Chapter 10: Bonus Scene: Because We're Saving Silvio
Bonus Scene
Silvio Manfredi was panting as he rushes down a dimly lit alley. His once-immaculate white suit is now stained with dirt and sweat. Sirens wail in the distance, growing louder. The cops are closing in.
Just a little further, he tells himself. If he can reach the black car waiting at the end of the alley, he can disappear for a while—maybe even regroup.
THWAP!
Silvio's foot suddenly catches on something, and his world turns upside-down as he smashes face-first onto the pavement. His hat rolls ahead of him like a dramatic prop in an old gangster movie.
He groans, looking up—only to see a red-and-black clad figure crouched on a crate, spinning a sai like he's way too comfortable with it.
Deadpool made his introduction to the story as he lampooned, "Oooh, tough break, Silvermane! Not as tough as Uncle Ben's spine, though! I mean, how many times has that poor guy died? It's like every other story! Even fanfiction keeps milking that poor man's tragic demise."
Silvio blinks. Once. Twice.
"…Who the hell are you?"
Deadpool gave a mock gasp before answering, "Who am I?! Wow. Okay. That hurts. No, really. That actually hurts my feelings. I thought everyone knew me by now. I mean, sure, I don't have a movie last year, but still—" (he pauses, looking directly at the camera) "—oh, wait, scratch that. I totally did. You saw it, right? I mean, you paid to watch Morbius at least once, didn't you?"
Silvio groans, pushing himself up, shaking his head in frustration.
"I don't have time for this."
"Oh, but you do! You see, the plot says the cops gotta catch you. You know, 'cause of justice and all that jazz. Not because I wanna see what happens when they try to get your metal bones through a metal detector. Ooh! Maybe you'll be like Magneto in that one 'X-Men' movie! But, uh… less cool. And older. And not played by Ian McKellen."
Silvio finally gets to his feet, shaking off his disorientation, and books it for the car.
Deadpool sighed, checking a fake wristwatch drawn on his glove,"Oh, c'mon, man. The script says I gotta trip you twice. Don't make me improvise."
Silvio almost reaches the car when—
THWAP!
Deadpool whips out a banana peel from somewhere (seriously, where did that even come from?) and flicks it perfectly under Silvio's foot. Once again, Silvermane takes a spectacular fall, this time sliding across the pavement like an old man in an America's Funniest Home Videos compilation.
Deadpool stands over him, shaking his head.
"Tsk tsk. Silvio, my man, I hate to break it to you, but… you're not scheduled to appear in another story for a while. Like, seriously. You're not even the big bad here. You're like… a mid-tier villain at best. Maybe you'll get a Disney cameo someday, though. Wouldn't that be fun?"
Silvio groans, trying to crawl forward. The cops are right at the alley entrance now, their flashlights sweeping the walls.
Silvio threatened, "Get… out of my way…"
Deadpool mocked him with his hands waving, "Oh no, Deadpool, please don't stop me from running into certain incarceration!" "C'mon, Silvermane. Be honest. You weren't getting out of this even without me messing with you."
Silvio lets out an exasperated breath as the cops rush in, surrounding him.
"Silvio Manfredi, you're under arrest! Hands where we can see 'em!"
Silvio just glares up at Deadpool, who gave him an exaggerated wave,"Well, this was fun! Anyway, I gotta go. Actual main character things to do. Toodle-oo!"
With that, Deadpool pulls out a remote, presses a button—AND IMMEDIATELY FALLS THROUGH A PLOT HOLE IN THE GROUND.
Silvio stares at the hole in disbelief as it seals itself back up like nothing happened asking, "…What the hell just happened?"
The cops don't answer. Frankly, they don't want to know.
Chapter 11: Volume 2: Between Masks and Monsters
May 17, 2005
A new day was dawning over New York City. The first light of morning stretched across the skyline, casting long shadows over the streets. The air was crisp, carrying the distant sounds of honking cabs and early commuters. In the heart of Queens, an apartment complex stood half-rebuilt, scaffolding still wrapped around its frame like the last traces of an old wound.
Inside one of the newly furnished units, Peter Parker stood in front of a small mirror, adjusting the hood of his sweatshirt. It had been six months since everything changed—since the night he put on the mask for the first time. Somehow, he had managed to keep it a secret from everyone. He had no intention of changing that. Not yet. Not when there was still so much to figure out.
He glanced at the photograph on his nightstand. Uncle Ben, smiling like he already knew Peter was going to make something of himself. A quiet sigh left Peter's lips. He grabbed his backpack, slung it over one shoulder, and turned toward the window. With practiced ease, he slid it open, stepped onto the fire escape, and vanished into the morning air.
New York flew past him in streaks of glass and steel as he swung between buildings. The wind rushed against his suit, cold but invigorating. Down below, the city stirred to life, but crime never waited for business hours.
A mugger sprinted down an alley, a purse clutched in his hands. With a flick of his wrist, Peter sent out a web-line, snagging the guy's jacket and yanking him off his feet. The thief hit the pavement with a yelp, stuck in place by another quick shot of webbing.
"Seriously?" Peter sighed, crouching above him. "It's too early for this."
He left a note—"For NYPD – Happy Tuesday!"—before swinging off into the city.
Another turn, another problem. A delivery bike veered out of control, heading straight for a fruit stand. A single web-line caught the handlebars, pulling the bike to a stop just inches from disaster.
The vendor, hands raised in panic, blinked at the sudden save. "¡Dios mío!"
"Don't worry, first save's free," Peter called over his shoulder as he swung away.
It was all routine now—stop a carjacking before the thief could get the door open, web up a reckless driver's tires before they could speed through a red light. Little moments of chaos, handled before they could spiral out of control.
As the sun crept higher in the sky, Midtown High came into view. The school buses were just pulling up, students spilling out onto the sidewalk. Timing was everything. Peter swung around the back of the school, landing in the narrow space behind the maintenance shed. Quickly, he peeled off his mask and suit, stuffing them into his backpack. A quick check in a grimy window reflection—hoodie in place, no web residue—good enough.
Slipping into the crowd of students, Peter adjusted the straps of his backpack and let out a slow breath.
Here, he was just Peter Parker. The kid who was always a little late. The one who barely made it through gym class. Just another student.
But the moment trouble called—
He knew exactly who he would be.
As Peter walked through the crowded hallways of Midtown High, he barely had time to adjust his backpack before he heard a familiar voice calling out to him.
"There you are, man! Thought you finally took up space travel or something," Harry Osborn said, clapping Peter on the back as he fell into step beside him.
Mary Jane Watson followed close behind, arms crossed with a knowing smirk. "Or maybe you just found some new secret passage to school. You're never on the bus anymore."
Peter forced a casual shrug. "Eh, I've been working on a new running routine. Figured it'd be good for me." He tapped his leg. "Gotta keep the cardio up, y'know?"
Harry raised an eyebrow but nodded. "Huh. Not a bad idea, actually. You always said you wanted to improve yourself."
"Exactly," Peter replied, hoping that ended the subject.
They rounded the corner toward their lockers, and Harry's expression shifted to something more serious. "Hey… I just wanted to say I feel bad about everything your aunt's had to deal with. The whole Maggia incident… six months and her place is still being rebuilt?"
Peter sighed. "Yeah. It's been tough. She's doing everything she can, but I don't know if she'll be able to keep the rent prices as low as she used to when she reopens."
"She's too selfless," Mary Jane added, shaking her head. "Peter, I really hope you're not planning to be like that too. You've already thrown yourself into helping Gwen with her talent stuff. I swear, you're dedicating more time to her future than she is."
Peter gave an exaggerated gasp. "What? Me? Being an easy critic? I'd never! I'm just giving Gwen an evaluation she can actually improve from." He grinned. "Besides, I think she likes a challenge."
Harry scoffed. "Yeah, well, I'd be seeing her as often as you do if it meant listening to her sing as much as you do."
Mary Jane rolled her eyes. "You guys are hopeless." She leaned against her locker. "Y'know, once upon a time, I thought about the theater scene too. But honestly? Journalism's more my thing."
"Guess we all find our own spot eventually," Peter said, giving her a nod.
Mary Jane smirked. "Yeah. And some of us are still figuring it out."
Peter chuckled, but her words lingered as the three of them continued down the hall. If only she knew just how true that was.
Peter sat quietly in the auditorium, his hands resting on the seat in front of him as he watched Gwen Stacy command the stage. Her voice soared effortlessly, filling the empty theater with the haunting melody of a Broadway classic from the '90s. The sheer emotion in her performance sent a chill down his spine, just as it had when she played Grizabella. If he had ever doubted why she had landed that role, moments like these erased any hesitation—Gwen was born for this.
As she finished the final note, the echo of her voice lingered for a moment before silence took over. Gwen let out a small breath, brushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "Man… I really wonder what my first real performance is gonna be once I'm out of school," she mused.
Peter, still mesmerized, offered a lopsided smile. "Wherever it is, they're gonna be lucky to have you."
She gave him a playful nudge before gathering her things. As she turned away, Peter's attention was drawn to the side of the stage, where Mr. Franklin was making his way toward his office. Walking beside him was Arthur Bell, the talent scout who had taken an interest in Gwen after her performance as Grizabella.
Peter's curiosity got the better of him. Keeping a careful distance, he followed them down the hallway, stepping lightly to avoid drawing attention to himself. As soon as Mr. Franklin's office door closed behind them, Peter moved closer, pressing himself against the wall just beside the doorframe.
Inside, he could hear Arthur Bell speaking in a low, confident tone. "Gwen Stacy has real potential. That's why I'm here. We're moving ahead with placing her in a professional debut."
Mr. Franklin's voice was warm with approval. "That's wonderful news. She's been working hard for this."
Arthur let out a short chuckle. "Good, because we're offering her a spot in an off-Broadway production."
There was a pause. Peter could almost picture the satisfied nod Mr. Franklin was probably giving. "That's a great opportunity for someone her age. What production?"
Another beat of silence before Arthur Bell delivered his answer. "Jekyll & Hyde."
Peter heard Mr. Franklin shift in his chair. "Really?" His voice had lost its earlier warmth, replaced with uncertainty. "That show had a… complicated reception, to put it lightly."
Arthur shrugged. "Complicated or not, it's a production with a dedicated following. And if Gwen is as good as she seems, her performance alone should be enough to elevate it."
Peter furrowed his brow. Jekyll & Hyde? He didn't know much about it beyond its reputation, but Mr. Franklin's hesitation was clear. Still, if this was a real shot at a professional career, wasn't it a good thing?
Not wanting to risk getting caught eavesdropping, Peter quickly stepped away from the door and made his way down the hall, his mind spinning. This was huge for Gwen—but why was Mr. Franklin so uneasy about it?
Peter stepped into their apartment, the faint scent of fresh paint and sawdust still lingering in the air. The place was almost back to the way it had been before the fire, but there were still small reminders that things had changed—new furniture that didn't quite match the old, a few missing photographs that hadn't survived. And in the middle of it all, Aunt May stood by the kitchen counter, hunched over a stack of paperwork with a determined expression.
"You're still up?" Peter asked, setting his backpack down.
May looked up with a tired but warm smile. "Oh, Peter, I didn't hear you come in. Just going over everything before we reopen. There's still a lot to do, but we're getting there."
He leaned against the counter. "You sure you're not pushing yourself too hard?"
She chuckled. "I've been through worse. And I can't let people down now—not when they're counting on me to bring them home again."
Peter nodded, admiring her resilience. He let out a sigh as he grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl and took a bite. "It's just... I guess I've been thinking a lot about the future lately. There's a lot happening, and I don't know how things are going to turn out."
May studied him for a moment. "Something on your mind?"
Peter hesitated. He couldn't exactly tell her about Spider-Man or how that part of his life complicated everything, so he settled on what he could say. "It's about Gwen. She's getting this big opportunity, and I should be happy for her—I am happy for her. But something about it just feels... off."
May sighed, placing a reassuring hand on his. "Peter, there are always going to be difficult times ahead. I know that better than anyone. But what matters is that we keep going, even when we don't know how things will turn out. And no matter what's ahead, the best thing you can do is be there for the people who need you."
Peter swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, you're right."
She patted his cheek with a small smile. "Now go get some rest. You've got school tomorrow, and I'll need your help this weekend."
"Wouldn't miss it," he said before heading to his room.
As soon as he shut the door, he pulled out his laptop and flipped it open. He logged onto the family's DSL connection—it took a few moments, the whine of the modem filling the room. He opened up Google and typed in Jekyll & Hyde Broadway review.
Within seconds, dozens of results popped up. Scanning through them, he saw the same thing over and over: mixed reviews, critics calling it "overly dramatic" and "musically uneven," while others praised its ambition and the powerhouse performances it demanded.
He frowned. So this is what Mr. Franklin was worried about...
Clicking further, he stumbled onto a BroadwayWorld forum thread discussing the play's history. One comment caught his eye:
Arthur Bell is one of the few agents who actually loves Jekyll & Hyde—he always recruits new talent for it.
Peter frowned and kept digging, finding an old Variety article that confirmed it. Arthur Bell had been bringing fresh faces into productions of Jekyll & Hyde for years. Some had gone on to bigger things, while others had faded into obscurity.
Another forum user had a different take:
Some say Bell uses Jekyll & Hyde to chew through talent. Like, he throws them into the deep end and sees who sinks or swims. Either way, he wins.
Peter leaned back in his chair. If Bell truly believed in the play, then maybe it wasn't as bad as it sounded... but something about it still made his stomach twist. He wasn't sure if this was a brilliant opportunity for Gwen—or a test she wasn't expecting.
Either way, it was out of his hands. For now, all he could do was hope that she'd be ready for whatever came next.
May 18, 2005
The subway rumbled beneath the streets of New York as Peter Parker, Mary Jane Watson, Harry Osborn, and Liz Allan sat together, the flickering lights casting intermittent shadows over their faces.
"I still can't believe I got a shot at this," Mary Jane said, grinning as she flipped through her notepad. "An exclusive interview with Dr. Curt Connors? This is huge!"
Peter smirked, adjusting his backpack straps. "Yeah, it's pretty great. Connors is a genius—his work on limb regeneration could change everything."
Liz Allan, who had been scrolling through her phone, snorted. "Peter, do you ever take a break from being a total dork?"
"Hey, science dork is the best kind of dork," Peter shot back playfully.
Harry smirked, leaning against the subway pole. "Honestly, I'm with Pete on this one. My dad's always had an interest in Connors' work, which means it's probably tied up in some Oscorp project." His tone was light, but there was an underlying edge whenever he mentioned his father. "Still, I'm looking forward to the tour. Maybe I'll get some ideas for when I eventually have to take over the company."
Liz nudged Harry. "And here I thought you were just tagging along to avoid another business dinner with your dad."
Harry rolled his eyes. "You're not wrong." Peter chuckled but didn't respond. He couldn't tell her the real reason. Ever since the Maggia incident six months ago, when Oscorp's reckless experiments led to chaos, Peter had been keeping tabs on their biogenetic projects. The Otali Kuwe spider—the one that bit him and made him Spider-Man—was just one of their secret ventures. If there was any chance that something dangerous was brewing under Oscorp's radar again, he needed to know.
The subway screeched to a stop at 14th Street – Union Square, and the two hopped out, making their way toward Empire State University. The towering campus buildings were alive with students hurrying between classes, and the Science Hall stood tall in the distance, its banners boasting Connors' upcoming lecture:
"GENETIC REBIRTH: The Future of Human Regeneration" - Dr. Curt Connors
"Okay, let's make a deal," Liz said as they approached the Science Hall. "If Connors' lecture turns out to be a total snooze-fest, we all agree to ditch and find somewhere fun to hang out."
Mary Jane smirked. "You guys can ditch if you want, but I actually need this interview."
"And I actually want to hear Connors speak," Peter added.
Liz sighed dramatically. "Fine, but if he starts going on about DNA sequences for an hour, I reserve the right to mentally check out."
Harry chuckled. "No promises, Liz. But hey, maybe you'll learn something."
Peter, however, wasn't just here for the science talk. Ever since the Maggia incident six months ago, he had been keeping tabs on Oscorp's biogenetic projects. The Otali Kuwe spider—the one that had turned him into Spider-Man—had been part of their experiments. If there was any chance something dangerous was happening under Oscorp's radar again, he needed to know.
As they entered the building, Peter's excitement warred with his suspicion. Connors' work was revolutionary, but anything tied to Oscorp meant potential danger. And if Oscorp was involved… Spider-Man might have work to do.
The lecture hall at Empire State University buzzed with anticipation as students, professors, and researchers filled the seats. Some were there for extra credit, others out of obligation—but a few had come because they knew they were about to hear from one of the most brilliant geneticists in the country.
At the center of the room, Dr. Curt Connors stood beside a massive projection screen, adjusting the sleeve of his lab coat over the empty space where his right arm should have been. He was used to the stares, the whispered conversations about his missing limb. It had become a defining part of him—both his greatest weakness and his greatest motivation.
"Evolution," Connors began, his voice even but passionate, "is not an end goal. It's a constant, shifting battle between survival and adaptation. The strongest species don't always survive—only the ones most willing to change."
He tapped the screen, displaying a time-lapse video of a lizard regenerating its lost tail.
"The potential for regeneration exists within us all," he continued. "We see it in the way our bodies repair wounds, the way our cells renew themselves every day. But in some species, like this Otali Kuwe lizard discovered in Africa, the process is… accelerated. Controlled."
Connors turned to face the crowd, his expression unwavering. "Imagine what we could do if we harnessed this ability—not just to heal a wound, but to replace entire limbs. To rewrite the body's limits."
Some students murmured among themselves, intrigued. Others, particularly the older researchers in the audience, remained skeptical. A man near the back—a visiting biologist—raised a hand.
"But isn't there a danger in that, Dr. Connors? We've seen what happens when nature is tampered with carelessly. Messing with genetics—especially human genetics—can lead to consequences we don't fully understand."
Connors nodded, unfazed. "Of course. That's why science demands caution and precision. But I ask you this—what's more dangerous? Moving forward with controlled study, or leaving such discoveries untouched, allowing others to exploit them first?"
At that moment, Norman Osborn leaned against the doorway at the side of the room, watching silently with a faint smirk.
Connors continued, his gaze sharp and determined. "For decades, we've marveled at nature's ability to heal itself," Connors explained, pointing to an image of a salamander regenerating its lost tail. "If these creatures can regrow entire limbs, why shouldn't we, with all our advancements in genetic engineering, do the same? The future of medicine—of humanity—is in our hands. We must choose whether to fear it… or guide it."
Connors concluded his talk, thanking the audience as applause filled the hall. Students immediately swarmed the front, eager to shake hands or ask questions. Peter hesitated before heading down himself, navigating through the sea of ESU students.
When he reached Connors, the doctor was mid-conversation with an older professor. Up close, Peter noticed the empty sleeve pinned to the side of Connors' lab coat—his missing right arm. The realization made the lecture hit differently. This wasn't just science to Connors. It was personal.
Connors turned, catching Peter waiting. "Ah, another student. What's your name?"
"Peter Parker. Midtown High."
"A high schooler?" Connors raised a brow. "Didn't expect to see one here, but I admire the initiative."
Peter chuckled nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah, well… I'm kind of a science nerd. I wanted to ask—your research is incredible, but isn't there a risk in pushing genetic manipulation too far? The human body isn't built like a lizard's. There's a reason we don't regenerate, right?"
Connors smiled, clearly enjoying the challenge. "You're absolutely right, Peter. The biological failsafes in mammals are what keep us from growing out of control—cancer being the prime example. But what if we could control regeneration? Direct it? What if we could give soldiers, accident victims—people like me—a second chance?"
Peter nodded, still unsure. "I get that. But… modifying DNA on that level—it just seems like the kind of thing that could get out of hand."
Connors' expression darkened for just a second before he pushed the thought aside. "Science is about progress, Peter. Risks come with it, but the reward—" He glanced at his empty sleeve. "—is worth it."
Peter wanted to press further, but before he could, a man in a sleek business suit approached. He whispered something in Connors' ear, causing the scientist to sigh. "Excuse me, Peter. Duty calls."
Connors turned back briefly before leaving. "You've got a good head on your shoulders, kid. Keep asking the tough questions."
Peter watched him go, feeling both inspired and wary. Connors was brilliant, no doubt, but his conviction in his work… it felt eerily similar to the kind of thinking Peter had heard from people at Oscorp.
As he exited the lecture hall, Dr. William Antower, a scientist from Oscorp, fell into step beside him.
"An impressive speech, Dr. Connors," Antower said, offering a polite smile. "You certainly know how to capture a room."
Connors exhaled, rubbing his temple. "It's not about capturing a room. It's about making them listen."
Antower nodded. "Well, Norman Osborn was listening."
Connors stopped. For a moment, he considered responding, but instead, he simply sighed and continued down the hallway.
"Then I suppose I should be careful who I convince."
Inside the executive conference room of Oscorp Tower, the hum of the city below was muted by the thick, soundproof glass that stretched from floor to ceiling. The skyline gleamed with a golden hue as the sun set, casting long shadows across the polished oak table where Dr. Curt Connors sat. Across from him, Norman Osborn watched with his usual calculated intensity, his fingers steepled in front of him.
Connors shifted slightly, clearing his throat before continuing. "As you know, Norman, my research into limb regeneration has made remarkable strides. The latest trials have yielded significant cellular regrowth in test subjects, particularly in amphibian models. The key challenge remains scaling this effect to mammalian biology without adverse side effects."
Norman leaned back in his chair, his sharp features unreadable. "And the human trials?"
Curt hesitated. "Still premature. We're making progress in stabilizing the genetic alterations, but we can't rush this. If the mutation spirals out of control—"
"Doctor," Norman interrupted smoothly, his voice even but carrying an unmistakable weight. "I understand the challenges of scientific innovation. But you've had months, and while I commend your progress, I need to start seeing demonstrative results." He spread his hands, as if laying out an obvious truth. "We're not in the business of possibilities, Connors. We deal in realities."
Curt clenched his jaw, knowing exactly what that meant. He had always suspected that Norman's interest in his work wasn't purely scientific curiosity, but rather an investment in something more.
Norman's gaze never wavered. "I want you to understand that I respect your process, but there is an undeniable urgency to this. Oscorp thrives on innovation, and right now, regeneration is one of our most crucial frontiers."
Curt nodded stiffly. "I hear you, Norman. I do. But pushing this too fast could lead to dangerous consequences. I need time."
Norman smiled—a slow, careful expression that never quite reached his eyes. "Of course, Doctor. Take the time you need." A pause. "Just don't take too much of it."
Connors swallowed, understanding the unspoken warning in Norman's words. The meeting was over.
As Curt left the room, still processing the weight of the conversation, Dr. William Antower stepped in, carrying a folder thick with research notes.
"You really think pressing him like that is the best course?" Antower asked as he took a seat.
Norman exhaled through his nose, glancing toward the window as the city lights flickered on. "Connors is a brilliant man, but like all scientists, he lacks a sense of urgency."
Antower gave him a wary look. "Even brilliance has limits, Norman. If you push too hard, it could backfire."
Norman barely reacted. He turned his chair slightly, staring at the night sky. "I don't have the luxury of waiting, William. Time is the one enemy none of us can outmaneuver forever. If Oscorp is going to lead the world into a new era, I must see this through."
Dr. Curt Connors stepped out of Norman Osborn's office, the door clicking shut behind him with a finality that made his chest feel tight. He exhaled slowly, rubbing his temple as he walked down the pristine hallways of Oscorp Tower. The conversation still echoed in his mind, the weight of Osborn's expectations pressing down on his already strained thoughts.
He had known this moment was coming—knew that Norman wouldn't tolerate delays forever. But hearing it so plainly, so calmly stated, had a different effect. The urgency, the demand for results, was no longer just implicit.
Reaching the nearest window, Connors paused, his gaze drifting beyond the glass. The city stretched out below him, a vast sea of movement and life. But his eyes focused downward, to the street where a small group of students stood near the entrance of the Oscorp building.
Peter Parker.
Harry Osborn.
Liz Allan.
They were gathered together, talking amongst themselves, unaware of the storm brewing above them. Peter, in particular, stood slightly apart, glancing up at the Oscorp building, his expression unreadable.
Curt let out a slow breath. Just an hour ago, he had stood before them, discussing the possibilities of science, the boundless potential of human ingenuity. He had seen the enthusiasm in Peter's eyes, the curiosity, the belief that science could be used for something good.
And yet here he was, standing on the edge of a choice he wasn't sure he wanted to make.
He clenched his fist. "Take the time you need... just don't take too much of it." Norman's words whispered in his mind like a lingering specter.
He had spent years perfecting his theories, refining his process, all in the hopes of making a breakthrough that could change lives—his own most of all. He had convinced himself that it had to be done the right way, that rushing things would only lead to disaster.
But what if there wasn't any more time?
What if the only way forward was to take the risk himself?
His eyes drifted down to his empty right sleeve, pinned neatly against his lab coat. His missing arm—his curse, his weakness—had haunted him for years. He had devoted his life to erasing that weakness, to proving that regeneration wasn't just for the natural world but for all humanity.
And now Norman Osborn was making it clear that waiting wasn't an option.
His reflection stared back at him in the glass, and for the first time, he truly wondered—if I go through with this, will I still be Curt Connors?
Or would he become something else entirely?
Outside, the students laughed as they talked, unaware of the decision forming in the mind of the man watching them. A decision that would change all of their lives before long.
Author's Note: Hello everyone. I hope you enjoyed the first volume and look forward to seeing the next one. Jumping forward a year where we get to see a bit of a introduction to where Gwen's career is going to proceed and how Peter is handling his life as Spider-Man. I also intend to make the play Gwen is in right now a reflection of what sort of direction the story for this volume will be going.
Also to answer a review from scoobyedoo11, I actually do have plans to introduce Jessica Drew in this universe at some point though that will be in a different story. For now, this story is focused on Peter Parker with the guest appearance of another Spider-Man you will see down the line. Madame Web is a character I might also introduce but I'm also in the working stages of tackling that story though leaning towards likely.
That's some of the notes I have for this chapter, and I hope that builds the anticipation going forward. I hope to hear from you all in the future.
Chapter 12: Volume 2: What We Become
May 18, 2005
The late afternoon sky was shifting to an orange hue as Peter, Mary Jane, Harry, and Liz made their way down the bustling sidewalk toward the subway station. The sounds of car horns and distant chatter filled the air, but Peter's mind was still caught up in the presentation they had just attended.
"So," Harry finally spoke up, looking at Mary Jane, "what do you think about the answers Connors gave? I mean, about his regenerative research?"
"I don't know," Peter said, rubbing the back of his head. "Some of the things Dr. Connors mentioned… they sound like huge leaps in biological science. It's all cutting-edge, but also kind of vague. Did he seem like he was holding something back?"
"That's what I'm going to find out," Mary Jane replied, adjusting her purse strap. "He mentioned some recent developments in regenerative medicine that don't have a lot of public documentation. If I can track down a few of his past research papers and cross-reference them, I might be able to piece together what he's hinting at."
"I could help with that," Peter offered quickly. "If you get a hold of any of his papers, I might be able to help make sense of the technical stuff."
Liz chuckled, linking her arm around Mary Jane's. "Peter, you can't be that eager to do homework. Save some brainpower for other important things. Like figuring out how to help Gwen with her voice training."
Peter winced. "Right… that's still a thing."
Liz gave him a knowing smirk. "Yep. Just because she's got raw talent doesn't mean she's flawless. You're supposed to be helping her smooth out those imperfections, remember?"
Peter sighed, knowing she was right. Gwen was gearing up for something huge, and while he admired her dedication, there was a nagging worry that she was walking into something she wasn't fully prepared for.
Harry, hands in his pockets, gave Peter a sidelong glance. "You're worried about her."
Peter hesitated for a moment before nodding. "Yeah… I overheard Arthur Bell and Mr. Franklin talking earlier. Gwen's first off-Broadway performance is going to be Jekyll & Hyde."
Mary Jane and Liz exchanged confused glances.
"Is that a good thing or a bad thing?" Mary Jane asked. "I don't really know much about it."
"Depends who you ask," Peter said. "I looked into it. It's got a pretty mixed reception. Some people love it, some people don't."
"I don't really know much about it," Liz added. "Isn't that the one about the scientist who turns into a monster?"
Harry nodded. "Yeah, it's based on The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde—one of those old Gothic horror stories. The whole thing's about a guy who tries to separate his good and evil sides, but it backfires and creates a totally separate identity that he can't control."
Peter crossed his arms. "Sounds good on paper but the execution was probably off. Things I read say it's an overdramatic mess."
"That just means it's a challenge," Harry pointed out. "And Gwen's going to have to step up if she wants to make an impression."
There was a brief silence between them as they neared the subway entrance. The distant rumble of an approaching train vibrated beneath their feet.
"You know, Pete," Harry continued, "one day you might have to take on a challenge like this yourself. Not everything comes easy, even when you're good at it."
Peter exhaled slowly. Harry had no idea how right he was. Six months ago, Peter had faced the real monsters lurking in the city—the Maggia's power struggle had threatened to plunge New York into chaos, and if he hadn't stepped in, the Silvermane family would have seized control of something they never should have touched. It had been one of the hardest fights of his life, and he had barely made it through.
But he couldn't say any of that.
He knew Gwen's course wasn't something he could change. This was her battle, her challenge.
But he could be there for her. Not as Spider-Man. Not as someone trying to shield her from the weight of expectations.
But as Peter Parker.
He exhaled, loosening his grip. "Yeah. I guess you're right, Harry. Maybe this is just the kind of challenge Gwen needs. And when she needs support, I'll be there."
Harry smirked. "See? You're learning."
Liz rolled her eyes. "Now if only we could get Peter to think that logically about everything else in life."
Mary Jane chuckled, and as the subway station came into view, Peter let himself relax—at least for now. There were plenty of challenges ahead. But at least for tonight, he didn't have to face them alone.
Beneath the steel and glass towers of Oscorp, deep within a subterranean chamber untouched by prying eyes, the rhythmic hum of machinery echoed against concrete walls. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting elongated shadows across the underground laboratory as Norman Osborn stepped inside. His polished shoes clicked against the cold floor, his expression one of measured anticipation.
The air was thick with a mixture of chemicals and sterilized metal as Dr. William Antower and Dr. Michael Rue stood near the edge of a deep pit, their gazes fixed downward. Various concrete barriers and steel obstacles adorned the floor of the pit, some of them still bearing the cracks and dents of past trials. Across from them, behind a thick reinforced cage of vibranium-laced steel bars, stood a towering figure.
Norman approached with an air of quiet authority. Michael turned first, adjusting his glasses as he addressed the CEO of Oscorp.
"You came at just the right time, Mr. Osborn," Michael said. "Are you here to see how Project Tombstone has been progressing?"
Norman barely glanced at him before fixing his eyes on the monstrous figure inside the cage. "That's exactly what I want to see. Has Lonnie Lincoln made the expected recovery?"
William answered with a confident nod. "He has. The enhancements have fully integrated, and the transformation has held without degradation. Six months post-experimentation, he remains intact—both physically and mentally. Though his body has been altered, he insists on keeping his identity. Lonnie Lincoln is still very much alive in there."
Inside the cage, Lonnie Lincoln—now something more than human—stood silently. His albino skin gleamed under the laboratory's sterile lighting, its surface resembling something closer to carved marble than flesh. His eyes, once filled with human cunning, now held something more—something primal.
"Good," Norman said, stepping forward and allowing a small, satisfied smirk to form. "Then let's see the results firsthand."
A heavy, mechanical groan filled the chamber as the massive steel gate at the far end of the pit rumbled open. From the darkness emerged a towering figure, his alabaster-white skin gleaming under the sterile lights, muscles rippling beneath the surface like tempered steel. His eyes, cold and unyielding, fixated on the men above. Lonnie Lincoln—now reborn as Tombstone—stepped forward, his breathing controlled, measured.
The moment the signal was given, the course came alive. Concrete shattered beneath his feet as he propelled himself across the obstacle course with unnatural grace. He tore through steel barriers as though they were paper, sending debris flying in all directions. High-powered turrets emerged from the pit's walls, releasing rapid bursts of gunfire—each shot designed to test his resilience. The bullets struck his body, but Lonnie barely flinched. Some rounds flattened against his skin, while others ricocheted uselessly into the surrounding walls.
A pillar of reinforced concrete collapsed toward him, a simulated building collapse—one he simply caught midair and tossed aside as though it were nothing more than plywood. Heat-emitting turrets activated, blasting him with scorching plasma meant to simulate extreme environmental conditions. His skin barely blackened under the intense heat before his body adapted and withstood it entirely. Toxic vapors flooded the course, but Tombstone simply strode through, unaffected by the lethal chemicals in the air.
Michael watched, barely suppressing his unease. "His strength, his reflexes... they're beyond anything we projected."
Norman watched with barely contained satisfaction as the monster he had created pushed through every test, every trial, without hesitation. The very embodiment of endurance and brute force.
As the last of the simulated obstacles fell silent, Tombstone stood at the center of the pit, shoulders rising and falling with slow, measured breaths. He looked up at the observation deck.
"Is that all you've got?" he rumbled, his voice like a low growl.
Norman chuckled softly, stepping forward. "Not at all. But I've seen enough to know that you're ready."
William turned to Norman, tapping his fingers reviewing his papers. "So, it's time? We're sending him into the city?"
Norman nodded. "Now is the moment. It's time to let our friend here stretch his legs." He looked down at Tombstone again, his expression one of unwavering confidence. "New York is waiting for you, Lonnie. Show them what you're made of."
Michael hesitated. "Norman, if we release him into the city, it won't be long before people start asking questions. If someone traces him back here—"
William interjected smoothly. "We've already accounted for that. There won't be a trail. No records, no ties. He'll be a force of nature. Something that no one—not even Spider-Man—can immediately understand."
Norman nodded. "Precisely. The world will see only the chaos, and by the time anyone realizes what's happening, it will be too late to stop it."
Michael clenched his jaw. He understood the logic, but he couldn't ignore the implications. Releasing a monster like this onto the city? It was madness.
Michael, who had remained mostly silent, finally spoke, his tone uneasy. "Are we certain about this? We're unleashing an unstoppable force into the city with no way of controlling the damage he might cause."
William, unfazed, gave a curt nod. "This is the best way to challenge Spider-Man. If we allow him to operate freely, he'll continue interfering with Oscorp's research. We need to create a distraction—one powerful enough to force him into a corner."
Norman remained still, contemplating Michael's concerns. Then, with a calm yet ominous certainty, he spoke. "There will be no immediate connections to Oscorp. The means have already been put in place. By the time Tombstone begins his work, he will not be seen as a science experiment, nor an engineered weapon." He turned, locking eyes with Michael. "He will be a force of nature. Something no one can immediately trace. Once the chaos begins, the only thing New York will know is fear."
Michael swallowed hard, but William nodded in understanding.
Down in the pit, Tombstone rolled his shoulders and smirked. "Looks like I get to have some fun."
Norman smiled thinly. "Indeed you do."
The city of New York never truly slept, but there were hours when its pulse slowed, when the noise softened to a dull murmur beneath the glow of streetlights. It was in those hours that the city's shadows grew longest—and in those shadows, something unstoppable was moving.
Lonnie Lincoln, the man who had once fought for scraps in the underworld, was no more. He had died in an Oscorp lab, his body twisted and reforged into something beyond human. Now, he was Tombstone.
As he strode through the alleyways of Hell's Kitchen, his heavy footfalls cracked the pavement beneath him. He didn't bother with disguises. He didn't need them. His pale, unbreakable skin gleamed under the city lights, his crimson eyes burning with quiet, calculating rage. For six months, the Maggia had been shattered, its leaders dead or scattered. What remained of New York's crime families were vultures, scavenging what was left. But vultures weren't built to fight a lion.
Tonight, Tombstone would become that lion.
Marco "Big Time" Falco, a Maggia holdover who had been tightening his grip on the docks. Tombstone found him in the back of a shipping warehouse, surrounded by bodyguards. Falco didn't even have time to scream. With a single swipe of his stone-hard hand, Tombstone sent him crashing through a stack of cargo crates, his ribs shattering on impact. The guards opened fire—futile. The bullets bounced off his skin like raindrops on concrete. One by one, he took them down, crushing their guns in his fists, snapping arms, breaking bones. When the last man fell, Tombstone loomed over Falco's broken form.
"This city ain't yours," he growled, his voice low and cold. "It's mine now."
Falco didn't argue. He couldn't. Not through the blood pooling in his mouth.
Next, Tombstone moved on to Raymond "The Dealer" Castiglione, a weapons supplier operating out of a nightclub in Midtown. He let himself in through the front door, walked past the bouncers like they weren't even there, and reached the VIP lounge before anyone tried to stop him.
"Do you know who I am?" Castiglione asked, his bravado masking fear.
"Yeah," Tombstone said. "Dead weight."
With a single punch, he sent Castiglione flying across the room. Glass shattered, tables overturned, screams filled the air. His men tried to run. He let them. Let them spread the word. A new boss was in town.
Tombstone's march through the city took him to a low-tier crime lord, Bruno "The Bull" Marchick, had taken over several of the Maggia's old smuggling routes. Marchick was big, mean, and well-connected, but that meant nothing when Tombstone walked into his private club unannounced.
Marchick's guards opened fire. The bullets sparked uselessly off Tombstone's marble-hard skin. His response was swift—one crushing backhand sent a man through the bar, shattering bottles in a rain of glass and whiskey. He grabbed another by the throat and squeezed until bones cracked like dry twigs. By the time Marchick tried to run, Tombstone had already caught up.
"You ain't built for this," Tombstone growled, lifting Marchick off the ground like a child's toy. "But me? I was made for it."
With a single, brutal motion, he slammed Marchick's head into the solid oak bar. The crime boss stopped moving, his unconscious body sprawled across the ruined club. The few remaining enforcers dropped their weapons, fear gripping them like a vice.
"Pass the word," Tombstone said, his voice slow, deliberate, and cold. "The old ways are done. There's only one boss now."
He moved from borough to borough after that—Chinatown, the Bronx, Queens—systematically dismantling the remnants of the Maggia and any gang foolish enough to try and claim the throne. Some fought back. None survived the lesson.
By the time he reached Brooklyn, he wasn't Lonnie Lincoln anymore. He wasn't a man cheated by fate, cursed by a transformation he never asked for.
He was Tombstone.
A force. A monument to brutality.
As he stood on the rooftop of an abandoned tenement, the skyline stretching before him, he took a deep breath of the cold morning air. Six months ago, he had been nothing but a street enforcer, thrown into Oscorp's machine, twisted against his will.
He had hated what they did to him. Hated what he had become.
But now?
Now, he was stronger than he had ever been. More powerful than any crime boss before him. The Maggia had fallen, and in its place, he would rise.
Peter Parker sat at his desk, a pile of textbooks and loose-leaf papers scattered in front of him. The dim glow of his desk lamp illuminated half-written notes on vocal resonance and stage presence, critiques he was supposed to finish on Broadway performances. His mind drifted between passages, trying to focus, but his ears remained half-tuned to the muted television in the background.
The news played softly in the background, more of a habit than anything else. Peter always left it on, just in case something happened. Usually, it was the same old song and dance—traffic pileups, celebrity gossip, a local store robbery. Nothing world-ending.
Until the anchor's voice changed.
"This just in—chaos erupts across New York City as a violent figure, now identified as the criminal calling himself Tombstone, has been tearing through organized crime rings, leaving a trail of destruction and casualties in his wake. Officials are urging citizens to remain indoors as law enforcement struggles to contain the situation."
Peter's eyes snapped up to the screen. The grainy footage showed him—a towering, white-skinned brute moving through the streets like a wrecking ball. The camera panned to a burning car, then to bodies being pulled out of a shattered storefront. Cops were scrambling for cover. Tombstone wasn't just making a statement—he was wiping out anyone in his way.
Peter sat up, heart pounding.
"Well... that looks bad," he muttered, already pushing back from his desk. Dinner was already done, which was a small mercy—no awkward "Where are you going?" from May. He kicked the chair aside and yanked open his closet. In a practiced motion, he grabbed his suit, yanked his mask over his head, and pulled on his gloves.
Within seconds, Spider-Man was out the window.
The city below was alive with panic—sirens wailing, distant screams echoing through the streets. Spider-Man swung between buildings, the rhythmic thwip-thwip of his web-shooters blending into the night's chaos.
Then he saw him.
Tombstone.
People ran screaming from the carnage as Tombstone made his way through downtown Manhattan. Gangsters, would-be challengers, and even police officers had already fallen under his crushing strength. The towering man walked like a juggernaut, unstoppable, his white skin gleaming under the city lights as he overturned another patrol car.
Spider-Man swung low, landing on the side of a building before leaping down onto a traffic light, crouched like a hunter.
"Okay, you big albino Terminator," Spidey called out, voice sharp with bravado. "I get the whole 'rising crime boss' aesthetic, but maybe next time, try not to decorate the streets with, y'know, actual bodies?"
Tombstone stopped. Slowly, he lifted his head, his red eyes glinting under the city lights.
"Well, well," he rumbled, his voice like grinding stone. "I was hoping you'd show up. Every king needs to crush a knight before claiming his throne."
"Wow, you really rehearsed that, didn't you?" Spidey quipped, flipping off the traffic light. "You seem like the type to practice menacing monologues in the mirror. Should I come back when you've got a better one?"
Tombstone moved first. Fast.
Before Spider-Man could react, a fist like a cinder block swung for his head. He barely dodged in time, feeling the rush of air as the blow shattered the pole he had just perched on.
Spider-Man barely had time to react before Tombstone lunged forward, faster than something his size had any right to be. A fist shot out, and Spider-Man twisted away—but not fast enough. The punch clipped his side, sending him crashing into a parked car.
Pain shot through his ribs.
Okay, that felt like getting hit by a train.
Spider-Man groaned, shaking off the daze as Tombstone advanced.
"You ain't stopping me, kid." His heavy boots crunched against the pavement. "Nothing does."
Spider-Man flipped back onto his feet, rolling his shoulders. "Yeah? Well, I do like a challenge."
Spider-Man twisted in midair, shooting two quick webs to the surrounding buildings, yanking himself into a high arc. He fired off a volley of webbing toward Tombstone's arms and legs, aiming to slow him down.
Tombstone ripped through them as if they were nothing.
"Cute trick." The crime lord lunged, his sheer speed catching Spider-Man off-guard. A massive hand clamped around his ankle mid-swing, yanking him downward.
Before he could break free, Tombstone slammed him into the pavement.
Stars exploded behind Peter's eyes as the wind rushed out of his lungs. Pain flared across his back. This guy hit hard—harder than he expected.
Tombstone loomed over him, that same eerie grin still plastered on his face.
"You're strong, Spider-Man. Fast." His boot came down, but Spider-Man rolled just in time to avoid being crushed. "But you ain't unbreakable."
Spider-Man flipped to his feet, shaking off the ache. This was bad. He had faced strong enemies before, but Tombstone wasn't just strong—he was relentless.
Peter took a deep breath. He needed to play this smart. Needed to find an opening.
Because if he didn't, he wouldn't be walking away from this fight.
"Okay, big guy, I'll admit, you are way stronger than you have any right to be." He flipped to a crouched perch atop a traffic light, catching his breath.
Tombstone chuckled, rolling his shoulders. "That all you got? All that talk, all that web-slingin'—and you're the one runnin'?"
"I prefer the term 'strategic repositioning.'"
With a snap, Spidey shot two web-lines at Tombstone's feet, yanking hard. The crime boss let out a grunt as his feet were suddenly swept out from under him. He slammed backward into the pavement with a force that cracked the concrete.
Spider-Man didn't waste the opportunity.
"Let's see how you like this!" He flipped over Tombstone, firing rapid bursts of webbing, layering them over his arms, legs, and chest, wrapping him tight like a cocoon.
Tombstone snarled, struggling against the thick webbing as Spider-Man yanked the strands tight.
"Web formula's reinforced, extra tensile strength," Peter quipped, landing in a crouch a few feet away. "You're not going anywhere."
For a moment, silence.
Tombstone lay still, his breathing heavy, his crimson eyes staring at Spider-Man with quiet intensity. The fight, the rampage—it was over.
Peter exhaled, allowing himself to relax just a little. He reached for his communicator, about to call the authorities—
Then he heard it.
A low, rumbling growl.
Before Peter could react, Tombstone flexed—his muscles bulging, veins straining—and ripped through the webbing like it was tissue paper.
"Oh, come on!"
Tombstone lunged, faster than before. He caught Spider-Man mid-dodge and slammed him through the windshield of a parked car.
Pain shot through Peter's back, his body cratering into the crumpled hood.
Tombstone wasn't holding back anymore.
With an animalistic roar, he grabbed the entire car and hurled it toward a crowd of fleeing civilians.
Peter's body screamed in protest as he pushed himself off the wreckage, ignoring the pain. He fired two web-lines, catching the flying car just before it could crash into the bystanders, redirecting it into an empty alleyway.
But the moment his feet hit the pavement—
Tombstone was already on him.
A fist like iron struck Spider-Man square in the chest, sending him flying through the air, smashing through a bus stop before he tumbled into the street.
Dazed, Peter tried to push himself up—only for a shadow to fall over him.
Tombstone stood above him, unscathed, grinning wide.
"You really thought that was enough?" he sneered, cracking his knuckles. "You ain't stoppin' me, Spider-Man. No one is."
Spider-Man coughed, trying to steady his breathing. This wasn't just about brute strength—Tombstone was relentless. A freight train that refused to stop.
And if Peter didn't figure out a way to put him down soon…
The whole city was going to burn.
Spider-Man gasped for breath, his muscles aching, his suit torn in places where Tombstone's punches had landed. His entire body screamed in protest, but there was no time to stop. Not when Tombstone was still standing, still coming for him.
The crime lord stomped forward through the wreckage, his pale skin glistening under the streetlights, blood-red eyes locked on Spider-Man with predatory focus. "You're startin' to annoy me, bug," he rumbled, rolling his shoulders. "You really think you can stop me?"
Peter wiped blood from the corner of his mouth. "I dunno, I've fought, like, fifty guys who said the same thing. It's starting to get real unoriginal."
Tombstone charged, his footsteps cracking the pavement.
This time, Peter was ready.
Just as Tombstone swung, Spider-Man leapt, flipping over him at the last second. He twisted in midair and—
THWIP!
Two webs latched onto a nearby streetlight.
Using every ounce of strength he had left, Spider-Man yanked with all his might. The heavy metal pole groaned before snapping from its base, swinging directly into Tombstone's face with the force of a wrecking ball.
The impact was thunderous.
Tombstone stumbled, dazed—the first real reaction Spider-Man had seen from him all night.
Peter didn't waste the opening.
Launching forward, he unleashed a flurry of blows—a precise, calculated storm of web-enhanced punches and kicks, each strike aimed at the weak spots he had observed throughout their fight.
A spinning heel kick to the side of the head.
An uppercut that sent Tombstone reeling.
And finally—
Spider-Man leapt into the air, flipped upside-down, and drove both feet into Tombstone's chest, hitting him with enough force to send him crashing through a parked truck.
For a moment, silence.
The wreckage smoldered, debris scattered across the street.
Peter stayed on guard, panting, waiting for Tombstone to rise again—but this time, he didn't.
Tombstone groaned, trying to push himself up, but his body betrayed him. His unbreakable skin was still intact, but his body had taken too much punishment. His strength had limits—and Spider-Man had finally found them.
The sound of approaching sirens echoed through the night. The police were closing in.
Spider-Man slowly stepped forward, looming over Tombstone as the crime lord glared up at him. "Looks like your reign is over before it even started, Lonnie."
Tombstone let out a low, gravelly chuckle. "You think this is over?" His voice was strained, but there was still defiance in his eyes. "You can't stop what's coming, Spider-Man. I ain't the only monster walkin' this city."
Peter's stomach tightened. He had no idea what Tombstone meant, but he knew one thing for sure—
New York was far from safe.
He turned just as the flashing red-and-blue lights arrived, disappearing into the shadows before anyone could see him.
Tonight, he had won.
But the fight for the city?
That was just beginning.
Perched on the rooftop of a nearby building, Spider-Man watched as the NYPD swarmed the scene, their flashing red and blue lights casting an eerie glow over the battlefield. Officers moved cautiously, their weapons trained on Tombstone, who still struggled against the thick webbing binding him to the wreckage.
Tombstone growled, his alabaster skin catching the glow of the streetlights as he tugged at the restraints. "You think a cage is gonna hold me?" he snarled, his voice dripping with venom. "You have no idea what's coming."
Captain George Stacy stepped forward, his face unreadable as he surveyed the wreckage. His gaze flickered toward the shadows for just a moment—Peter felt his stomach tighten, but the captain didn't let on. Instead, he gestured to his men.
"Reinforce the transport. Double the restraints. I want him under full lockdown before he even sees the inside of a holding cell," Stacy ordered.
Several officers moved in, securing heavy-duty chains around Tombstone's webbed-up form. The behemoth of a man sneered, but even he had to acknowledge that for now, he wasn't going anywhere.
Peter exhaled, still crouched low on the rooftop, muscles tense and aching. He should leave—he needed to leave. Every part of him screamed for rest, but he wouldn't allow himself to leave the scene until he was sure Tombstone was in custody. He couldn't take the chance of the guy breaking loose before dawn.
Minutes passed.
Tombstone was finally loaded into an armored transport vehicle, his guttural threats muffled as the heavy doors slammed shut. Officers confirmed the vehicle was secure before it roared down the street, escorted by an entire fleet of squad cars.
Peter let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
It's done. For now.
He took one last glance down at Captain Stacy, who still surveyed the wreckage with a hardened expression. A part of Peter wondered if Stacy suspected he was nearby—if he wanted to thank him, or warn him. Either way, Peter wasn't sticking around to find out.
With one last swing, he launched himself into the night sky, his body moving on instinct despite his exhaustion.
By the time he made it back to his apartment, the adrenaline had begun to fade, leaving behind only exhaustion.
Peter slipped through his window, wincing as he pulled off his mask and peeled himself out of his torn suit. His ribs ached, his arms throbbed, and his head was clouded with fatigue, but he couldn't afford to dwell on it.
He glanced at his alarm clock. Nearly 4 AM.
"Great," he muttered to himself, rubbing his temples. He had a full day ahead of him, and the last thing he needed was to stumble into school looking like he had gone twelve rounds with a cement truck.
With that thought, Peter forced himself toward the bathroom, splashing cold water on his face before collapsing onto his bed.
As he drifted off, one final thought lingered in his mind.
This isn't over. But for tonight… it's enough.
The dim glow of the television flickered against the walls of Dr. Curt Connors' modest apartment. Outside, the early morning sun had barely begun to rise, casting long shadows across the city skyline. The faint hum of traffic drifted through the half-open window, but Connors barely noticed. His eyes were fixed on the screen, his fingers tightening around the mug of now-cold coffee in his hand.
"Last night, the vigilante known as Spider-Man engaged in a vicious battle with an enhanced criminal identified as Lonnie Lincoln—better known as Tombstone. Reports indicate severe structural damage across multiple city blocks, but thanks to the intervention of Spider-Man, casualties were kept to a minimum. Sources claim the suspect has been transferred to a maximum-security facility under extreme precautions. However, the extent of his newfound abilities remains unknown…"
Connors let out a slow, measured breath. So it's happening already.
For months, he had suspected Norman Osborn wasn't finished with his ambitions for genetic enhancement. Oscorp had long been a breeding ground for dangerous experiments, but Connors had tried to convince himself that Norman wouldn't be reckless enough to start unleashing his projects onto the world—not yet.
I was wrong.
Tombstone was just the beginning. Whatever process had transformed the man into something… inhuman, it was clear this wasn't an accident. Norman was testing his work, refining it, seeing how far he could push the limits of human biology.
And if Norman was moving forward with live subjects, then Connors was already behind.
He set his mug down with a sharp clink against the table and leaned forward, hands clasped as his mind raced. He had spent years studying genetic reconstruction, developing his theories on reptilian regeneration—his answer to the loss of his arm. He had kept his work theoretical, refining the formulas, ensuring there would be no catastrophic side effects. But there was no more time for caution.
Norman was using people as experiments. People like Lincoln. People who hadn't volunteered. If he continued unchecked, the next "breakthrough" could be worse—something even Spider-Man wouldn't be able to stop.
Connors swallowed, his gaze shifting toward his desk, where stacks of research papers lay scattered beside a locked cabinet. Inside that cabinet was the serum—his serum. The one he had promised himself he wouldn't touch until human trials were fully viable.
The one that could change everything.
His hand twitched, his missing limb aching with a phantom sensation he had long learned to ignore.
It's now or never, Curt.
Slowly, he pushed himself up from his chair, his heart pounding in his chest. He had always believed in responsible science, in progress through careful study. But this was survival.
He took one last glance at the television, where shaky footage of the battle between Spider-Man and Tombstone replayed in slow motion. The city was already becoming a battleground of monsters.
If he didn't act now, what would be left of it?
Steeling himself, Connors strode toward his desk, unlocked the cabinet, and pulled out the vial. The deep green liquid inside shimmered under the morning light.
Tonight, everything would change.