Take Osborn's private jet to the Pacific?
Not a chance.
If Osborn dared to fly it, Hawk sure as hell wouldn't sit in it.
Forget that the last people to board an Osborn jet—Peter's parents—vanished over the Pacific. More importantly, Hawk had already confirmed his own cursed trait: every time he left New York by conventional transport, something went wrong.
So he chose the safest way.
Flying himself.
It burned some stamina, sure, but better that than attracting more disaster.
And besides, it was faster. By the time he wasted at the airport, he could already be there.
Like now.
High above the Pacific, guided by his phone's satellite navigation, Hawk broke through the cloud cover and finally saw it: Osborn's secret offshore research platform, a steel colossus rising from the endless sea.
The massive structure was built from interlocking steel frames and thick welded beams. Colossal supports jutted from the waves, holding aloft a platform roughly the size of two football fields.
But—
The place was dead.
No people, no lights. Not even the emergency systems were running. In the sunset glow, the silent structure radiated an eerie, unsettling presence.
Clang!
Hawk landed on the deck, balancing easily on his toes.
He scanned the surroundings.
The helipad—empty. The whole place, silent, save for the waves hammering the supports below.
But Peter had been here.
Opening his sixth sense, Hawk detected faint traces of Peter's aura.
The problem was…
That aura hadn't been refreshed for days. Four, maybe five.
And there was something else.
The stench of dried blood—so strong it nearly choked the air.
Hawk raised a brow and followed the trail.
He pushed open a door and stepped inside.
The corridor was a nightmare.
Blood. Everywhere. Splattered across the walls, pooled on the floor, even streaked across the ceiling.
It was old—three to five days dry, clinging to the hot, humid air like a biochemical weapon.
Luckily, Hawk had sealed off his sense of smell the instant he entered.
Unbothered, he walked down the blood-soaked hall until he found the room Peter had likely used to rest.
He opened the door.
A bed. A desk. A bathroom. That was all.
But the place was a mess—sheets twisted, clothes tossed on the floor, desk cluttered.
Peter had left in a hurry.
"So…" Hawk muttered.
"What happened here?"
He searched, but found nothing useful. So he left the room, eyes settling again on the dried blood in the hall.
Could Peter have run into Pacific pirates?
Hawk frowned.
"Pirates? No way."
Not even SEALs could handle Peter at full strength.
This wasn't the flimsy "Amazing Spider-Man" or the quippy kid needing his mentor's help to hold a ferry together.
This was Tobey's Spider-Man. The one who could stop a train barehanded.
If he could do that, what were pirates compared to him?
So where was Peter?
Hawk followed the trail. It led him across the deck toward the railing—then abruptly ended.
He leaned over.
And there it was.
A half-devoured corpse stuck to one of the supports below.
Just then—
A faint sound reached his ears.
Hawk's gaze snapped toward the control room above.
In a blink, he was gone.
Inside, a blood-crusted, foul-smelling man nearly dropped his cup lid. He spun back toward where Hawk had stood on the deck below—
Only to freeze.
"Where'd he—"
"Behind you."
The voice made him jolt.
He whipped around, pistol flashing up.
Bang!
The bullet screamed straight at Hawk's head.
Hawk didn't move.
Clink.
He caught it neatly between two fingers.
Then he kicked, sending the gunman crashing across the control console with a scream.
Dragging him back down, Hawk let him roll weakly across the floor before speaking.
"What happened here? Where are Peter and Felicia?"
The man shuddered at the names, eyes wide.
"Wait—you're not with them?"
Hawk narrowed his eyes.
"Them? Who?"
"The demons."
The man clenched his teeth.
Hawk lifted him effortlessly with telekinesis and set him on a chair. Hands in his pockets, he stared coldly down.
"Start from the beginning."
The man swallowed hard, then spoke.
It had been five nights ago.
A stormy evening. The workers had all holed up in their stations, leaving only him and a partner on control duty.
Everything was routine—until suddenly, intruders appeared.
They burst in, gunned his partner down, and shot him too—though the bullet merely grazed his ear. Terrified, he fainted.
Hawk's eyes flicked to the man's bandaged, festering ear. He nodded.
"Go on."
"When I came to, I heard gunfire from the living quarters. I tried to trigger the alarm, but the power was cut. I climbed out the window and hid on the ledge in the storm. I… I heard bodies hitting the water, one after another. Then silence. When it was safe, I came back in."
Hawk walked to the window described. Indeed, there was a ledge outside, smeared with dried blood.
He rubbed a finger against the stain, sniffed it.
It matched.
He turned back.
"Your name."
"Oz—Oz Gran. Third-level bioresearcher for Osborn."
"Oz." Hawk ignored the rest. "Do you know who they were?"
Oz shook his head, wincing as his infected ear throbbed.
"And Peter, Felicia?"
"They weren't here that night. They'd gone to deliver supplies to Demon Island the next morning, but…"
"Wait. Demon Island?" Hawk raised a brow. "Isn't that near New York?"
Oz gave a bitter laugh.
"Not that one. This Demon Island's in the Pacific. More accurately—it's called Skull Island. From the sky, it looks like a skull. That's what we call it."
Skull Island.
The name rang loudly in Hawk's mind.
His sixth sense flared—the same one that had told him this journey would yield something important.
It wasn't a guess. It was certainty.
Peter and Felicia… were on Skull Island.
"A month ago, we found a safe route there," Oz confirmed. "Since then, Mr. Parker and Miss Felicia went ashore."
"…."
(End of Chapter)
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