The middle-aged Black man seated beside J. Jonah Jameson was Robbie Robertson, long-time editor of the Daily Bugle, and one of the few people who could talk back to Jameson without getting immediately shouted at. A calm, thoughtful man, Robbie had been Jameson's loyal second-in-command for years—and, more importantly, one of the few people he truly trusted.
When Jameson growled about Peter Parker's absence, Robbie smiled mildly and replied, "Peter's responsible. He's probably already here—just too focused on getting the perfect shot."
True to Robbie's words, a brown-haired teenager, camera slung around his neck and Daily Bugle press badge bouncing on his chest, was darting through the crowd near the front of the stage. Peter Parker was in full work mode—snapping photos of the speakers, checking his angles, adjusting focus, and timing his shots with the practiced eye of someone who'd done this dozens of times.
Robbie motioned toward the stage. "There he is. Told you."
Jameson followed Robbie's gaze and spotted Peter with a scowl. "Hmph. Lucky kid. If he'd been even a minute later, I'd have docked his pay."
Robbie chuckled. He knew Jameson's bark was far worse than his bite. Though he rarely showed it, Jameson respected Peter's photography skills more than he let on. Peter's shots of Spider-Man sold more papers than anything else on the front page.
Despite Peter's habitual lateness and the absurd excuses he often gave—ranging from "the bus broke down" to "I was attacked by pigeons"—Jameson never actually fired him. Deep down, he admired the kid's work ethic. He just wasn't good at saying it out loud.
Peter, still crouching low to snap a wide-angle shot of the crowd, caught Jameson's grumbling and gave a subtle shrug. He was used to the editor's gruff tone. Jameson could yell all he wanted, but he wasn't fooling Peter. The man had a soft spot—buried deep beneath sarcasm, cigars, and that ridiculous mustache.
Of course, that leniency only applied to Peter Parker, not to his alter ego, Spider-Man. When it came to Spidey, Jameson transformed into a man possessed. He was the web-slinger's number one hater, constantly pushing headlines that branded him a menace, a vigilante, or worse.
While Peter continued snapping photos, Norman Osborn wrapped up his speech on stage. His words had been polished, full of corporate jargon and civic buzzwords, but largely fell flat with the students. Then the microphone passed to Wilson Fisk, who took center stage with the air of a seasoned politician.
Dressed in a flawless white three-piece suit that strained against his massive frame, Fisk held a ceremonial golden shovel in one hand—a symbol of the foundation he was supposedly helping lay. His deep voice resonated across the crowd as he spoke with practiced charisma.
"It's my honor," Fisk declared, "to support the future leaders of this city. This new Criminology and Justice Studies Building will serve as a beacon of learning. We invest in this university because we believe in the future it represents—and in the role it plays in keeping New York safe, stable, and strong."
Peter's camera clicked steadily as he captured Fisk mid-speech. Despite the man's shady reputation in certain circles, his public image was that of a benevolent tycoon—donor, philanthropist, and community leader.
Peter thought to himself as he adjusted his lens, "Say what you want, but Fisk is good at this. He sounds way more convincing than Norman Osborn did. No wonder half the city eats out of his hand."
Then his thoughts wandered briefly. "Man, it'd be nice to have that kind of money. I should start my own company one day. Yeah…Parker Industries. Got a nice ring to it."
But his moment of imagination was cut short.
His spider-sense flared. Hard. Like a mental punch to the skull. Danger.
Before he could fully process it, his eyes tracked a glinting green orb spiraling through the air—a pumpkin bomb, unmistakable in shape and design, tossed with malicious precision straight toward the stage.
It landed at Wilson Fisk's feet.
Peter's instincts kicked in before thought. Dropping his camera, he sprinted forward. His proximity to the stage, thanks to his photo angle, gave him just enough time.
He vaulted the short steps in a single bound and slammed into Fisk with both arms, shoving the massive man off the platform with a grunt. The impact nearly knocked Peter's breath out, but he managed to get clear.
BOOM!
The explosion tore through the stage, obliterating the podium and sending debris flying in every direction. The blast left a smoking crater where Fisk had just stood, his golden shovel now a twisted hunk of metal embedded in the ground.
Screams erupted from the crowd. Panic surged like a wave. Students and reporters ran in all directions, trampling over chairs and cords, trying to get away from the epicenter of the chaos.
Up above the wreckage, a sinister cackle echoed in the sky.
"Hee-hee-hee-hee! What luck, you big ox! I even gave you a warning gift!"
Hovering on a sleek, bat-shaped glider, cloaked in tattered green with a jagged-toothed grin stretched across his face, was the attacker—the Green Goblin.
It was the same maniac who had attempted to rob the jewelry exhibit not long ago—the one who'd been thwarted by both Spider-Man and Ethan. The Goblin's mask gleamed under the sunlight, and in his gloved hand, another pumpkin bomb spun casually like a toy.
"Did you miss me, Fisk? Or should I aim better next time?!"
Cackling wildly, the Goblin zoomed across the sky on his glider, drawing gasps and screams as he launched another bomb toward the panicking crowd.
Seeing that the pumpkin bomb hadn't eliminated his target, the Green Goblin let out a snarl of frustration. Without hesitation, he pulled out two modified Oscorp-grade laser pistols from his belt and aimed them directly at Wilson Fisk.
Just as his finger tightened on the triggers, two strands of spider webbing shot through the air with pinpoint accuracy, snatching the weapons from his grasp mid-flight and flinging them harmlessly to the ground.
"Damn it! This cursed spider thread again! Who is it this time?" the Green Goblin barked furiously, scanning the rooftops. Nothing had gone smoothly for him since his last run-in with enhanced interference.
"I'm sorry," came a dry voice from the shadows, "but Halloween's still a few months off. You're a little early."
The Goblin jerked around to see Spider-Man, fully suited up and casually clinging to the wall of a nearby building like an oversized insect, taunting him with the confidence of someone who had done this far too many times.
"Damn wall-crawler!" the Goblin cursed, his yellow eyes narrowing behind his grotesque mask. Then, with mock theatricality, he spread his arms wide and introduced himself, "Call me the Green Goblin. Since you're here, I guess I'll take you down while I'm at it."
With that, he fired a pair of explosive mini-pumpkins toward Spider-Man, who effortlessly dodged by backflipping off the wall and slinging a fresh web to swing into battle. The two collided mid-air in a furious exchange of aerial acrobatics, web shots, and pumpkin bombs.
As chaos unfolded in the skies, Wilson Fisk had already withdrawn from the open square. Though the public knew him as a clean philanthropist, behind closed doors, Fisk (a.k.a. the Kingpin) was no stranger to violent incidents—and had planned for contingencies.
Now back inside his custom bulletproof SUV, reinforced with military-grade plating and dark-tinted glass, Fisk sat silently, his broad hands clasped together. The smile he had worn onstage was gone, replaced by a hard, calculating stare. Watching the live drone feed of the fight, he turned to his bodyguard and ordered coldly, "Find out exactly who this lunatic is. I want a full profile. And fast."
Outside, the open plaza gave the Goblin a distinct advantage. His Oscorp-engineered glider could maneuver tight curves, dive, and climb with precision, allowing him to toy with Spider-Man mid-air. He was fast, erratic, and now far better prepared than during their last encounter at the Midtown Jewelry Expo.
Back then, Spider-Man had tangled him up with webs and nearly ended the confrontation early. This time, the Goblin had outfitted his glider with monomolecular blades that sliced through Peter's webbing on contact.
"Are you kidding me?!" Peter muttered as another strand was severed the moment it latched onto the Goblin's glider. He flipped backward through the air, barely dodging a pumpkin bomb as it exploded behind him. "I just fixed my shooters this week!"
The Goblin laughed maniacally and banked hard, firing another volley of explosives that forced Peter to somersault into a dive. "What's the matter, spider-brat? Can't catch me?"
Peter gritted his teeth. "This guy's like a deranged wasp with a jetpack."
Then, he saw an opening. During a steep turn, the Goblin exposed the underside of his glider—just long enough. Peter launched a web to hook a stabilizer fin and yanked hard, using his momentum to swing up and land directly on top of the glider.
For a moment, the Goblin looked surprised. "Bold move, bug boy."
But Peter was already regretting it. As the glider ascended rapidly, spiraling higher than the university buildings, the wind buffeted him hard. The city below grew smaller, the sky around them growing colder.
"Oh man… why did I think this was a good idea? This is definitely vertigo-inducing," Peter muttered, clinging tight.
The Goblin twisted the controls sharply, causing the glider to lurch and loop. "Enjoying the ride?! I call this the Sky-Death Spiral!"
Peter held on, barely. "Yeah? I call it zero stars—would not ride again."
The Goblin's laughter cut through the wind. "Let's see if you're still cracking jokes when you're pavement pizza!"
Without warning, he spun in place and kicked Peter clean off the glider.
Peter spiraled through the air, disoriented. The rooftop of Imperial University's West Tower loomed ahead—far too fast.
He shot his wrist forward. Click! Nothing. He tried again. Click! Still nothing.
"Oh, come on! No web fluid?! I knew I forgot something last night!" Peter groaned, heart pounding.
He was falling hard, with no safety net.
"Okay. Okay. Think." He looked at the building coming closer. "No webs, so I need to reduce velocity manually—grab the side, use surface tension, crawl down…"
At the last second, Peter adjusted his body mid-fall, angling toward the glass façade of the university's engineering building. He slammed into it hard, cracking the glass.
"Hngg—okay, that's gonna bruise."
He dug his hands and feet into the surface, using his bio-electric sticking ability to slow the slide. The friction shrieked through the windows like nails on a chalkboard.
He finally came to a stop, panting, halfway down the side of the building.
"Hoo boy… I really need to refill these cartridges."
Above him, the Goblin circled with that same haunting laughter echoing off the city skyline, already lining up for another attack run.