Despite lacking functional eyes in his current form, Ben somehow managed to convey the universal expression of exasperation through body language alone. His massive alien form radiated the distinct energy of someone dealing with particularly dense teammates.
Peter quickly moved to help Matt to his feet, his voice carrying the strained patience of someone mediating between a vigilante and a space wolf. "Wait, Daredevil, he's not our enemy. He's the... um..." Peter paused, realizing that he had no idea how to describe the situation. "He's on our side. Think of him as... enhanced backup."
Matt remained in a defensive crouch, his enhanced senses providing conflicting information about the creature before him. Every instinct screamed that this was not a normal creature—the bone density, muscle composition, and cardiovascular rhythm were completely foreign to anything in his experience. But Spider-Man's obvious familiarity with the beast suggested a level of trust that went beyond casual teamwork.
Ben paid little attention to Matt's confusion. The vigilante was Peter's problem to handle, and frankly, Ben had more pressing concerns than managing interpersonal dynamics. He had detected the enemy's location.
It was then that Peter and Matt finally took in the full horror of their surroundings.
Peter, being the only one present with functional vision, bore the unfortunate burden of witnessing Muse's artistic vision in its complete, nauseating glory. The blood painting that covered the entire wall was a masterpiece of madness—a swirling composition of crimson that depicted human forms twisted into impossible configurations of agony and despair.
The faces in the mural were the worst part. Each one had been rendered with meticulous attention to detail, capturing the precise moment when hope died in their eyes. Some bore expressions of terror, others of resignation, and a few displayed the empty stare of minds that had simply broken under unbearable stress.
Peter felt his stomach lurch violently. "That monster... he killed people to use their blood as paint?"
Matt's enhanced senses gave him an even clearer picture of the carnage. His sharp sense of smell could tell the difference between blood types, how old the blood was, and even how long ago each person had died. It all came together in his mind like a timeline—this wasn't from one night. It had taken weeks, maybe even months. Someone had been killing carefully and consistently.
"One person's blood wouldn't be nearly enough," Matt said through gritted teeth, his voice carrying barely controlled rage. "Based on the scent, I'd estimate at least one hundred and thirteen different victims."
The number hit Peter like a physical blow. Over a hundred people had died to create this obscene artwork, and he had walked into the gallery completely unprepared for the scope of the horror.
Matt was struggling with his own confusion. The metallic reek of blood should have been detectable from blocks away—Hell's Kitchen's perpetual stench of violence and corruption couldn't possibly mask something this overwhelming. Yet he had sensed nothing until they entered the building directly.
"How do we find him now?" Peter asked, his voice smaller than usual. The magnitude of what they were facing had stripped away his typical self.
Matt shook his head grimly. "My enhanced senses are useless against him. I think his presence is what stopped me from sensing the blood earlier. He's not just hiding himself—he's somehow blocking sensory input across the whole area. Like a dead zone. It's not natural."
Both of them turned toward Ben's alien form, hope and desperation evident in their postures. Matt struggled to find appropriate words for addressing a creature that existed outside his normal frame of reference.
"Your... friend," he finally settled on, though the word felt inadequate, "can he track someone who's invisible to enhanced senses?"
Peter nodded with the automatic confidence of someone who had complete faith in his cousin's abilities. "If anyone can find this guy, it's him."
Ben lived up to that confidence. The specialized sensory slits along his skull flared open, forming an organic radar array that would put most military systems to shame. Subsonic pulses spread outward, mapping the environment in sharp, three-dimensional detail. At the same time, his powerful sense of smell and hearing processed a flood of information—millions of tiny signals, all at once.
Peter and Matt watched in uneasy fascination as Ben's perception stretched far beyond the blood-soaked room. In his mind, Hell's Kitchen unfolded like a living map—building by building, room by room, heartbeat by heartbeat.
The picture was simultaneously magnificent and horrifying. Hell's Kitchen revealed itself as a layered ecosystem of human misery: a homeless veteran dying alone on cardboard soaked with rain and despair; a gang execution in progress three blocks away; domestic violence erupting behind thin apartment walls; drug deals conducted in stairwells where children once played.
But extending his senses beyond Hell's Kitchen showed the jarring contrast of Manhattan's continued prosperity. Expensive restaurants served wine that cost more than most Hell's Kitchen residents made in a month. Broadway theaters entertained audiences who had no idea they were sitting twenty blocks away from a war zone.
The complete sensory map of New York assembled itself in Ben's consciousness like a vast holographic projection. Streets, buildings, sewers, subway tunnels—everything connected in a three-dimensional web of urban complexity.
Except for one area.
In the middle of Ben's perfect sensory map was a void—a black hole of perception that absorbed his enhanced abilities and reflected nothing back. The gap was massive, suggesting a network of tunnels or chambers that had been completely masked from detection.
Found you, Ben thought with grim satisfaction. You can hide from my senses, but you can't hide the fact that you're hiding.
But instead of immediately sharing what he'd sensed, Ben made a calculated decision. His Wildmutt transformation came with a strict thirty-minute time limit. While he had access to the Life Lock, which could theoretically extend that duration or switch forms seamlessly, it still relied on voice commands—and in this form, his vocal cords couldn't produce anything the Omnitrix's translation protocols could understand. Communication would have to wait. For now, his priority was the hunt.
Better to retreat, plan properly, and return with appropriate backup.
Ben carved a simple message into the concrete floor with his claws: "Going back." He didn't wait for a response. With a low growl and a final glance toward the bloodstained walls, he bounded out of the room and vanished into the Manhattan night. His powerful, quadrupedal form moved across the rooftops with the fluid grace of a born predator.
Matt felt exhaustion settle into his bones like a physical weight. The night had been a series of escalating revelations, each more disturbing than the last. A serial killer who could neutralize enhanced senses, over a hundred victims, and now an alien creature whose abilities exceeded anything in his considerable experience.
"Spider-Man, we have no leads at the moment," Matt said, his tactical mind already shifting to damage control. "I suggest we regroup and approach this differently tomorrow."
He was already planning to use his civilian identity as lawyer Matt Murdock to investigate the disappearances. A serial killer operating on this scale would leave traces in missing persons reports, even in a neighborhood where people vanished regularly.
Peter nodded, though his expression suggested he wasn't ready to give up entirely. "Yeah, okay. But we're not abandoning those victims, right? This psycho is still out there."
"We'll find him," Matt promised, though privately he wondered if they were equipped to handle an enemy who could manipulate perception itself.
Meanwhile, Ben had ducked into a storm drain several blocks away, transforming back to human form in the shadows beneath the city. The familiar weight of his Spider-Man costume felt almost comforting after the alien sensations of his Vulpimancer form.
"It's the sewers again," he muttered, pulling his mask back into place. "I really am becoming Spider-Man—complete with the glamorous underground lifestyle."
He activated the advanced communications array built into his web-shooters. "Eunice, project the network diagram of Manhattan's underground infrastructure."
The AI's holographic interface materialized in the tunnel, casting blue light across the grimy walls. "Infrastructure map accessed. Displaying sewer systems, subway tunnels, utility passages, and abandoned construction projects."
Ben manipulated the three-dimensional projection with practiced efficiency, marking the location where his enhanced senses had detected the perception void. The coordinates corresponded to a section of abandoned subway tunnel that had been sealed during construction of the modern transit system decades ago.
According to the city records, the area should have been completely inaccessible. But Eunice's deep scan revealed subtle inconsistencies—air circulation patterns that suggested hidden passages, and minor discrepancies in utility billing that indicated unauthorized power consumption.
"Cross-reference with recent missing persons reports," Ben instructed.
The data stream revealed dozens of disappearances over the past six months, including several that had been dismissed as routine runaway cases. But one name made Ben pause: Andrea Caldwell, daughter of Senator Robert Caldwell—chairman of the Senate subcommittee on emerging technologies.
"Interesting," Ben murmured. "This might be more than just a rescue mission."
Senator Caldwell's political influence could prove invaluable for Primus Technologies as they prepared to revolutionize the medical industry. Rescuing his daughter would create a debt of gratitude that could open doors throughout the federal government.
Sometimes good deeds come with excellent side benefits, Ben thought, checking his equipment one final time before heading deeper into the underground maze.
In the abandoned tunnels beneath Hell's Kitchen, Muse's gallery of living horror continued to expand.
Nearly a hundred people hung from the ceiling like grotesque ornaments, their bodies serving as both art supplies and canvas for his twisted vision. Most were barely alive—weakened by blood loss, infection, and malnutrition to the point where death would be a mercy.
The air was thick with the smell of decay and desperation. Makeshift surgical tools lay scattered across improvised operating tables, while buckets of blood in various stages of coagulation provided the raw materials for future masterpieces.
Andrea Caldwell had been suspended in a cage that allowed her to observe the full scope of Muse's operation while keeping her relatively fresh for whatever artistic purpose he had planned. The senator's daughter had seen enough horror movies to recognize the basic setup—she was being saved for something.
Muse moved through his gallery with the satisfied air of an artist reviewing his life's work. Each victim represented a different technique, a unique exploration of the relationship between human suffering and aesthetic beauty. The screams had long since been silenced by damaged vocal cords and broken spirits, but the expressions on their faces continued to evolve as new levels of despair revealed themselves.
"The human form is so limiting," Muse mused, his bandaged features turning toward a victim whose limbs had been rearranged in anatomically impossible configurations. "But with the right vision, even the most mundane flesh can be transformed into something transcendent."
He picked up a bone saw—cleaned and sharpened with obsessive care—and approached one of the dying victims. The man's eyes tracked Muse's movement with the dull awareness of someone whose mind had retreated to its final defensive positions.
"Where shall we place this hand?" Muse asked conversationally, as if seeking artistic advice from a fellow connoisseur. "The composition needs something to balance the weight distribution in the lower right quadrant."
His hollow eye sockets turned toward Andrea, who was pressed against the back of her cage in a futile attempt to increase the distance between herself and the monster. Her breathing had become rapid and shallow—the hyperventilation of someone whose mind was beginning to fracture under stress.
Muse's ruined features arranged themselves into what might have been a smile. "Ah, you understand. Fresh perspective is exactly what this piece needs."
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