The city didn't care what you promised yourself.
It kept breathing—cars rolling, distant sirens, a train groaning somewhere like an old animal, neon flickering over wet pavement—and Sol kept bleeding inside Aaliyah's hoodie like the night was collecting a tax.
They moved fast and ugly, exactly like Aaliyah said.
Not graceful swinging, not comic-book arcs—more like controlled falling with choices. Sol shot web lines to fire escapes and roof edges and yanked all four of them into jerky momentum bursts, every pull sending pain like electricity through his ribs and shoulder. He didn't feel like a hero.
He felt like a dog dragging its pack away from headlights.
Hana clung close, one hand always at his waist or elbow when they landed, fingers warm through fabric, steady even when her breath shook. Judy held on with pure stubbornness, teeth clenched, eyes always cutting back behind them like she could see Helix with willpower alone. Aaliyah didn't cling so much as *command* her body to move—dancer legs absorbing hard landings like she'd practiced for falling.
Sol's wrists burned.
The pressure wasn't a single burst anymore. It was a constant, simmering reservoir—webbing wanting out, spider-sense wanting to scream, adrenaline wanting to keep him upright even while his blood wanted to leave.
"Phones off," Judy whispered as they crouched behind a rooftop unit. She'd gotten Dr. Ward's address text and then killed her screen like it was evidence. "No pings."
Aaliyah nodded sharply. "Where is it?"
Judy leaned in, voice low. "Old clinic. Not Helix-owned. Mom said 'satellite.' Like—before Helix bought the world."
Sol's jaw clenched. "Where."
"Near the river," Judy said. "Old brick building. Used to be a free clinic. Closed down, reopened, closed again."
Sol heard the words and pictured it: underfunded health, donated supplies, tired nurses, people who didn't have options.
People like his mom.
He swallowed something bitter.
They moved again—across rooftops, down a fire escape, through a back alley that smelled like metal and rain. Sol's spider-sense kept buzzing—sometimes faint, sometimes sharp—and he learned its language by necessity:
* **Faint buzz:** eyes on you somewhere, but not locked.
* **Sharp spike:** someone's about to act.
* **Full scream:** you are already late.
It screamed when a drone drifted overhead. They froze under an awning until it passed.
It screamed when a black SUV rolled slow at the far end of a street. They ducked into a laundromat vestibule that still smelled like detergent and cold coins.
It screamed when Sol's ankle threatened to give. Hana caught him without thinking, pressing close enough that her breath warmed his neck for one second.
Sol's brain tried to notice *too much* again—Hana's softness against his side, the curve of her hip as she braced him, the way the hoodie rode up slightly when he lifted his arms.
He shut it down hard.
Not because attraction was wrong.
Because the moment he let himself drift, somebody died.
And he was starting to understand—deeply, painfully—that "somebody" could be his mother.
They reached the address just before the night started turning gray at the edges.
A two-story brick building wedged between a closed barber shop and a corner storefront with faded lettering. A metal sign hung crooked above a side door:
RIVERSIDE COMMUNITY HEALTH — OUTREACH
The front windows were dark. The street was quiet. Too quiet.
Sol's spider-sense buzzed—low, uneasy, like a dog growling at a door it didn't trust.
Judy whispered, "This is it."
Aaliyah scanned the block. "No cars."
Hana's voice shook. "Maybe she's inside."
Sol approached the side door carefully.
His palm stuck to the handle like it wanted to claim the metal.
He didn't force it. He turned it gently.
The door opened.
A faint smell drifted out—old antiseptic and paper and something like dust that had been cleaned too many times.
They slipped in.
The hallway was dim, lit by one emergency light. Old posters on the wall: diabetes screenings, free flu shots, counseling services. A bulletin board with flyers that hadn't been updated in months.
Halfway down the hall, a door clicked open.
Dr. Celeste Ward stepped out.
She didn't look like a villain. She didn't look like a superhero either.
She looked like a woman who hadn't slept in a year.
Hair tied back tight. No makeup. Lab coat over street clothes like she'd put it on out of habit and forgot she was wearing it. Her eyes snapped to Judy first—relief flickering—then to Hana and Aaliyah—surprise—then to Sol.
And the relief vanished.
Because Sol was pale under the blood and sweat, Aaliyah's hoodie darkened at his side, and his face had fresh cuts that were still weeping.
Dr. Ward crossed the hall in two steps and grabbed Sol's chin gently but firmly, turning his face into the light.
"Jesus," she breathed. "How are you standing."
Sol's honesty came out flat. "I don't know."
Dr. Ward's eyes flicked to his bandage. "That needs proper closure."
Judy's voice cracked. "We couldn't go to a hospital."
"I know," Dr. Ward said, voice clipped, controlled. Then she looked at Judy like a mother first and a scientist second. "Are you hurt."
Judy shook her head fast. "No. Sol—Sol's bad."
Dr. Ward turned. "Inside. Now. Lock the door behind you."
Aaliyah muttered as she shut it, "Bossy."
Dr. Ward didn't respond. She was already moving down the hall, leading them into a small treatment room that looked like it belonged in a museum: an old exam table, an IV stand, cabinets with chipped paint, a sink that dripped steadily like time.
She pointed at the table. "Sit."
Sol hesitated. His spider-sense buzzed, uneasy.
Dr. Ward's eyes snapped up. "Solomon, sit down before you fall down."
Sol obeyed.
Hana hovered near the table, hands half-raised like she didn't know whether to touch him or give him space.
Dr. Ward saw her and softened slightly. "You did first aid?"
Hana nodded. "I wrapped it. It kept bleeding."
Dr. Ward's mouth tightened. "Good job."
Hana blinked, surprised.
Dr. Ward turned back to Sol, voice professional again. "Lift the hoodie."
Sol did, jaw tight as the fabric dragged against the taped gauze.
The bandage was soaked in places.
Dr. Ward peeled it back with the efficiency of someone who had seen too much blood to flinch. When the wound showed—long, ragged, still oozing—Hana inhaled sharply.
Aaliyah swore under her breath.
Judy went pale.
Dr. Ward's expression didn't change. But her eyes did—something like guilt, buried deep.
"This was a blade," she said quietly.
Sol's voice came out rough. "Crane."
Dr. Ward's hands paused for half a heartbeat. "You encountered him."
Sol nodded once. "Yeah."
Dr. Ward resumed cleaning, voice too calm. "And you survived."
Sol's honesty came out blunt. "Barely."
Dr. Ward's lips pressed together. "That man isn't Helix staff. He's contracted. Private retrieval."
Aaliyah leaned against the wall, arms folded. "So he's like… corporate bounty hunter?"
Dr. Ward didn't look at her. "He's a fixer. When Helix wants something to disappear, he makes it disappear."
Judy's eyes flashed. "He's not disappearing Sol."
Dr. Ward glanced up then—sharp. "If Helix decides Solomon is a liability, he won't be retrieved. He'll be terminated."
The room went cold.
Hana's fingers curled into fists.
Aaliyah's jaw tightened.
Sol felt something inside him harden too—like a line being drawn with a knife.
Dr. Ward opened a cabinet and pulled out a suture kit.
Judy stared. "You're going to stitch him?"
Dr. Ward's eyes didn't leave Sol's wound. "Unless you want him bleeding into your hoodie until he passes out."
Aaliyah snapped, "Hey. That hoodie is expensive."
Sol managed a breath that was almost a laugh, then winced.
Hana leaned in. "Do you have anesthesia?"
Dr. Ward pulled a small vial and syringe from the kit. "Local. Not much."
Sol swallowed. "Do it."
Dr. Ward looked up at him—really looked. "This will hurt."
Sol's honesty came out without pride, just truth. "Everything hurts."
Dr. Ward nodded once, like that was the most human thing she'd heard all night. She injected the area around the wound in quick, practiced jabs.
Sol's fingers dug into the edge of the table.
Hana stepped closer without thinking and took Sol's free hand.
Her fingers were warm and small and steady.
Sol's body reacted—heat flickering through him in the worst timing imaginable—but he clung to her hand anyway because pain was real and fear was real and her hand made both survivable.
Judy saw it. Her eyes narrowed.
Aaliyah saw Judy see it and smirked, but didn't say anything—rare mercy.
Dr. Ward began stitching.
The needle slid through skin with a soft, wet resistance that made Hana flinch the first time. Sol forced himself to watch the ceiling. The pain wasn't sharp at first—more pressure, pulling—until the anesthesia thinned and the bite of reality came back.
Sol's jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached.
Dr. Ward spoke while she worked, voice steady like she was lecturing herself as much as them.
"Project Arachne was designed as a delivery platform. A controlled vector. The spider isn't a gimmick. It's… a syringe that crawls."
Judy whispered, furious, "And you let them build it."
Dr. Ward's hands didn't slow. "I built parts of it."
Judy's voice cracked. "Mom—"
Dr. Ward's eyes flicked up, sharp with pain. "I thought it was for soldiers. For field stabilization. For rapid tissue repair and neural response modulation under trauma. You don't understand what Helix told us. They wrapped it in 'saving lives.'"
Aaliyah's voice was cold. "Companies always say that before they ruin lives."
Dr. Ward finished a stitch and tied it off. "Yes."
Hana swallowed. "So… Sol got the whole package."
Dr. Ward's mouth tightened. "He got more than we intended. The organism was… unstable. Adaptive. It wasn't supposed to bond long-term."
Sol's voice came out low. "But it did."
Dr. Ward didn't deny it. "Yes."
Judy's hands trembled. "So what now? What does this mean?"
Dr. Ward taped the final dressing down. "It means Helix will never stop. Not now. Not after you demonstrated webbing in the field and incapacitated retrieval personnel."
Aaliyah's brow rose. "Field?"
Dr. Ward's eyes were flat. "You think Crane doesn't report? You think Helix isn't cataloging every ability, every tactic, every limit?"
Sol's stomach churned.
He remembered Crane's calm voice describing his webbing like it was a lab sample.
Organic polymer. High tensile strength. Fast adhesion.
He'd felt like a specimen then.
He felt worse now, because he was starting to understand the scale.
Helix wasn't just a building. It was a machine. Money. Contractors. Politics. Police friends. Lab friends. Drones.
A city inside the city.
And he was a glitch they wanted to own—or erase.
Sol slid off the table slowly, testing his ankle. Pain snapped up his leg.
Hana tightened her grip on his hand reflexively. "Don't be stupid."
Sol's honesty came out blunt. "Too late."
Hana looked up at him, eyes shining. "Sol."
He met her gaze and forced himself to be gentle even when he didn't feel gentle. "I'm trying."
His phone buzzed in his pocket again.
He'd kept it off, but it still vibrated—notifications piling like desperate knocks.
He shouldn't look.
He looked anyway.
A missed call.
A voicemail.
From MOM.
Sol's throat tightened so hard he tasted blood.
He played it with the volume barely up.
Marcia's voice came through, shaky and furious:
"Solomon. Baby. Where are you? There are men outside. They came back this morning, like they own the block. They asked for you. I told them to leave. Nia's scared. I'm scared. You better call me—"
A harsh voice in the background cut through her message, distant but clear enough to make Sol's skin crawl:
"Ma'am, we're trying to keep this civil."
Marcia snapped back, voice rising: "Civil? You broke my door!"
The voicemail ended with a loud clatter and Marcia's breath hitching, like someone had grabbed her arm.
Sol's vision narrowed.
The room went silent.
Hana whispered, "Sol…"
Judy's face went white. "Your mom—"
Aaliyah's eyes hardened into something dangerous. "They went back."
Dr. Ward's jaw clenched. "They're pressuring your family to force you out."
Sol stood there, phone shaking in his hand, feeling something inside him change shape.
He'd spent his whole life being careful.
Careful with words so teachers didn't label him.
Careful with tone so people didn't mistake him for a threat.
Careful with anger because anger was a luxury and his mom couldn't afford him being reckless.
Even tonight, he'd tried to hold onto the idea that there was a "right" way to do this.
That he could be Spider-Man without becoming a monster.
But in that voicemail, he heard his mother's fear.
And the moment someone put hands on Marcia Smith—
Something in Sol went cold.
Not rage-hot.
Cold.
Clear.
A decision that didn't feel heroic at all.
It felt like survival.
He looked up, eyes fixed, voice low.
"If anyone comes after my family," Sol said, blunt and flat, "I'm not holding back anymore."
Judy swallowed hard. "Sol—"
Hana stepped closer, voice trembling. "What does that mean."
Sol didn't look away. "It means if they try to take them—if they try to hurt them—"
His jaw tightened.
He finished the thought anyway because honesty was his curse.
"I will kill them if I have to."
The words landed like a gunshot.
Hana flinched like he'd struck her.
Judy's eyes went wide, tears shimmering.
Aaliyah didn't flinch. She just stared at Sol like she was seeing him as something new.
Dr. Ward's voice was quiet. "Solomon… that line changes you."
Sol's voice was low. "They already changed me."
Silence stretched.
Then Hana whispered, almost pleading, "Sol… please don't become like them."
Sol looked at her then. Really looked.
Her hands were shaking. Her eyes were wet. She was brave, but she was still a person, and she was watching him step toward something she couldn't follow.
Sol softened his voice for her, forcing gentleness into his bluntness.
"I don't want to," he said. "But I'm not letting my mom die because I wanted to feel clean."
Judy's voice cracked. "Your mom won't die."
Sol's gaze snapped to her, sharp. "Don't promise me that. Not in this world."
Aaliyah broke the moment, practical. "Okay. Decisions later. Right now we have one question."
She pointed at the clinic door. "Are they coming here next."
Sol's spider-sense buzzed—faint, then stronger.
Dr. Ward's eyes narrowed. She moved to the window, peeled back a blind a fraction, and froze.
Headlights washed the street.
A black SUV rolled slow past the building.
Then another.
Dr. Ward whispered, "Yes."
Judy's breath hitched. "Mom—"
Dr. Ward turned, voice snapping into command. "Back room. Now. Shut off every light. No phones. No noise."
Aaliyah grabbed Hana's wrist and pulled her toward the rear hallway.
Judy started to move, then stopped and looked at Sol. "Come on."
Sol didn't move immediately.
He was listening.
Not with ears.
With that buzzing instinct under his skin.
He felt them outside like pressure in the air.
Not just one. Multiple.
A team.
Crane's team? Maybe.
Or someone worse.
Dr. Ward whispered, urgent, "Solomon—move."
Sol exhaled once.
Then nodded.
They retreated into the back treatment area, a storage room filled with old medical supplies and sealed boxes. A single exit door led to a narrow alley behind the building.
Aaliyah tested it. "Locked."
Sol's palm stuck as soon as he touched the handle.
He pulled gently.
The lock popped.
Aaliyah stared. "Convenient."
Sol didn't smile. "Keep moving."
They slipped out into the alley.
Cold air hit like a slap.
The alley was narrow, fenced on one side, brick wall on the other, with a dumpster and a fire escape ladder overhead.
Sol's spider-sense screamed.
He didn't even get to warn them.
A figure stepped out of the shadows at the far end—black gear, mask, baton—moving like a professional.
Then another behind them, blocking the clinic door.
They'd been waiting.
Aaliyah swore. "They boxed us."
Judy whispered, "Sol—"
Hana's hand found Sol's sleeve, gripping like she could anchor him to humanity.
Sol looked at the two operatives.
Not kids.
Not random muggers.
Men who chose this job.
Men who put hands on mothers to pull sons out of hiding.
Something cold settled behind Sol's eyes.
He lifted his wrists.
Pressure surged.
The first operative raised his baton and advanced.
Sol didn't talk.
He fired.
*THWP.*
A web strand slammed into the operative's face, sealing his mask's eye area.
The operative cursed, swinging blind.
Sol's spider-sense screamed and Sol moved like he'd been doing this for years—ducking under the baton, stepping inside the operative's reach, and yanking the web line sideways.
The operative's head snapped to the side and slammed into the brick wall with a wet crack.
He went down.
Not dead—Sol saw his chest still move—but his face hit hard enough to split skin, blood smearing the wall.
Hana gasped.
Judy made a small sound like she was about to vomit.
Aaliyah didn't flinch. "Keep going!"
The second operative—behind them—raised something.
Not the canister rifle this time.
A handgun.
Real gun.
The barrel leveled at Sol's spine.
Sol's spider-sense detonated so hard his whole body jerked.
He moved before thought, twisting and throwing a web line without even looking.
*THWP.*
The web struck the gun barrel and glued it to the operative's gloved hand.
The operative fired anyway—reflex, panic, training.
The shot cracked the alley like lightning.
The bullet hit brick inches from Hana's head and sprayed dust and grit into her hair.
Hana screamed.
Something inside Sol snapped—not into blind rage, but into clarity.
That bullet could have been Hana's skull.
That bullet could have been Judy's throat.
That bullet could have been his sister's face if this team made it back to his block.
Sol yanked the web line hard.
The gun tore sideways.
The operative stumbled, trying to keep grip.
Sol fired a second web line at the operative's wrist and anchored it to the fence.
*THWP.*
Then a third to the operative's elbow.
*THWP.*
Sol didn't just restrain.
He locked the arm.
The operative tried to rip free.
Sol surged forward and drove his shoulder into the operative's chest, slamming him into the chain-link fence.
The fence rattled violently.
The operative grunted, breath knocked out.
Sol grabbed the webbed gun and twisted it downward, away from everyone.
Then—without hesitating—he drove the operative's head into the fence.
Once.
Metal links bit skin.
Blood ran.
The operative groaned, dazed.
Sol didn't stop.
He slammed the head again.
Twice.
A sick crunch this time, not loud, but real—nose or cheekbone or teeth giving under force.
The operative went limp, sliding down the fence with a wet smear.
Judy stared at Sol like she didn't recognize him.
Hana's face was white, tears on her cheeks.
Aaliyah's chest heaved, eyes wide, voice low. "Sol…"
Sol stood over the limp man, breathing hard.
He could hear his own heartbeat.
He could smell blood—fresh and coppery—mixing with dust and cold air.
He looked down at his hands.
Sticky with webbing.
Spattered with someone else's blood.
He'd said he wouldn't hold back.
He hadn't.
The part that scared him most wasn't that he'd done it.
It was that it had felt **necessary**.
Sol turned, voice rough. "Move."
Hana's voice trembled. "Sol—he—he might—"
Sol cut her off, blunt, eyes hard. "He shot at you."
Hana flinched as if the words themselves hit.
Sol swallowed and forced his tone softer for her, just a little. "We're leaving. Now."
They moved down the alley fast.
At the far end, Sol fired a web line upward to the fire escape ladder.
*THWP.*
He yanked it down with a grunt, metal screeching as it dropped.
Aaliyah scrambled up first like she'd done it a hundred times.
Judy climbed after, hands shaking.
Hana hesitated, looking back once—at the blood, at the limp bodies, at the clinic door.
Sol didn't give her time to freeze.
He lifted her by the waist—careful but decisive—and placed her on the ladder rung like she weighed nothing.
Hana stared at him, breath hitching.
Sol's face tightened—he noticed the closeness, her body against his for a second, and he forced his gaze to stay on her eyes like a gentleman even while something primal stirred under his skin.
"Up," he said, voice low. "Please."
Hana swallowed and climbed.
Sol went last.
He climbed with one arm stronger than it should've been, ankle screaming, ribs burning, wrists aching from overuse.
They reached the roof.
And Sol's spider-sense screamed again.
Because across the street, on the next building, a figure stood in the dark like a statue.
Mr. Crane.
Face cleaned up. Jacket torn where Sol had ripped it earlier. Calm restored like it had never broken.
He looked up at Sol and tilted his head, almost approving.
"You hit harder when you're afraid," Crane called softly across the gap. "Good."
Sol's blood went cold.
Crane's eyes flicked to Hana, to Judy, to Aaliyah.
"You're still carrying liabilities," Crane continued. "But you're adapting."
Sol's jaw clenched.
He took one step forward, web strands clinging between his fingers again.
Crane smiled faintly. "You won't kill me, Solomon."
Sol's voice came out low and blunt. "Don't bet your life on what you think I am."
For the first time, Crane's smile faded just a fraction.
Not fear.
Interest.
He lifted his radio to his mouth, voice calm. "He's escalating."
Sol's spider-sense screamed—movement below, more teams, more closing angles.
Aaliyah grabbed Sol's sleeve. "We can't stay."
Judy's voice shook. "Mom—my mom—"
Dr. Ward was still in that clinic. Alone.
Sol's chest tightened.
He looked back at the building they'd fled.
He imagined Helix men inside, tearing it apart, finding Dr. Ward.
And then he imagined his mom's voicemail again—hands on her arm, that voice saying *civil*.
Sol's teeth clenched so hard his jaw ached.
He didn't want this.
But wanting didn't matter.
He looked at the three girls behind him—alive, shaken, still here.
Then he looked at Crane.
And he made himself a promise that felt like a scar forming.
"If you touch my family again," Sol said, voice low, carrying over the gap, "I'm not giving warnings."
Crane's eyes narrowed a fraction.
Sol turned away before Crane could reply.
Because the worst part about becoming someone who could kill—
Was that you still had to live long enough to decide whether you would.
"Move," Sol said again, and this time his voice wasn't shaky.
It was steel.
He fired a web into the night.
*THWP.*
And pulled them forward, not as prey anymore—
But as something the city hadn't learned how to contain yet.