The young man standing before Marcus, spouting righteous words with an overly dramatic pose, was none other than Spider-Man—the famed Marvel superhero. Judging from his youthful voice and small frame, he was still at the early stage of his career—the Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man, real name: Peter Parker.
A teenager who had gained the powers of a spider after being bitten by a radioactive one, Peter was the embodiment of youthful idealism—brilliant, brave, but a little too righteous for his own good. So, naturally, the sight of Marcus standing amidst blood and corpses filled him with moral outrage.
Never mind that Marcus himself was only eighteen.
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"They tried to kill me," Marcus said coldly, stepping aside to reveal the carnage behind him. "No… they did kill me."
The alley was painted red—blood pooled like rivers, severed limbs scattered like broken dolls. To Marcus, who had already died once, the sight stirred no emotion. He hadn't killed for pleasure—he had simply retaliated with the power he was given. As far as he was concerned, that was self-defense.
"Ugh—oh God—time out, please—"
Apparently, the gruesome scene was too much for the young hero. Spider-Man tore open the bottom of his mask, braced himself against the wall, and threw up violently. It took him nearly a full minute to recover.
While the boy wonder was busy retching, Marcus's metallic arm shifted shape, the claws narrowing into a needle-like tip. With a sharp twist, he sliced through the webbing that bound him and freed his right hand. In the same motion, his left claw came down like a guillotine—splitting the dazed thug's head into four neat layers, like a grotesque hamburger.
Spider-Man's eyes widened behind his mask.
"Wha—HEY! I warned you!"
Marcus glanced at him indifferently. "What, was I supposed to wait for your permission?"
Spider-Man's tone hardened. "You just made this personal."
In one smooth motion, he fired twin webs to both sides of the alley, anchoring them to the walls. Using the tension like a slingshot, he launched himself forward like a bullet, legs extended for a signature Superhero Flying Kick.
It would've been impressive—if it weren't so impractical.
Marcus simply ducked.
Spider-Man soared harmlessly overhead—but the fight was far from over.
Two webs shot out midair, snaring Marcus by the shoulders. The sudden pull yanked him off his feet and slammed him to the ground.
When he looked up, Spider-Man was already grinning from across the alley, tugging the webs taut.
"Gotcha!"
Marcus snorted, twisted his body, and sprang up with a sharp motion. Grabbing the webs with both hands, he gave a brutal yank. Spider-Man stumbled forward helplessly, pulled straight toward him.
Marcus's right arm morphed into a gleaming blade, sparking against the wall as he swung it horizontally toward Spider-Man's neck.
"Whoa! Close one!"
Sparks flew—but no blood followed.
In a split second, Spider-Man bent his body at a ninety-degree angle, planted his feet on the wall, and vaulted upward—literally running across the vertical surface before flipping clean over Marcus's head. He landed gracefully on the opposite side, like a gymnast finishing a routine.
"Pretty neat, huh? You like my moves?" he quipped.
Before Marcus could retort, he spun around and drove his elbow backward with deadly precision—aimed straight at Spider-Man's nose. The strike was fast and unexpected, perfectly timed.
But Spider-Man's Spider-Sense tingled.
Still midair, he twisted his torso just enough to dodge, landing lightly as Marcus's attack whistled past him.
"Whew—almost broke the mask! Without my Spider-Sense, I'd be scheduling facial reconstruction tomorrow."
Spider-Sense.
Marcus finally understood why this kid was such a nightmare opponent. It was, in essence, a sixth sense—an instinctive awareness of danger that warned Peter of any threat before it happened.
Ambushes, traps, surprise attacks—none of it worked.
He simply knew when to move.
And so, while Marcus unleashed a furious barrage of slashes and stabs, Spider-Man danced between them effortlessly.
Blades whistled through the air, claws tore at the concrete walls—but every strike missed by a hair's breadth. Peter dodged each attack with annoying precision, deliberately making it look close for dramatic flair.
After a few minutes, Marcus was panting heavily, his metallic skin glistening with sweat. Spider-Man, by contrast, hadn't even torn his suit.
"Are we done?" the hero teased. "Because if you're tired, it's my turn now!"
He shot upward, scaling the alley walls with impossible speed until he reached the rooftops. From above, he unleashed a barrage of web projectiles—dense, sticky spheres raining down like bullets.
Marcus twisted his body, dodging several, but the sheer volume was overwhelming. Realizing escape was impossible, he grabbed a large trash bin nearby and hoisted it over his head as a makeshift shield.
"Perfect! Just stay right there," Spider-Man called cheerfully.
He kept firing, layer after layer, until the bin was completely covered in a thick cocoon of white webbing. The sticky threads began to sink into the metal, anchoring the bin to the ground. Within seconds, Marcus was completely entombed—a giant, pulsating cocoon made of Spider-Man's reinforced silk.
No sound, no movement. Just silence.
Spider-Man dropped down lightly and admired his handiwork.
"Alright, buddy, this should help you cool off a bit," he said smugly. "Now sit tight and wait for the cops, okay?"
He brushed his hands together with satisfaction. His webs were famously strong—two strands could stop a speeding train. This cocoon, made of hundreds, was practically indestructible.
Not even a tank shell could punch through that.
"Ah, crap," Peter muttered suddenly. "Aunt May asked me to pick up groceries. I really hope the store's still open."
He turned to leave—
And froze.
A violent tingle shot through his Spider-Sense.
Something was wrong.
He glanced back at the cocoon—and his heart skipped a beat.
The figure inside was gone. Only the crushed trash bin hung there, suspended in a web of silk.
The ground beneath him cracked open without warning.
And before Peter could react, a figure burst out of the concrete below, launching upward like a human uppercut—
A fist of silver metal aimed straight for Spider-Man's jaw.