From the perspective of: Thomas Alder
...
Thomas walked out of the store, grocery bag in hand, his steps neither fast nor slow... but balanced, as if the ground itself recognized him and gave way.
He didn't look back.
But he knew full well that his message had been received.
And that now, at this very moment, they were preparing their vehicles, planes, even drones.
For the "grand encounter."
Their only problem?
They think they're the hunters.
He smiled as he opened the door to his old apartment, entered, placed the bag on the table, and took out a bottle of water. He drank a bit, then moved quietly to the side room.
He opened the steel closet.
Pressed three buttons, and a soft click sounded.
The door slowly opened, revealing a black suit hanging, clean... and stained with memories.
"I didn't expect to wear you again this soon…"
he said as he pulled out the black cloth mask and dusted it off.
Then added in a near whisper:
"But it seems I missed the dance."
...
[An hour later – in the abandoned industrial zone, North Brooklyn]
Winds howled between the old steel structures.
Dust, broken glass, and rusty signs dangling from their edges.
The place seemed deliberately chosen… like it was drawn from a twisted memory of someone's childhood.
Thomas arrived, or as the world now knows him: The Black Spider.
He moved between the shadows silently. No cameras here.
He was the one who sent the coordinates… and he had read the land better than they did.
He stopped atop the roof of an old factory and looked toward the horizon.
1
2
3 drones
Then an armored truck stopped at the edge.
Men with heavy weapons stepped out, wearing armor bearing the insignia of the "Federal Protection Unit."
Thomas didn't move.
He just sat on the edge, observing.
He said calmly:
"These aren't the heroes you promised me… where are the ones who wear capes and talk about justice?"
Then silence.
And he looked at them.
Just one look.
A look full of coldness, indifference, and all the contempt a human could carry.
As if he didn't see humans… but rusty boxes moving.
He slowly raised his right hand... as if greeting an invisible ghost, or drawing a circle in the air.
Just one movement.
But it was enough.
From under the ground, from between wall cracks, from the top of collapsed pillars... black threads emerged.
Thin, delicate, barely visible.
But they could cut steel like butter.
The first vehicle was sliced in half.
The explosion sound wasn't loud… more like the soft tear of metal.
The second vehicle lifted slightly off the ground, then disassembled like paper clippings:
The roof fell first, then the doors, then the wheels.
They didn't even get the chance to look back before the trucks were sliced like butter.
The air was thick… filled with the smell of iron, dust, and fear.
Thomas stood above, on the broken edge of the abandoned tower, watching the battlefield he had created himself.
Then, without warning, and without a sound... he jumped.
He spun once in the air before landing lightly on the ground.
The first soldier who saw him shouted:
"There! He's on the ground! Open fire!"
Doom!
Dozens of gun barrels lit up at once.
The bullets rained down like a storm, fast and burning.
But Thomas simply yawned before he began to move...
In a blink, his body tilted at an impossible angle.
The first bullet grazed his cheek.
Then he leapt — a strange, spiral leap.
Bullets showered down on him.
But he dodged… slid, twisted, spun, leapt backward, then forward, then a sideways roll over one of the soldiers.
Every bullet missed.
"We can't hit him!" one of them screamed...
Then… Thomas slowly pulled his hands out of his pockets.
He wasn't holding a weapon.
But threads.
Thin black threads, barely visible… yet despite their tiny size, they deflected bullets.
Yes… they deflected bullets.
The first thread sliced a bullet in half.
The second made it veer off.
The third wrapped around a rifle's barrel… and yanked it from its owner's hands.
"What the hell is this…?" one soldier screamed in terror.
"Command warned us before heading here, but this monster… he's something else entirely!"
"Who the hell are you, damn it?!" another shouted.
Thomas didn't answer.
He moved.
...
He lunged forward, his motion swift, yet calm.
Every step was calculated.
Every twist, every bend, was precise — like his body was a machine programmed for survival.
One soldier tried to use a taser — but the thread was faster.
It wrapped around his wrist, pulled it upward, slammed it against his own shoulder, then yanked him to the ground like a puppet.
Another aimed from afar.
But Thomas, mid-air, extended a thread from his wrist… tied it to a metal pipe behind the soldier, then pulled himself toward him.
One strike.
A kick to the chest.
The soldier flew through the air and hit the wall.
...
Then he stopped.
Thomas now stood in the center.
All the soldiers around him... and the circles tightened.
He breathed slowly.
No sweat on his forehead.
And the smile… still on his face.
He said calmly:
"Do you know how long I waited… and in the end, the government sends ordinary people—"
Before Thomas could finish his words, he felt a sharp pain in his forehead.
He raised his hand and wiped the area where he'd been hit.
A drop of blood fell.
Just one drop… but it was enough.
Thomas slowly raised his hand and looked at the crimson color staining his fingertips. The wound wasn't serious, just a small scratch on the forehead… a trivial scratch.
But he didn't smile this time.
He froze.
He looked at the surrounding soldiers, one by one.
Dozens of faces hidden behind black helmets, rifles drawn, fingers on the trigger.
All of them…
All of them were sent to kill him.
He whispered it, but his voice tore through the air like lightning:
"You sent me insects."
One step forward.
The air shifted.
As if something broke inside him.
A small black crack appeared above the wound before it began to heal as—
Black threads began to spread.
Then they wrapped around his hand.
"There's no record of him having this ability!" one soldier screamed as he backed away.
But there was no time.
Thomas appeared among them.
He didn't jump. He didn't run. He just vanished… from their sight, and appeared at the center of the circle.
Every thread was now like a sword.
Worse than a sword.
The first thread cut off a soldier's head.
The second severed another's arm.
The third wasn't even seen… only a bloody burst erupted from a soldier's stomach and he collapsed, not knowing what hit him.
Blood rained down like storms.
Screams filled the sky.
But Thomas didn't stop.
His eyes turned completely black, no pupils, no life.
His voice changed… became hollow, as if the devil himself spoke from within:
"I wanted a little fun… and you sent me dolls. Do you really think I'll play with dolls?"
One soldier knelt, raising his hands, shouting:
"Please… I'm just following orders!"
But Thomas didn't look at him.
He looked upward.
"The mistake isn't yours. It's the mistake of the one who sent you."
And the thread shot out.
The soldier didn't scream.
He just choked with the cracking sound of his neck bones as he was pulled upward, then tossed from a height of ten meters, body shattered.
...
The air itself grew heavier.
As if the place was bleeding.
...
Then the last soldier fell to his knees, his hands trembling, crying, pleading:
"We didn't know… please… the government didn't take you seriously… they didn't send heroes… because… because they said you've never killed anyone before so please—!"
Thomas paused, then looked at the begging man.
"I want to know how they'll treat me now… now that I've become a killer."
Then he walked toward him.
Calm, steady steps.
Until he stood before him.
Then knelt… to be at eye level.
And said:
"Then let's show them today… what happens when they ignore the threats."
The final thread emerged from his finger… and slowly entered the soldier's body.
He didn't scream.
He collapsed like a puppet whose string had been cut.
...
[A minute later]
Silence.
Only silence.
Everything had stopped.
...
The air… carried a disgusting scent, the smell of iron spreading across the place.
Thomas stood in the middle of the arena, his mask torn, and a small amount of blood leaking through it.
He looked up.
And saw one of the drones still hovering in the distance, watching.
He smiled.
"I hope that now… you'll start sending real heroes."
Then he pointed his finger at the drone.
And it exploded