dark hair and a confident smile.
Liz, noticing them, perked up. "Oh, right! You guys haven't met yet." She gestured to the stranger. "This is Mark, my brother. Mark, these are Gwen and Peter—the ones I've told you about."
Mark stood up, offering a hand first to Gwen, then to Peter. "Hey, I've heard a lot about you guys. Glad to finally put faces to the names."
"Nice to meet you," Gwen said, shaking his hand before stepping aside so Peter could do the same.
Peter gripped Mark's hand and gave it a firm shake, his instincts prickling.
Mark seemed normal enough—friendly, even—but something about his voice sent an uneasy sensation creeping up Peter's spine. It was familiar. Too familiar. But no matter how hard Peter tried to place it, he couldn't figure out why.
As the four of them began chatting, Peter kept an eye on Mark, studying his mannerisms, his tone, anything that might give him a clue as to why his instincts were waving red flags.
"So Liz told me you guys just reconnected not too long ago, how does that feel and what have you been up to?" Gwen asked, sipping her drink.
"Yeah, it's a whole thing" Mark nodded. "But basically, I was floating around for a while before I landed on my feet. I pulled my life together, scored myself a basketball scholarship over at Metro in Jersey, and reconnected with my lil sis when I finally worked up the courage."
"So what do you do for work outside of school?" Peter asked, his tone casual, though his mind was already shifting into investigation mode.
"Freelance stuff, mostly," Mark replied with a nonchalant shrug. "Bit of package delivery, custodian work, moving trucks, basically a lot of manual labor. So I get around."
Peter narrowed his eyes slightly. Moving trucks? He glanced at Liz, who seemed perfectly comfortable in her brother's presence, showing no signs of anything being off.
But Peter knew something was off. And apparently, the spider senses did too as he got some major bad vibes off the guy.
It was the voice.
He had heard that voice before, somewhere beyond just tonight. It was buried in his memory, elusive but present, like a song he couldn't quite recall the lyrics to.
He wanted to press further, to dig deeper, but now wasn't the time. Liz was right there, and Gwen would definitely call him out if he started grilling her friend's brother like an FBI agent.
So he let it go. For now.
Mark flashed a grin. "So, Liz tells me you two are really into science. Big brains, huh?"
Gwen chuckled. "Something like that. I'm a real genius, though. But Peter's smart too, I guess."
Peter waved her off. "We're both nerds, let's just leave it at that."
Mark laughed. "Hey, nothing wrong with that. Smart people change the world, right?"
"Yeah," Peter murmured, still studying him.
Something about Mark wasn't right and Peter still couldn't put his finger on it. "Since I shared I think it's only right you guys return the favor, what do a couple of geniuses like you do for work these days?"
While Peter was hesitant to speak. Gwen, sitting next to him, couldn't help but notice and decided to speak in his stead. "Well I can't say I make much in the way of money, but aside from the part-time intern work I do at the Connors Research Faculty."
"I'd say my main hang out these days is with the school's concert band, which is a given because of my performing arts scholarship I guess." She revealed smugly grinning a bit as she did so, Peter couldn't help but feel a bit of awe, it always slipped his mind just how much of an amazing instrumentalist she is.
"That's actually pretty amazing. What instruments do you play? If you don't mind me asking." Mark asked, his eyes widening in interest.
"Uh-oh Gwennie, I think you accidentally got my musical freak of a brother started." Liz teased.
"Hey I'm not a musical freak, I just appreciate music, it soothes the mind. You would know that if you'd listened to any of the playlists I've sent you." Mark retorted.
"It's fine, lots of people ask me this question anyway." Gwen pressed her finger to her lips as she hummed in thought. "Well I can play a wide manner of instruments, including: the guitar, drums, piano, clarinets, flutes, trombone, tuba, trumpet, and my personal favorite the saxophone."
"Saxophone, the world's sexiest instrument, nice!"
"THANK YOU! I'm so glad you don't believe that the piano is the world's sexiest instrument, unlike some people." She said side eyeing Peter.
"I still don't get how I'm wrong." Pete deflected. "Pianos are pretty sexy, no?"
"How many times do I have to tell you this, Parker! Romance is not the same as sex appeal!"
"Agree to disagree."
"I'm going to gut you."
••••••
A few days later, the city hummed with its usual midday chaos—honking horns, distant sirens, and the constant murmur of people moving through the streets below. Still, Spidey was exhausted, dear old Tombstone still refused to let up. So that meant more petty crimes, more bank robberies, random kidnappings, and murder attempts. Anything that would warrant the intention of his favorite vigilante.
Though strangely, Peter had noticed the concerning lack of supervillains being thrown his way as of recent. Sure you still had your run-of-the-mill costumed weirdos, but Spidey could tell they weren't of any affiliation. Shocker, Sandman, Molten Man? All of them equipped and empowered with the thought of luring out and squashing me in mind. Not that I'd prefer supervillains, but still it leaves me wondering what part of the big picture am I missing?
Speaking of the devil, from his perch atop a nearby building, Spider-Man's lenses narrowed as he watched Molten Man in action. The villain stood in the middle of a high-tech lab, molten gold skin glowing under the fluorescent lights as he carefully sifted through shelves, swiping only select pieces of technology.
It wasn't a bank. It wasn't jewelry. It wasn't even anything immediately profitable. No, Molten Man was after tech—expensive, advanced, and probably something that could cause a serious headache down the line.
"Weird," Spidey muttered to himself.
Springing into action, he leapt across the rooftops, trailing Molten Man as he carried a metallic briefcase filled with stolen goods. The villain moved quickly for someone made up of liquid molten metal, slipping into a side alley.
Bad move.
Spidey landed at the other end and shot off two thick layers of webbing, sealing off Molten Man's escape route.
"Come on, Molty," Spidey quipped, flipping onto a dumpster and crouching there. "I thought you were going to turn over a new leaf when I let you go last time. What happened to 'no more crime' and 'becoming a better person'? Did you lose my number for the support group?"
Molten Man turned, molten gold cracking as he clenched his fists. "I was, but then I realized going into hiding wasn't gonna solve anything."
"And grand larceny was your next best option?"
With a deep sigh, Molten Man shook his head. "Look, I'm not working for The Big Man anymore."
Spidey tensed at the name. Remembering the beating Tombstone laid on him the last time they came to blows.
"Oh, well, in that case, you're totally free to commit felonies. My bad man, didn't know there were special rules."
"You don't get it." Molten Man's voice grew darker. "My new employer has unfinished business with The Big Man, and in return for assisting him, he promised me something I couldn't refuse."
Spidey's grip tightened. "Oh, let me guess—unlimited tacos for life? A subscription to Molten Monthly?"
Molten Man's molten eyes flickered. "My suggestion? Sit this one out, Hero, before you get yourself killed trying to get between them."
Spider-Man barely had a second to react before Molten Man lunged at him, swinging a molten fist. Spidey flipped over him, narrowly avoiding a crater where he had been standing.
"Whoa, hey! How about we settle this over coffee and talk it out like responsible adults?" Spidey said, landing on a wall and shooting another web at Molten Man's arm.
Molten Man yanked, his sheer strength pulling Spidey forward. "Not an option."
Spidey twisted midair, using the momentum to web his other arm and pull him sideways, slamming him into a stack of wooden crates.
"Ow," Molten Man grunted, shaking off splinters. "That all you got?"
"I mean, I was gonna hit you with a 'why are you like this' speech, but you seem kinda set in your ways."
Molten Man roared and released a burst of heat, forcing Spider-Man to retreat to a fire escape. The ground where he had been standing was now a smoldering mess of melted pavement.
"Okay, that's gonna be a pain for the city to fix."
Spidey fired another web, aiming for the stolen tech, but Molten Man intercepted it with a molten blast. Sparks flew as the web burned away before it could reach its target.
"Alright, seriously, what did this guy promise you?" Spidey asked, dodging another fiery punch.
Molten Man exhaled heavily, shoulders tensing. "My freedom."
Spidey hesitated just long enough for Molten Man to seize the opportunity. His molten fist connected, sending Spider-Man flying into the alley wall. Bricks cracked under the impact.
"Ugh. You know, if I had a dollar for every time a bad guy threw me into a wall, I could actually afford my own apartment."
Molten Man walked forward, his molten glow intensifying. "As long as I assist them in whatever they're planning, I was promised my autonomy. No more running. No more hiding. No more Molten Man."
Spidey pulled himself up, shaking off the dizziness. "And you actually believe that? That some shadowy employer is just gonna give you a free pass? You're smarter than this, Molty."
Molten Man hesitated for just a second. But then his fists clenched, and he shook his head. "I don't wanna hurt ya, Spidey. But you need to sit this one out. This is my only chance to get back to a normal life, and I'm taking it. Don't become an obstacle in my way."
Before Spidey could say another word, Molten Man raised both hands, gathering a swirling inferno of molten energy. The heat in the alley skyrocketed as the fireball reached critical mass.
"Ah, yeah, see, that's a real 'I'm about to do something super dramatic' move," Spidey muttered.
The explosion of molten fire erupted, forcing Spidey to web-swing upward just as the blast consumed the alley. The sheer force sent him hurtling across the street, slamming into a billboard.
By the time he recovered, Molten Man was gone.
Groaning, Spidey peeled himself off the billboard and swung back toward the alley, scanning the damage. The alley was scorched, pavement bubbling in some places, but there was no sign of the villain.
"Great. Another guy making bad choices for the right reasons. Love when that happens."
His goggles's lenses narrowed as he replayed Molten Man's words in his head. Said in a secondly familiar voice.
My new employer has unfinished business with The Big Man.
My freedom.
There was something off about this. Molten Man wasn't stupid—desperate, maybe, but not stupid. Whoever promised him a clean slate had to have enough power to convince him it was real.
Which meant this wasn't just some random robbery.
Spidey fired a web and swung onto a nearby rooftop, pulling out his phone and running a quick search on recent high-tech thefts. A pattern was forming—specific pieces stolen from labs across the city.
A puzzle was coming together.
And Spider-Man didn't like where the pieces were leading.
•••••••
Mark Allan trudged through the sewers, his molten form burning through the filth around him as he moved. He didn't bother trying to avoid the sludge—it evaporated on contact. The heat radiating from his body kept the rats at bay, their beady eyes gleaming from the darkness before they scurried off into the shadows. His thoughts, however, were far from the grime beneath his feet.
It had been days since The Big Man had reactivated his powers. The crime lord had been doing this for a while now, turning them on and off as if flipping a switch, each time leaving them on a little longer. It was a game, one Mark refused to play. He wasn't answering the summons.
Normally, Hammerhead would have been sent after him by now, dragging him back by force. But Hammerhead was on the run, a fugitive, and that left The Big Man short on enforcers. Mark took some satisfaction in that. Maybe, just maybe, the crime boss was losing his grip.
He pressed forward, deeper into the tunnels. He wasn't heading to just any hiding spot—he had a destination in mind. A place only a handful of people knew about.
An Oscorp underground research base. Octavius had shown it to him once after their little arrangement had begun. An abandoned project, buried beneath the city, forgotten by everyone except the ones willing to use it.
By the time he reached the hidden entrance, the steel door had already begun to warp from the residual heat of his touch. He forced himself to cool down, just enough to keep from melting through the damn thing, and pushed it open.
Inside, the air was heavy with the scent of oil and metal. The faint hum of machinery echoed in the cavernous space, the dim lights casting long shadows. At the center of it all was the man himself—Dr. Otto Octavius.
Mark watched as the scientist worked, his four mechanical arms moving with uncanny precision, welding, assembling, analyzing. It was easy to forget that those same arms had once pinned him down, crushing him with ease.
Not wanting to test his luck, Mark made his presence known.
"I'm back, Doc," he said, his voice cutting through the still air. "Got everything you asked for. And then some."
Octavius stopped. The arms lifted the device he had been working on and carefully set it aside. He turned, examining Mark with a critical eye before raising what looked like a small handheld scanner.
Without warning, he pointed it at Mark and pulled the trigger.
Instinct kicked in—Mark raised his arms, his molten skin flaring defensively, expecting some kind of blast. Instead, a soft blue light washed over him, scanning him from head to toe. No pain. No impact. Just… a scan.
Mark lowered his arms slowly, his pulse still hammering from the sudden move. "Hey, Doc, you mind telling me what the hell that was about?"
Octavius was already analyzing the results, ignoring the question at first. Mark was about to repeat himself—louder—when Otto finally spoke.
"If you must know," he said, adjusting his glasses, "this is a genome scanner. It confirms my main theory."
Mark narrowed his eyes. "And that theory is…?"
Octavius turned the device toward him, showing the data on the screen. His next words hit harder than Mark had expected.
"That you're a Mutant."
Mark blinked. "...What?"
Otto looked at him as if he had just stated the obvious. "You possess the X-Gene, Mr. Allan. Your abilities were not artificially given to you—they were merely activated. Your genetic makeup suggests that your mutation was always present, though dormant. And, if my readings are correct, it's likely that your sister—Elizabeth—also possesses the gene."
Mark's jaw clenched. His fists tightened.
"Lizzie too? So what, you're saying I was always a freak?"
"Not a freak," Octavius corrected, "but something more than human from the start."
Mark shook his head, trying to process it. His whole life, he thought he was normal. Just some guy. Then, he was turned into this—a monster on command. And now he was supposed to believe it was inside him all along? Not only that, but then what about his regular life? Sports, basketball, his scholarship, if the school found out he was a Mutant, he'd be booted for sure.
He could feel his temper flaring, heat rippling off his body. But before he could spiral, one of Octavius' mechanical arms rested on his shoulder. The touch startled him, but Otto's voice was steady.
"If you're wondering how this will affect your life moving forward, don't," Octavius said. "Your powers can be shut off. The X-Gene doesn't show up in standard drug tests. No one will know unless they specifically look for it. And even then, only if they know what they're looking for."
Mark exhaled, his body cooling slightly. The words shouldn't have reassured him. But somehow, they did.
Still, one question gnawed at him.
"You said you had a theory. But that wasn't the only thing you were looking for, was it?"
Octavius smirked, turning back to his monitors. "Indeed. Now that I know what you are, I also know what the problem is."
One of his mechanical arms tapped on the keyboard, bringing up a different set of results. A strand of DNA appeared on the screen, surrounded by countless tiny dots.
"What is that?" Mark asked.
"That is your X-Gene. And those?" Otto gestured to the dots. "Nanobots."
Mark's breath caught.
Octavius continued, his voice steady as ever. "I originally believed these nanobots were the source of your powers. However, I now understand they were designed to stimulate your X-Gene—forcing your abilities to activate involuntarily. They act as a trigger. And as long as they remain operational, The Big Man can control when your powers turn on or off."
Mark's mind raced.
"So what you're saying is that to stop him—"
"—We shut the nanobots down. Permanently."
For the first time in what felt like forever, Mark felt something close to hope.
"Alright, then let's do it! Shut 'em down!"
Octavius, however, raised a hand. "Patience. We are close, but we still need one key component. Something only the manufacturer of these nanobots would possess."
Mark crossed his arms. "And let me guess—you already know who made them."
Octavius' expression darkened. "Of course I do." He turned back to the screen, fingers tightening into fists. "The technology is unmistakable."
"Who?"
Otto didn't hesitate.
"Oscorp."
Mark's heart nearly stopped.
"Norman Osborn likely supplied them. Possibly even designed them himself." Octavius' voice was laced with venom. "Coincidentally, I was already planning to pay him a visit."
Mark exhaled sharply. Of course it was Osborn. Who else? The man already had his hands in half the city's filth, why not this too?
His fists clenched. His molten skin flared.
"Then let's go."
"That will not be necessary, Mr Allan. As an old friend of mine, I know better than anyone how hard Norman Osborn is to pin down, so if nothing else this may take some time." Otto explained. "In the meantime, I should be able to whip up a temporary solution to your nano-problem. You won't be of much use to me if you're constantly sticking out like a sore thumb."
Peter Parker was beyond exhausted. Between his classes, his job at the Bugle, and, of course, his extracurricular activities, it felt like his life was one missed step away from completely unraveling. So when he found himself standing outside Eddie Brock's apartment, he wasn't entirely sure how he had gotten there—only that he needed advice from someone who at least seemed like they had their life together.
Eddie had always been a little rough around the edges, sure, but the guy knew how to juggle responsibilities, even if he had his own complicated history. That was more than Peter could say for himself at the moment.
He knocked twice.
A few seconds later, the door swung open to reveal Eddie, wearing a hoodie and sweatpants, his hair slightly disheveled. "Bro?" He blinked, looking him up and down. "Dude, you look like hell."
"Feel like it, too," Peter muttered, rubbing his temples. "Mind if I come in?"
Eddie shrugged. "Yeah, sure. You want a beer?"
Peter gave him a look.
"Right, underage. Juice box, then?" Eddie smirked, stepping aside to let him in.
"Just water's fine, thanks," Peter sighed, stepping inside and collapsing onto Eddie's worn-out couch. The apartment smelled faintly of old coffee and gym socks, but Peter had been in worse places—much worse places.
Eddie disappeared into the kitchen for a moment, returning with a bottle of water, which Peter accepted gratefully.
"So, what's up? You don't usually drop by unannounced," Eddie said, plopping down in the recliner across from him.
Peter exhaled, leaning forward. "I don't know, man. I just feel like I'm drowning. Between school, work, and… everything else, I can't seem to keep up. You ever feel like no matter how hard you try, it's never enough?"
Eddie snorted. "Welcome to adulthood, Parker."
Peter shot him a tired glare.
Eddie leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Look, balancing life is hard, especially when you've got a lot on your plate. Best advice I can give? Prioritize. You can't do everything—no matter how much you want to."
Peter nodded slowly, taking in Eddie's words. It wasn't exactly groundbreaking advice, but hearing it from someone else helped. Maybe he really was pushing himself too hard.
As he took a sip of water, Peter's gaze wandered around the apartment. That's when he noticed something—one of the doors, the one Eddie used to store his junk, was open. And inside, the room looked… lived in.
"Uh, Ed? What happened to your storage room?" Peter asked, nodding toward the open door.
"Oh, that?" Eddie glanced over his shoulder. "Yeah, it's my buddy's room now. He moved in some time ago."
"Your buddy?"
"Yeah," Eddie said. "Mark Allan. You know him?"
Peter's eyes widened slightly, but he quickly schooled his expression. Small world after all.
"Yeah, Liz's brother. I, uh… I've met him," Peter said vaguely.
"Cool guy," Eddie continued. "Keeps to himself, mostly. He was in a rough spot, so I let him crash here. Seemed like the right thing to do."
Peter nodded, still processing the information. Liz's brother—the same Mark Allan he had just met—was living here? The coincidence was unsettling.
"Hey, I'm gonna hit the bathroom real quick," Eddie said, standing up and stretching. "Don't touch my stuff."
"Yeah, yeah," Peter muttered, barely listening as Eddie walked down the hall.
His mind was racing.
Mark Allan. There was something off about him, something Peter couldn't put his finger on. That voice—he had heard it before, but where?
His curiosity got the better of him.
Moving as quietly as possible, Peter stood and stepped toward Mark's room. He hesitated for only a second before slipping inside, his eyes scanning for anything that might tell him more about Eddie's new roommate.
The room was fairly bare, save for a bed, a dresser, and a desk. Nothing suspicious at first glance. But Peter had learned long ago that the best clues weren't always in plain sight.
He checked the desk—Just notebooks and some loose papers. Nothing weird.
The closet—Mostly clothes.
The nightstand—Empty drawers.
Peter frowned, about to give up, when something caught his eye. Behind the dresser, barely visible, there was something on the wall. A dark mark.
Frowning, Peter moved closer, carefully nudging the dresser aside just enough to get a better look.
His breath caught.
A blackened handprint was burned into the wall.
Everything suddenly clicked into place.
Mark's voice sounded familiar because it was familiar. He hadn't met him at a party, hadn't heard about him through Liz. No, Peter had fought him. Spider-Man had fought him.
Mark Allan is Molten Man.
Eddie's roommate is Molten Man.
Liz's. Brother. Was. Molten Man.
His mind reeled as the implications crashed over him. How had Liz never mentioned this? Did she know? And why was Mark hiding out here? Was Eddie even aware of who his roommate really was?
Peter swallowed hard and carefully slid the dresser back into place, making sure everything looked exactly as it had before. His heart was pounding, but he forced himself to stay calm.
He needed to get out of here. He needed to think.
But as he turned to leave, he nearly jumped out of his skin.
Eddie was standing in the doorway, arms crossed.
Peter froze.
Eddie's expression was unreadable as he stared at Peter. Then his eyes flickered toward the dresser. "What are you doing, Parker?"
Peter forced a chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. "Oh, uh, just… looking around. You know, curious about your new roommate and all."
Eddie didn't move. "Curious enough to snoop through his stuff?"
Peter's brain scrambled for an excuse. "Okay, I admit it—I was just trying to see if he was, like, a total slob or something. You live like a tornado hit your room, so I figured maybe he did, too."
Eddie raised an eyebrow. "That's the worst excuse I've ever heard."
Peter sighed. "Look, I'm just… trying to look out for you, man. I mean, how much do you really know about this guy?"
Eddie's eyes narrowed slightly. "Enough to know he needed help. That's all that mattered to me."
Peter hesitated, then nodded slowly. "Alright. I get it."
Eddie didn't say anything for a long moment, then finally sighed and stepped aside. "Just… stay out of his room, alright? You're lucky I like you."
Peter exhaled, nodding as he stepped past Eddie.
But as he left the apartment, his mind was anything but at ease. He had more questions now than ever. And he needed answers.
•••••••
The dimly lit Osborn penthouse carried an air of quiet dread. Outside, bright blue skies spread across the city, but inside, darkness was creeping in—taking hold of Emily Osborn's frail body. She lay on the couch, barely conscious, her once-radiant skin now pale and marked with the undeniable signs of her worsening illness. Even the expensive makeup Norman had carefully applied earlier could no longer mask the truth.
But as he left the apartment, his mind was anything but at ease. He had more questions now than ever. And he needed answers.
•••••••
Footsteps echoed from the hallway. Norman turned his head just as his son, Harry, approached, a glass of water in hand. "Here, Dad," he murmured, handing it over.
Norman took the glass and gently lifted it to Emily's lips. She tried to drink, but barely managed half before a violent coughing fit overtook her. The moment the first drop of blood splattered against her pale fingers, Norman was already moving. He pulled her close, holding her as she trembled, his grip steady even as the familiar sight of crimson stained her lips.
"It's okay," he whispered in her ear, voice barely above a breath. "It's going to be okay, Emily. I may have finally found a way to fix this."
She tried to look at him, her tired eyes flickering with the faintest trace of hope, but she was too weak to respond. Norman kept the more dangerous details to himself. The serum was unstable, highly experimental, and dangerous. But if it could save her, he didn't care. He would risk anything.
A sharp knock at the door shattered the moment. Norman exhaled, already irritated. "Harry, get the door."
Harry nodded, heading to the entrance. The moment he opened it, his eyes widened in recognition. Dr. Otto Octavius. The infamous scientist stood there, his broad frame barely concealed by the heavy trench coat draped over his shoulders.
Harry barely had a second to react before metal shot forward. A mechanical limb whipped out from under the coat, gripping his throat in a vice-like hold. Before he could even struggle, Otto lifted him and hurled him back into the living room.
The sound of crashing glass and shattering electronics filled the air as Harry's body slammed into the television. The impact knocked the wind out of him, leaving him sprawled in a heap of broken technology.
Norman was already on his feet. "Octavius—"
Before he could finish, the robotic appendages carried Otto into the room, his presence consuming the space. His face was twisted with fury, his signature glasses reflecting the dim penthouse light.
"Was it you?" Otto growled.
Norman stiffened. "Was what me?"
"Was it YOU who did this to me?!" Otto roared.
Without warning, all four mechanical arms lashed out, grabbing each of Norman's limbs and hoisting him into the air. The CEO grunted in pain, feeling his joints strain under the pressure.
"Tell me, Norman! WHY? Did your arrogant and misplaced sense of jealousy finally get the best of you?!" Otto's voice was thunderous. "Could you not stand me being the better man any longer? WHAT IS IT?! What is the reason that you chose to send your latest science experiment to sabotage my reactor, endanger my wife, AND DO THIS TO ME?! "
With that final word, Otto hurled Norman across the room. He crashed onto the kitchen island, the marble counter cracking beneath the force.
Norman barely had time to register the pain before another metal limb coiled around his throat, lifting him again.
"It... wasn't... me!" Norman rasped.
Otto's glare deepened. "If it wasn't you, then WHO?!"
"I... don't... know!"
"LIAR!" Otto's grip tightened, his fury unrelenting. "You were there that day, Norman. IF you weren't the one responsible, then it wouldn't even take you a day to find out who is. You may not believe it, but I know you, Osborn. There's only one person in this world you care about more than yourself. You would burn the world to protect her—crush anyone who dared threaten her. It's the only thing I still respect about you."
Norman's vision blurred at the edges. He felt the pressure, the slow cutting of air—until movement in his peripheral vision caught his attention.
Harry.
The boy was up, fists clenched, trying to launch a desperate attack.
Otto saw it too. One of his limbs lashed out, gripping Harry by the collar and pinning him against the wall.
"You said you forgave the bad blood between our families, you lying asshole!" Harry spat, struggling against the iron grip.
Otto scoffed. "And I am a man of my word. You protected my beloved wife. That's why I let the past go. But that does not extend to your father's crimes of today!"
With the two men restrained, Otto turned back to Norman, dragging them both into the living room with his mechanical limbs.
"He may not have done this to me, but someone did. Therefore someone has to bleed today and your father's got the final say." Otto's voice was eerily calm now, but his intent was terrifyingly clear.
A sharp, mechanical screech echoed as one of Otto's metal appendages lashed out, shattering a window.
Norman's heart stopped as Otto's claw wrapped around Emily's frail form, lifting her from the couch and dangling her out into open air.
"Tell me, Norman," Otto sneered, pretending as if Emily were about to slip through his grip. "Your wife or the person who wronged me?"
Emily's body trembled, too weak to even scream.
Norman felt something inside him break.
"Fine! I know his name!" Norman's voice cracked with desperation. "Just—just leave her alone!"
Otto pulled Emily back inside and carelessly dropped her onto the couch. Her body crumpled on impact, and she let out a weak groan of pain.
Norman rushed forward, barely containing his rage. "You got what you wanted, now stop!"
Otto loomed over him. "Then say it."
Norman swallowed hard. The name burned in his throat.
"Lincoln."
Otto paused. His face barely shifted, but Norman saw the realization settle in.
Then, with a smirk, Otto chuckled. "See? Now was that so hard?"
Before Norman could respond, the air exploded with movement. A blur of red and blue shot into the penthouse, yanking Otto out through the shattered window.
Spider-Man.
Norman didn't care. His attention snapped back to Emily.
Her skin was paler than before. Her breathing, weaker. Then he saw it—the blood dripping from her mouth.
Norman's breath caught in his throat.
"Harry, call 911. Now!"
Harry was already scrambling for his phone. Norman didn't wait. He lifted Emily into his arms, rushing for the elevator, his hands trembling for the first time in years.
The world around him faded and all that mattered was getting her help before it was too late.
•••••••
The cold wind howled as Spider-Man and Doctor Octavius tumbled out of the shattered window, their battle spilling onto the side of the Osborn penthouse. The city stretched below them, dozens of stories down, yet neither man paid the dizzying height any mind.
Spidey twisted midair, shooting a web to the building to steady himself, but Otto's mechanical arms clamped onto the structure with ease, securing him like a spider in its own right. The villain's metal limbs hissed and shifted, keeping him suspended over the city like some monstrous predator.
"You know, Doc, I was gonna say you look different, but I think the whole 'towering over me with metal arms' thing speaks for itself," Spider-Man quipped, crouching low, ready to move at a moment's notice.
"I don't have time for your jokes, Spider-Man." Octavius snarled.
"I get that a lot," Spidey shot back. "But you need to stop this!" Spider-Man called out, bracing himself against the building's glass exterior. "You're out of control—just turn yourself in, and we can fix this!"
Octavius sneered. "Fix this? I don't need fixing, you arrogant child. What I need is vengeance."
One of his mechanical arms lashed out, narrowly missing Spider-Man's head as he flipped to another section of the wall.
"Okay, so that's a no on therapy," Spidey quipped. "But look, I know you're angry, I get it. But trust me—this isn't the way to handle it!"
Octavius let out a bitter laugh, the metallic echo of his limbs scraping against the glass sending a shiver through the air. "And what would you know of suffering, boy?" he spat. "Of having your life ripped apart? Of losing everything because of someone else's arrogance?"
Spidey hesitated for just a second—one that Octavius immediately exploited. One of the robotic limbs shot forward, seizing the young hero's torso and hurling him off the side of the building.
Wind screamed in Spider-Man's ears as he plummeted downward.
But before he could hit the street below, he twisted, fired off a web, and slingshot himself back up. He rocketed past Octavius and landed on the edge of the penthouse, balancing effortlessly on the ledge.
"Alright, Doc," Spider-Man huffed, shaking off the attack. "I gotta say—if I didn't know any better, I'd think your name was Doctor Octopus based on the whole 'mechanical tentacle' situation you've got going on here."
Otto's glare burned with rage. "You mock me?!"
"Yeah, kinda hard not to when you look like a cephalopod-themed horror movie villain," Spider-Man said, narrowly dodging another metallic limb that nearly took his head off.
Octavius scowled, his grip tightening around the building. "That name is idiotic, which I suppose is fitting coming from you."
"Really? Because I dunno—it's kinda catchy," Spidey grinned under his mask. "Doctor Octopus. Doc Ock? Rolls off the tongue."
Octavius let out a growl of frustration before launching himself forward, his mechanical limbs tearing into the side of the building as he chased Spider-Man. The hero vaulted into the air just as Otto's clawed appendages struck where he had been a second ago, sending chunks of glass and concrete plummeting below.
Spidey shot out a web, yanking himself back as one of the mechanical limbs came crashing toward him. He flipped midair, landing gracefully on the side of the building, clinging effortlessly to the glass. "You know, Otto, I get it. You're upset. But breaking into a penthouse and throwing people around isn't exactly how you file a complaint!"
Otto snarled, his expression twisting with rage as his robotic appendages kept him suspended over the city. "You think this is about anger? This is about justice! About vengeance for what was stolen from me!"
"Yeah, see, I'm getting more 'revenge-crazed supervillain' than 'justice-seeker' vibes," Spidey quipped, shooting out another web toward Otto's face. The doctor reacted swiftly, one of his arms intercepting the attack and snapping the webbing apart.
They leapt from building to building, their battle stretching across the rooftops of Manhattan. Sunlight gleamed off Octavius' steel limbs as he swiped at Spider-Man, his attacks relentless.
Spidey dodged, countered, and fired off webs, trying to slow Otto down. But the scientist was fueled by rage, his precision terrifying.
Then Otto did something Spider-Man hadn't expected.
Instead of attacking Spidey directly, he turned his attention to the streets below. One of his mechanical arms shot out, grabbing hold of a massive billboard structure. With a powerful heave, he ripped it free, sending it crashing toward the pedestrians below.
Spidey's heart leapt into his throat.
No—!
He didn't hesitate.
With a desperate web shot, he caught the falling debris and swung down, using all his strength to redirect it away from the bystanders. The weight strained against his arms, his muscles burning as he guided it toward an empty alleyway.
The moment it landed, sending a boom through the street, he turned back—
Octavius was gone.
Spidey clenched his fists. He had known what would happen the second Otto pulled his stunt.
Octavius knew he'd choose to save lives over stopping him. And he had used it to escape.
"Dang it," Spider-Man muttered, running a hand through his mask as he perched on a nearby rooftop, catching his breath. His pulse still pounded from the fight, his mind racing.
He'd underestimated how far Otto was willing to go.
That wasn't just rage. That was calculated.
For a moment, Spidey just sat there, staring down at the streets below. People were still shaken, pointing up at the wreckage, at the battle that had unfolded in broad daylight. Some were taking pictures. Others were hurrying away.
But the world hadn't stopped. It never did.
With a sigh, he pulled out his phone. A dozen missed calls flashed on the screen. From Harry. From Gwen.
His stomach dropped. It was about Harry's mom. Spider-Man swallowed hard, his fight with Octavius suddenly feeling distant.
Without another word, he launched himself off the rooftop, swinging toward the Osborn penthouse. And this time, it wasn't a battle he was rushing into.
•••••••
The fluorescent lights above buzzed faintly as Peter Parker sprinted down the sterile hospital hallway, his sneakers squeaking against the polished tile floor. His heart pounded in his chest, not just from exertion, but from the sheer weight of the moment. The nurse's instructions echoed in his mind—"Third door on the left. Hurry."—and he pushed himself to move faster, weaving around doctors and nurses who threw him questioning looks.
Finally, he reached the door, his momentum carrying him forward until he skidded to a stop. Harry Osborn stood there, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, a rigidness in his posture that seemed to scream anger and grief. Gwen Stacy sat in a chair beside him, her hands folded tightly in her lap, her usually bright eyes shadowed with worry.
Peter hesitated. "Harry…" he said softly, his voice breaking as he tried to catch his breath. He searched for the right words, but his throat constricted around them, the lump of guilt and dread blocking anything coherent.
Harry's head turned slightly, but he didn't meet Peter's gaze. His expression was stoic, but his eyes betrayed the storm brewing inside him. "Dad's in there with her now," he said, his tone sharp and cutting. "No one else is allowed in. Not even me."
Peter swallowed hard, the weight of Harry's words pressing down on him. Before he could muster a reply, Harry continued, his voice rising with anger. "She's gone, Pete." His words were like a slap. "She's gone, and you weren't here the one time I needed you to be."
The accusation hit Peter like a freight train. His stomach twisted, and he instinctively opened his mouth to defend himself, to say something, anything, but Harry wasn't finished. He straightened up, finally locking eyes with Peter. There was no warmth there, only fury and a deep, unyielding pain.
"So let's hear it, old friend!" Harry spat, his voice dripping with venom. "Why weren't you here? What was so important that Peter Parker couldn't be there for his best friend while his mother is literally on her deathbed, dying right in front of him?"
Peter flinched at Harry's tone, feeling the sting of every syllable. "Harry, I—"
But Harry cut him off, taking a step closer, his voice growing louder. "Ooh, let me guess! Your bike broke down? The bus lost a wheel? Or even better, there was a runaway thief that stole your ability to get here?"
Peter froze, guilt spreading through him like wildfire. He couldn't tell Harry the truth—not now, not here. How could he explain that Spider-Man had been needed across the city, that lives were on the line, that he'd had to make a choice? The truth would only make things worse, and Harry didn't want excuses. He wanted Peter.
"Harry, I'm—" Peter began again, his voice trembling.
But Harry wasn't done. He pointed a finger at Peter, his hand shaking. "Don't. Don't you dare apologize. 'Sorry' isn't going to cut it this time, Parker. There aren't any good excuses in the universe that I'd accept right now, because no matter what, this should have taken priority."
Peter's heart sank, his chest tightening as Harry's words continued to cut into him.
"When Ben died," Harry said, his voice softer but no less biting, "I dropped everything. I came to see you, to check on you, to be there for you. So imagine my shock when my so-called best friend didn't do the same."
The anger in Harry's voice had given way to something heavier, something broken. He looked exhausted, the weight of his grief bearing down on him. "All these years I stuck by you, Pete. Even when you began to outshine me in academics or when those smarts of yours went to your head and you needed someone to bail you out of bad situations you got yourself in. Only ever asking for you to do the same when the time comes."
For a moment, there was nothing but silence between them. Gwen shifted uncomfortably in her chair, glancing between the two of them as if she wanted to speak but couldn't find the courage.
Peter took a hesitant step forward. "Harry, I—"
"No," Harry interrupted, his voice flat and firm. He looked directly at Peter, his expression unreadable. "You don't get to explain. You don't get to make this better. Because you can't."
"Harry, please," Gwen interjected softly, her voice pleading. "He didn't mean to—"
"No," Harry snapped, cutting her off with a sharp glare. "And you don't get to defend him, not this time."
Gwen fell silent, her shoulders slumping as she looked down at her hands.
Peter opened his mouth to try again, to say something that might fix this, but Harry raised a hand, silencing him. "I think it's best you leave, Pete."
The words hung heavy in the air, a finality to them that made Peter's chest ache.
"Harry, I can't just—"
"I'm not asking," Harry said firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument.
Peter hesitated, his feet rooted to the spot. He wanted to fight, to push back, to make Harry see how much he cared, but the look in Harry's eyes stopped him. There was no winning this. Not now.
Peter nodded slowly, his heart breaking as he turned away. He glanced at Gwen, who gave him a small, sad smile, but didn't say anything. He started down the hallway, each step feeling heavier than the last.
As he reached the end of the corridor, he paused, looking back over his shoulder. Harry was still standing there, his arms crossed, his head bowed. Gwen had stood and placed a hand on his arm, speaking to him in hushed tones. Peter couldn't hear what she was saying, but it didn't matter.
He turned back and kept walking, his chest tight with regret.
Outside the hospital, the city seemed impossibly bright, the lights and noise a harsh contrast to the quiet despair of the scene he'd just left behind. Peter leaned against the wall, pressing his palms to his face as a wave of emotion threatened to overwhelm him.
He had failed. Failed Harry. Failed Mrs. Osborn. Failed as a friend. And no amount of heroics could make up for that.
•••••••
The hospital room was quiet, save for the rhythmic beeping of machines that no longer mattered. Norman Osborn sat in a stiff plastic chair, his wife's lifeless body cradled in his arms. Emily's skin was still warm, but the warmth was fading, stolen by time and inevitability. The machines had fought to keep her alive, but in the end, they had lost. He had lost.
Outside the room, the muffled sound of voices seeped through the door. Raised, emotional, angry. Norman recognized Harry's voice first—raw with grief and betrayal. Then Parker's, desperate and defendant. The words blurred together, another piece of the chaos that had invaded his life.
Norman didn't care.
He barely even registered the noise. It was just static, meaningless background sound compared to the silence that filled the void in his chest. His world had ended the moment Emily's breath had hitched, the moment her fingers went slack in his grip, the moment the light in her eyes faded into nothingness.
He looked down at her now, running a hand over her cheek. It wasn't fair. It wasn't right. She had been innocent in all of this. He had spent decades building an empire, sacrificing time, sacrificing her—all so he could give her a life where she never had to worry. And in the end, it hadn't been enough.
You should have been here.
That Harry's sentiment twisted in his gut, cruel and biting. The boy was not often that bright, but for the first time in forever, his broken clock of a son was right, even if his words weren't meant for him. He should have been by her side, not locked in boardrooms, not caught up in power struggles, not fending off the vultures who wanted to tear him and Oscorp apart.
And certainly not at war with them.
Otto Octavius.
The name alone sent a fresh wave of rage coursing through him. Norman had never held Octavius in high regard. The man was brilliant, yes, but pathetic. A simpering idealist who thought his intellect would carry him to greatness. Norman had tolerated him once, had even given him a place within Oscorp—only for Octavius to squander it, to prove himself weak.
But to do this?
To come into his home? To threaten him? To endanger his wife? Committing the very act he was livid about? The hypocrite.
It was unacceptable. Unforgivable.
Norman's grip on Emily tightened, his nails biting into the fabric of her hospital gown. The time he had wasted, the years spent building a future he thought he could control—it had all been ripped away in a single moment.
But this sacrifice would not be in vain.
No, this was not the end. This was merely the beginning.
Octavius. Lincoln. Spider-Man.
They were all going to pay.
The weight of that realization settled over him, not as grief, but as purpose. Norman was not a man to be toyed with. This was not some trivial corporate battle, not a petty rivalry.
This was war.
Carefully, almost reverently, he laid Emily's body back against the hospital bed, smoothing the blanket over her as if she were merely sleeping. His hand lingered over hers before he pulled away, his movements precise, mechanical.
Then, he reached into his pocket and retrieved his phone.
There was only one number he needed.
The dial tone barely had time to ring before a voice answered on the other end. Deep, steady, expectant.
"Lincoln."
Norman inhaled slowly, his rage coiling beneath the surface like a viper ready to strike. His voice was calm when he spoke, but there was no mistaking the venom behind it.
"O'Hirn is ready."
A beat of silence. Then, a slow exhale from the other end of the line.
"Understood."
Norman ended the call, lowering the phone from his ear. His grip tightened around the device before he finally let it slide back into his pocket. He vowed merciless vengeance, that their families would suffer like Emily did, that they would grieve like he did.
He turned back toward the hospital bed, staring at the woman who had once been his world. Softly, he whispered, "I promise, Emily. I will dissect them alive and drag the lifeless corpses through the city for everyone to see, for you to see. You will be avenged, I promise you that."
Then, with the certainty of a man who had already decided his course, Norman Osborn stood and left the room.
•••••••
The hospital's waiting room was suffocating. The fluorescent lights cast everything in a harsh, artificial glow, making the grief in the air feel even heavier. Peter sat in one of the chairs, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped together, trying to steady his breathing.
Harry's words still rang in his ears.
"You weren't here the one time I needed you to be."
"I think it's best you leave, Pete."
He had left. He had no choice.
But even now, sitting here, he felt frozen in place. His legs wouldn't carry him out of the building, but they also wouldn't take him back to Harry's side. He was stuck in a moment he couldn't fix, and the worst part was, he knew it was his fault.
He heard the sound of footsteps approaching, slow and deliberate, and he didn't need to look up to know who it was. Gwen Stacy.
She sat down in the chair beside him, silent for a long moment. Peter didn't speak either. He didn't have the energy, and part of him was terrified of what she might say.
Finally, she exhaled sharply, and when she spoke, her voice was quiet, but there was no mistaking the frustration underneath.
"Peter, what the hell is going on with you?"
He looked up then, meeting her gaze, and immediately wished he hadn't. Her blue eyes were filled with hurt, but there was something else there, too—something dangerously close to disappointment.
He sighed, tilting his head back against the wall. "Gwen, please… not now."
But she ignored him, arms crossed. Her expression was unreadable, but her eyes told him everything—she was hurt, confused, and tired. "Not now?" she repeated, incredulous. "You think you get to decide when we do this? After everything?"
Peter swallowed hard. He knew what was coming, and he wasn't ready for it.
Gwen shook her head, her frustration bubbling to the surface. "You weren't here, Peter. You weren't here. And I can't keep pretending that's okay."
"I know," he said quietly, but knew Gwen wasn't done. He knew what she was talking about.
"No. You don't know. You don't get it, because this isn't just about today. It's not just about you missing this." She took a breath, and when she spoke again, her voice wavered. "You're never around, Peter. You disappear without a word, you miss plans, you skip out on your friends. And we don't know why."
Peter clenched his jaw, staring at the ground.
"You think Harry's the only one who's frustrated?" she continued, stepping closer. "It's all of us. Me. Eddie. Liz—hell, even Flash has noticed! You're acting so weird lately, and none of us understand it. Because you never tell us anything. You just vanish."
She let out a bitter laugh, shaking her head. "And when you are here, you're distracted. You're looking over your shoulder, checking your phone, acting like you'd rather be anywhere else."
Peter swallowed hard, the lump in his throat making it difficult to speak.
"I... I want to," she continued, softer this time. "I want to understand, Peter. Or at least try. But I can't if you're never around long enough to explain yourself."
He dropped his gaze, staring at the floor, because he couldn't look at her anymore.
"I…" He hesitated, his throat tightening. "I never wanted to hurt you, Gwen."
"Then why do you keep doing it?"
Peter looked up, meeting her gaze again. Her eyes were glassy with unshed tears, and the sight of them nearly shattered him.
"You think I didn't want to defend you?" she asked, her voice softer now. "When Harry was yelling at you, I wanted to say something. I wanted to be on your side."
Peter inhaled sharply, already knowing what was coming next.
"But I couldn't," Gwen admitted, her expression pained. "Because Harry was right."
Peter winced. He knew she wasn't saying it to be cruel, but it hurt all the same. "Gwen, I—"
"No," she interrupted, shaking her head. "Just... let me finish."
He nodded numbly, letting her continue.
"You're one of my best friends," she said. "Or at least... you were."
Peter's breath caught.
"And before all of this," she went on, "It's no secret that I want things between us to become something more, for us to be something more."
Peter looked up sharply at that, his chest tightening.
"But now?" she hesitated, her voice trembling slightly. "Now I'm not so sure. You've been keeping all of us at arm's length, and I'm running out of reasons to keep pretending that's normal."
Peter opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He couldn't say she was wrong.
"I knew this might happen," Gwen admitted. "I saw the signs before. This... distance, this lack of communication, this lack of trust—it's what soured things between you and Liz."
Peter flinched. He didn't like thinking about that. About how Liz Allan had been another person he had hurt because he couldn't be honest.
"But as delusional as it might sound," Gwen said, laughing humorlessly, "I believed I'd be different. That you'd treat me different." She blinked rapidly, trying to hold back tears. "And despite knowing that there was a chance you wouldn't... it doesn't make it hurt any less."
Peter opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Because what could he say? What words could he possibly form to resolve this situation even if he could tell her the truth? That he needed to disappear because of a sense of responsibility? That he skipped out on his friends because Spider-Man always came first?
None of those were answers he could give.So instead, he did the only thing he could.
He looked away.
Peter felt his own eyes sting, his hands gripping the fabric of his jeans so tightly his knuckles turned white.
Gwen let out a humorless laugh. "Right. Of course." She nodded to herself, biting her lip. "You're not going to tell me anything, are you?"
Peter squeezed his eyes shut, guilt clawing at his insides. "I can't," he whispered.
She let out a slow exhale, and when she spoke again, her voice was quiet. Resigned. "Then I don't know what else to do, Peter."
His stomach twisted. Neither do I, he thought.
Gwen inhaled shakily, composing herself. "I think... I think we should put this—us—on pause. For now."
Peter's heart dropped.
"Harry needs a friend right now," she said, her voice firm. "And you... you clearly don't have the capacity to be that person right now."
Tears welled up in her eyes, and before Peter could say anything, before he could beg her not to do this, she stood up.
She turned and walked away, her shoulders tense, her head down.
She didn't notice that Peter's eyes looked the same as hers.
Tombstone sat at his newly replaced desk, the polished mahogany gleaming under the dim lighting of his office. He methodically sorted through the pile of paperwork in front of him, his heavy fingers sifting through financial reports, laundering operations, and business fronts that kept his empire hidden in plain sight. On the surface, they were all legitimate ventures—construction firms, nightclubs, shipping companies—but he knew better. Every line on these documents represented a deal, a power play, or a move made to keep his criminal network thriving.
Despite the careful orchestration, something was off. The police had been sniffing around more than usual. Not just beat cops looking for an easy bribe, but real investigators—people who asked the wrong questions and poked around places they shouldn't. That could mean a lot of things, but the two most likely explanations stood out.
Either he had a rat. Or Spider-Man actually had someone in the NYPD worth a damn to help him. However what concerned him was how likely it is that he is in a scenario where both were true.
"If nothing else, the boy is persistent," Lonnie muttered to himself, setting down a report. He leaned back, the chair creaking slightly under his weight, his mind already working through potential contingencies.
The office door swung open without a knock.
Hammerhead stepped inside.
The man's square jaw was clenched, his usual brutish confidence dimmed by something that looked almost like unease. Tombstone's brow raised slightly as he took in the expression—Hammerhead wasn't the type to get rattled easily.
"Ah, my second-in-command," Tombstone greeted, his voice measured. "What can I do for you?"
Instead of answering immediately, Hammerhead stepped forward and dropped two tickets on the desk. The paper fluttered slightly before settling.
"As I was about to move to my next safe house," Hammerhead began, his voice steady but tight, "one of my guys came running to me, saying the place had been torn apart. Every single man I had posted there was dead. And these—" he gestured to the tickets "—were the only thing they left behind."
Tombstone picked them up, flipping them between his fingers. The thick cardstock felt expensive. He read the print aloud.
"The opening debut of Aurora Rowe's newest play on the 21st," he said, his tone shifting into something akin to curiosity. "A musical, to be exact. And it looks like these are tickets to the best seats in the house."
He set them down again, eyes narrowing.
"A calling card?" he mused. "Or an invitation?"
Hammerhead exhaled sharply, crossing his arms. "I don't like it either way. Someone slaughters my crew, leaves these behind, and doesn't even take anything. That ain't a hit. That's a message."
Tombstone steepled his fingers, considering. "And what do we know about this Aurora Rowe?"
Hammerhead shook his head. "Not much. Some up-and-coming playwright, does big productions. Not tied to anything that would put her in our sights."
"Then she's either an innocent pawn," Tombstone said, tapping a finger on the desk, "or someone is using her event as cover for something else."
"Could be a trap," Hammerhead said.
"Undoubtedly," Tombstone agreed. "But whose?"
That was the real question. Whoever did this wasn't a small-time player. To wipe out an entire safe house without triggering alarms or leaving behind any survivors—except to deliver this cryptic message—took skill. Precision. It also meant whoever was responsible wasn't afraid of retaliation.
Hammerhead shifted his weight. "You thinking Spider-Man?"
Tombstone frowned. "If it were him, my men would still be breathing. Busted up, webbed to walls, but breathing."
"Then who?"
Tombstone let the question linger in the air before standing. He adjusted the cuffs of his suit jacket, moving with the deliberate ease of a man who had seen—and survived—too much to be easily shaken.
"Doesn't matter," he finally said. "We'll find out."
Hammerhead's jaw tightened. "You wanna go?"
"I want to see who has the nerve to challenge me this boldly," Tombstone said. He gestured to the tickets. "We'll attend. Best seats in the house, after all."
Hammerhead grunted. "Gonna bring some muscle?"
"Subtle muscle," Tombstone corrected. "I want eyes on every angle of that theater. If this is a trap, we'll be ready. If it's a message, we'll hear it loud and clear."
Hammerhead exhaled through his nose, clearly still uneasy, but he nodded. "I'll make the arrangements."
"Good."
Tombstone picked up the tickets once more, staring at the elegant font printed across them.
A play. A show.
Or a stage for something far more dangerous. Either way, he would be watching. And he would not be caught off guard.
Back to Present Day
The momentary peace was over. Five minutes had passed, and Peter knew he couldn't stay in the snow forever, no matter how much his body begged for rest. He sighed, forcing himself to sit up. His muscles protested, stiff from the cold and exhaustion, but he rolled his shoulders and stretched, trying to shake it off. His mask was damp, the edges stiff with frost, and he shivered as a chill ran down his spine. Maybe from the weather… or maybe from what awaited him tonight.
Aunt May's voice echoed in his head, warm and hopeful. "Peter, dear, it's just one evening! Anna's niece is a delightful young woman, you'll have a wonderful time!"
Peter shuddered again. "Miss Delightful," as Aunt May had described her, sounded like the last thing he needed right now. A blind date with some random girl? At a Christmas play? His life was already enough of a disaster without throwing awkward small talk into the mix. Still, he'd promised his aunt. After everything, he at least owed her that.
He was still contemplating ways to get out of it when a sharp scream cut through the night air.
His head snapped up. A distant commotion—sirens, yelling, the unmistakable crack of something breaking.
"Of course," he muttered, exhaling as he got to his feet. His joints ached as he moved, his body sluggish, but adrenaline was already kicking in. His date with Miss Delightful would have to wait.
"Duty calls," he said, shaking the snow off his shoulders before launching off the rooftop.
The cold wind slapped against him as he swung forward, but he barely felt it. His body knew the rhythm by heart—web, swing, release, repeat. The city blurred past, a winter wonderland wrapped in flashing reds and blues. Christmas decorations lit up the streets below, families bundled in scarves and coats, unaware of whatever chaos was unfolding just blocks away.
Peter didn't know what he was heading into, but he knew one thing for sure—there was no rest for Spider-Man. Not tonight at least.
•••••••
Peter Parker adjusted his tie for what felt like the hundredth time. The dark blue fabric of Uncle Ben's old suit felt heavy on his shoulders, a physical reminder of the weight of the past few weeks. Otto Octavius spiraling into villainy, Mrs. Osborn was gone, and Harry, Peter's closest friend, was unresponsive. Every attempt to reach out had been met with silence. And then there was Eddie, who wasn't too happy with Peter either, and Gwen...
Peter stopped himself, his chest tightening. He'd promised himself he wouldn't think about her tonight. That was the point of agreeing to this whole ordeal—this play premiere, this date, this... distraction.
"Peter, stop fussing!" Aunt May's voice broke through his thoughts. She stood behind him, brushing a speck of lint from his shoulder with the tender efficiency of someone who had dressed him for school picture days and church functions for years. "You look handsome. You haven't looked this sharp since prom."
Peter winced. That was a low blow. Prom had been one of those bittersweet memories that lingered. He'd gone with Gwen, just as friends, though in hindsight, he couldn't help but wonder what might have been.
"Thanks, Aunt May," Peter mumbled, trying to sound appreciative.
His thoughts, of course, immediately betrayed him and wandered back to Gwen. If he had just paid more attention... If I hadn't been so consumed with Spider-Man...
Aunt May gave him a knowing look but said nothing, her quiet encouragement both comforting and slightly unnerving. "Now remember, Peter, Miss Watson's niece is a very sweet girl. Just... keep an open mind, all right?"
Peter forced a smile. Miss Delightful. That's what Aunt May had been calling her all week. The very nickname made him shudder. He imagined some overly chipper young woman in a floral dress straight out of a bygone era. Maybe she'd talk about cats or knitting.
The doorbell rang, shattering Peter's grim thoughts.
"She's here!" Aunt May chirped, her enthusiasm enough to fill the entire room. Anna Watson appeared in the doorway, beaming like a proud matchmaker.
"You answer it, Peter," Aunt May said, her tone leaving no room for argument.
"Yeah, Pete," Anna added, a twinkle in her eye. "You should be the first one to see her."
Great. No pressure.
Peter sighed heavily, his footsteps slow and reluctant as he moved toward the door. He braced himself, imagining some younger version of Anna Watson, complete with a frilly dress and an overly polite demeanor.
But when he opened the door, the breath caught in his throat. Standing there was one of the most stunning women he had ever seen.
She was a vision of vivacious beauty, her presence as radiant as the morning sun casting its first light. Her hair, a cascade of fiery red, flowed in soft waves that seemed to shimmer like molten copper, catching the faintest glimmers of light. It framed her face in a natural, effortless elegance, each strand a testament to her untamed spirit.
Her eyes were twin emeralds, bright and lively, with a depth that hinted at both mischief and a tender understanding of the world—eyes that seemed to hold a secret, as if she had already read every thought running through Peter's head. They glistened with an intensity that could pierce through the darkest clouds, yet they held a warmth that could soothe even the weariest soul. Fringed by dark lashes, they were both a mystery and an invitation.
Her lips, painted a soft dark rose hue, curled into a smile that was both knowing and playful. It was the kind of smile that demanded attention without asking for it. It held mischief and warmth, strength and vulnerability. Her lips looked as if they often curved into a smile—bold, knowing, and utterly disarming. It was the kind of smile that could light up a room, one that spoke volumes without the need for words. The faintest dimple appeared at the corner of her cheek, a mark of her charm, as if even her smallest expressions conspired to captivate.
She wore a fitted emerald dress, its simplicity complimented her confidence. It hugged her curves in all the right places, the fabric shimmering subtly with her every movement. A silver necklace with a small pendant rested just above her collarbone, drawing attention to the graceful line of her neck.
She tilted her head slightly, studying him in return. Then she spoke, her voice a perfect balance of sultry confidence and gentle charm. It was the kind of voice that could soothe you in a storm or set your heart racing without warning.
She smiled, her lips curving into a dazzling grin. "Face it, Tiger—"
"—You just hit the Jackpot."