The downtown shopping district hummed with its usual evening energy when the sharp crack of a gunshot shattered the peaceful atmosphere like glass. John and Gwen had been walking leisurely between storefronts when the sound echoed off surrounding buildings, bouncing between concrete and steel until it became impossible to pinpoint its exact origin.
Unafraid, their training and instincts kicking in automatically, they pushed through the growing crowd of onlookers. The air grew thick with the smell of fear-sweat and nervous energy, punctuated by the sharp scent of car exhaust and the distant wail of approaching sirens.
As police began to arrive, their radios crackling with urgent dispatches, they started to disperse the onlookers with practiced efficiency. Yellow crime scene tape appeared, sectioning off the area with its bright warnings.
John ducked under the tape, his enhanced vision automatically scanning the scene—skid marks on the asphalt, broken glass glinting under streetlights, the metallic scent of gunpowder still hanging faintly in the air. And then he saw him, and his blood ran cold.
It was Uncle Ben, lying motionless on the pavement beside his familiar sedan.
How is this possible? John thought, his mind reeling. After everything, did I still fail to save him?
"That's my friend's uncle!" he said, pushing past an officer's blocking hand to kneel at Ben's side. The pavement was rough and cold against his knees as he gently pressed on Ben's chest—it was hard. Something rigid beneath the fabric.
Ripping open the front of Ben's shirt with desperate hands, John saw it—the bulletproof vest, its Kevlar panels intact except for a small depression where the bullet had struck and been absorbed. He had worn it. He had listened. John reached for Ben's neck and felt a steady pulse. A wave of relief washed over him so powerful it left him dizzy.
Then, a new, more urgent thought struck him. Peter.
"Gwen, stay with him!" he said, turning to her as she knelt beside them, her medical training taking over. "I'll go find Peter." He turned to a nearby officer. "Which way did the shooter go?"
"Tell him," Gwen said firmly to the officer.
The cop, who had been about to refuse, recognized Captain Stacy's daughter and immediately complied. "Fifth Avenue."
John's mind raced. He remembered this from his visions. The killer was supposed to end up in an abandoned factory. He knew the one. He sprinted back to the car.
By the time John arrived at the derelict factory, there were no police sirens in the distance. He was ahead of them. He got out, transformed into his armored form—nanomachines flowing over his skin like liquid metal—and melted into the shadows to wait.
Meanwhile, a rage-filled Peter Parker swung through the skyscrapers of Manhattan with fury that made his web-shooters sing like instruments of war. His civilian clothes whipped around him in the wind he created with his enhanced speed, every swing carrying him closer to his target with the inevitability of a falling stone.
The city spread out below him like a circuit board made of light and shadow. Peter's enhanced senses were hyperalert, processing every sound and smell with the desperate efficiency of a predator tracking wounded prey.
Finally, he spotted his target—Uncle Ben's stolen sedan weaving erratically through traffic on Fifth Avenue. Peter landed on the roof with the silence of a striking spider, the metal warm and vibrating beneath him.
With a furious roar that came from somewhere deep in his chest, Peter punched straight through the metal roof, his enhanced strength turning steel into aluminum foil as he reached inside for the driver.
The carjacker, never expecting a hand to burst through the ceiling, screamed in terror and fired his pistol wildly into the ceiling. Peter leaped onto a nearby truck to avoid the shots, looking for another opening. A moment later, he jumped again, this time landing directly on the hood. His fist shattered the windshield, sending a spiderweb of cracks across the glass. The driver cried out as he was showered with fragments, his hands flying from the steering wheel to shield his face.
The car swerved violently, careening straight toward the factory's rusted iron gate. Peter leaped to a nearby building just as the car crashed through it with a deafening screech of metal.
The driver kicked open the mangled door and stumbled out, running deeper into the abandoned complex. He was terrified of the police behind him, but he was even more terrified of the strange, agile man who had been dancing on his car.
The factory was dim, with only thin shafts of moonlight piercing the gloom through grimy, broken windows. The robber held his gun cautiously, feeling his way forward, the unnerving sensation of being hunted prickling his skin. Suddenly, a chill ran down his spine.
"Who's there?" he spun around, but saw nothing.
Rustling sounds echoed from all around him. He fled in a panic, heading for the upper floors. As he reached the landing, a figure dropped from the rafters behind him. Before he could react, Peter grabbed him and slammed his head into a windowpane, disorienting him. The robber stumbled back, then pulled a knife and lunged, stabbing frantically.
But with his speed and senses, Peter was untouchable. He easily dodged every strike. After a few moves, he kicked the man's legs out from under him, sending him crashing hard against a wall. Realizing he was completely outmatched, the robber gasped for air.
"Give me a chance," he pleaded. "Please, I just stole some money, that's all."
"What about my uncle?" Peter snarled, grabbing him by the collar and slamming him against the wall. "Did you give him a chance? DID YOU?!"
By the pale moonlight, Peter saw the man's face clearly for the first time.
It was the thief from the convenience store. The man he had let go.
The image of the robber running past him flashed in Peter's mind, and an uncontrollable wave of regret and self-loathing washed over him. His hands went limp, and he stood frozen in place.
Seeing his chance, the robber suddenly raised his gun, aiming it squarely at Peter's forehead. "Goodbye," he sneered. But before he could pull the trigger, Peter's hand shot out on pure instinct, grabbing his wrist. With a sharp twist, a sickening crack echoed through the room. The robber screamed as the pistol dropped from his shattered hand.
Clutching his arm, the robber scrambled backward in terror, tripped over a loose steel pipe, and fell through the rotted window frame behind him.
John, who had been waiting below, leaped into the air and caught the falling man. The robber was about to thank his savior when John promptly knocked him unconscious and tossed him aside. John didn't care about the criminal, but he wouldn't let Peter, at such a young age, be burdened with a man's death.
Seeing the robber fall, Peter rushed to the broken window. He was astonished to see John, in his armored form, having saved the man. He rubbed his eyes. It was really him.
Then, a new thought, cold and venomous, entered his mind. John could see the future. An even greater surge of anger instantly welled up in his heart.
Peter leaped down from the upper floor, landing silently in front of John. He didn't know what to say. Should he blame John? Blame himself? He only felt an unspeakable sadness and a burning rage—for his uncle, for his own failure, and for John.
"This way," John said, his voice calm through the armor's modulation. "The police are coming." He turned and walked deeper into the factory ruins, his armored footsteps echoing against crumbling concrete. Peter silently followed.
They stopped in a clearing surrounded by swaying trees and dilapidated brick walls, the moonlight casting long shadows on the ground. The air was thick with the smell of rust and decay, punctuated by the distant sounds of sirens drawing closer.
John turned to face him, his armored form imposing in the silver light. "I know you don't want to talk right now," he said softly, his voice carrying a strange gentleness despite the electronic distortion. "So... let's fight."
"You're not my opponent," Peter stared back, his tone icy as winter steel. His fists clenched at his sides, trembling with barely contained emotion.
John just tilted his head, the gesture almost casual despite the gravity of the moment. "That's not necessarily true."
A single leaf drifted down between them, spinning slowly in the still air. As it touched the ground with the softest whisper, John charged. The armored figure moved with surprising grace, his enhanced systems compensating for the suit's weight as he threw a straight punch that cut through the air like a piston.
Peter back-flipped clear, his enhanced reflexes making the movement look effortless. John followed with a spinning side kick in mid-air, his armor's servos whining softly as they provided additional power. Peter twisted, leaning back to dodge again, his spine bending at an impossible angle.
But it was a feint. John's other leg lashed out in a perfectly timed combination, but just as it was about to connect with Peter's ribs, the young hero's hand shot up, blocking the kick and sending John stumbling back. The impact rang like a bell through the quiet factory grounds.
John landed gracefully, his armor's stabilizers keeping him upright despite the force of Peter's block. "Impressive," he commented, his voice carrying genuine admiration beneath the electronic modulation. "That spider-sense can even predict attacks you can't see."
Peter hadn't wanted to fight, but the grief and anger in his heart, now mixed with resentment toward John, had become a raging fire that threatened to consume everything in its path. The moonlight caught the tears on his cheeks, turning them into silver tracks of pain. "If you want a fight," he snarled, his voice breaking slightly on the words, "then you've got one!"
He met John's next charge head-on, trying to grab his armored fist. John, knowing he couldn't match Peter's raw strength even with his enhanced suit, changed tactics immediately, switching to quick, evasive kicks designed to keep the younger fighter at bay. His armor's systems calculated angles and trajectories with computer precision, but Peter's spider-sense made such calculations meaningless.
For the next several minutes, John experienced the true power of the spider-sense in all its terrifying glory. His own fighting skill was far superior—decades of training and combat experience refined into deadly art—but no matter what combination he tried, no matter how cleverly he disguised his attacks or how perfectly he timed his strikes, Peter's body moved almost before his mind could react, dodging and countering every blow with preternatural grace.
The dance of combat carried them across the clearing, their footsteps raising small clouds of dust and debris. John's armor sparked occasionally where Peter's enhanced strength found its mark, while Peter's clothes grew increasingly torn and dirty as he threw himself into the fight with reckless abandon.
The longer they fought, the more Peter lost control, channeling all his pain and rage into his fists. Uncle Ben is hurt... I let the robber go... and John... John saved the criminal, but not my uncle!
The thoughts circled in his mind like poison, feeding his anger until it became a living thing that demanded violence, demanded that someone pay for the night's terrible events. His movements became wilder, more aggressive, abandoning technique in favor of pure, devastating force.
"RAAAGH!" he roared, his mind foggy with anger as he put everything he had into a single, powerful punch. The sound that escaped his throat was barely human—more like the cry of a wounded animal driven past all reason.
John tried to deflect the force, his armor's systems screaming warnings as they detected the incoming impact. But it was too much. The blow connected with the sound of thunder, sending him flying backward like a rag doll. He smashed through a nearby brick wall with a tremendous crash, the ancient mortar exploding in a cloud of dust and debris as his armored form embedded itself in the rubble.
The shock of his own power seemed to clear Peter's head like cold water thrown in his face. He looked at the collapsed wall—easily three feet thick and built to last a century—now reduced to scattered bricks and powder. A wave of panic washed over him, cold and nauseating. What had he done?
"John! Are you okay?" he rushed forward, extending a trembling hand toward the destruction he'd caused. His voice cracked with genuine terror at the thought that he might have seriously hurt his friend—his mentor, the man who'd tried to help him become something better than what he was.
Amidst the cloud of dust that hung in the air like fog, John pushed away the heavy bricks with methodical precision and stood up. His armor was scratched and dented, sparks occasionally dancing across damaged circuits, but he was intact. The suit's emergency systems had absorbed most of the impact, and his enhanced physiology had handled the rest.
Seeing him stand, Peter breathed a sigh of relief so profound it left him shaky. For a moment, the anger had drained out of him entirely, replaced by the horrible realization of what he'd almost done.
John brushed the dust from his armor with movements that seemed almost casual, though Peter's enhanced hearing could detect the slight wheeze in his breathing that suggested the impact had taken more of a toll than he was letting on. "Not bad, Peter," he said, and despite everything—the pain, the chaos, the near-disaster—there was a grin evident in his voice. "So... ready for Round Two?"
The question hung in the air between them, part challenge, part invitation, part therapy session disguised as combat. In the distance, police sirens were growing closer, but for now, in this moment, there was only the two of them and the need to work through the kind of pain that could only be expressed through violence—controlled, purposeful violence between two people who understood that sometimes the only way to heal was to fight until the poison worked its way out of your system.
Peter looked at his friend—battered, dusty, but still standing, still offering exactly what Peter needed even if he couldn't articulate it himself—and felt something shift in his chest. The anger was still there, the grief and guilt and rage, but underneath it all was the recognition that he wasn't alone. That even in his darkest moment, someone was willing to stand with him, fight with him, help him find his way back to the light.
"Yeah," Peter said quietly, wiping the tears from his eyes with the back of his hand. "I think I am."
"Throw PowerStones For my Support. Person with #1#2#3 Will get a chance for extra chapters preview"
""Hey Guys I also Have my paetron p.atreon.com/Scoldey Jod
Where I will upload advance chapters 25+ chapters."