Greater Together - Chapter 11

Chapter 11: Masked Menaces

The donut shop smelled like sugar and fryer grease and bad decisions.

Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, washing everything in that particular shade of morning regret that made powdered sugar look radioactive. The display case gleamed with glaze so thick it reflected the traffic outside in warped, syrupy streaks. Somewhere behind the counter, oil popped like it was applauding itself.

MJ liked it here.

Not because it was charming. It wasn’t. The vinyl booths stuck to the backs of your legs and the coffee tasted like it had been brewed during the Clinton administration. But it was neutral ground. No parents. No teachers. No capes.

Just donuts.

Peter was stress-eating a powdered donut like it had personally betrayed him.

He leaned over the table, elbows planted, hoodie half-zipped, face dusted in white. Every bite was aggressive. He chewed like he was punishing it.

Across from him, Gwen Stacy was dissecting a cruller with surgical precision.

Not eating it.

Analyzing it.

She’d already broken it into symmetrical segments and was currently holding one up to the light like she expected to discover structural weaknesses.

MJ stirred her iced coffee and watched the two of them.

She loved them.

She also worried for the future of the human race.

“So,” MJ said, casually. “Remember how you two risked your lives saving a kid from a mob-funded human lava experiment?”

Peter didn’t look up. “Mmf.”

Gwen tilted her head. “That’s a very specific way to phrase that.”

MJ took a slow sip.

“Well. He’s working for the Big Man now.”

She let it land.

Peter stopped chewing.

Gwen blinked once.

“Wait,” Gwen said carefully. “Working for who?”

“The Big Man,” MJ repeated. “Tall. Albino. Likes white suits. Runs half of Harlem without technically running half of Harlem.”

Recognition hit.

“Lincoln,” Peter muttered through powdered sugar. “Tombstone.”

MJ nodded.

She’d done her homework. It turned out when you dated a superhero and were best friends with two more, you either became extremely informed or extremely dead. She preferred informed.

“Mark Allan has been spotted collecting payments,” she continued, ticking points off on her fingers. “He’s wearing the suit. He’s using the suit. He is not being forced to wear the suit.”

Gwen’s brows knit together. “What? But we helped him. We freed him from the crazy Russian mobsters.”

“Mob scientists,” Peter corrected automatically. “There was definitely lab equipment.”

“Mob scientists,” Gwen amended, waving a hand. “We saved him.”

“We did,” Peter agreed. “And then we handed him the remote control to his magma body.” He then returned to scarfing down his donut, when he choked briefly, as his mind caught up to what he had just revealed.

Gwen slowly lowered the cruller segment.

MJ blinked.

There was a remote.

There was a remote that activated magma skin.

And they handed it back to him.

She stared at them.

“…You gave a teenager a lava button.”

Silence.

Somewhere, a coffee machine wheezed like it was judging them.

Peter cleared his throat. “…Mistakes were made.”

Gwen straightened. “In our defense—”

“There is no defense,” MJ cut in. “You handed a fourteen-year-old a portable volcano trigger and trusted his best intentions?”

Seriously! Wasn’t the whole reason he was taken by the mob in the first place was because his loan shark sold him out to them to clear up Mark’s debt? How is that a good indicator of character.

“He seemed grateful,” Peter said weakly. “Also, technically I think he’s like a year or two older than us?”

“He cried,” Gwen added. “There were tears.”

“Yes,” MJ said. “People can cry and still make bad decisions. That’s kind of our entire generation’s brand.”

Gwen looked genuinely distressed now. “He said he just wanted to be normal.”

“And now he gets to be normal,” MJ said. “Normal for a kid working enforcement for the Big Man.”

Peter groaned and dragged both hands down his face, leaving twin sugar streaks. “We were trying to give him peace of mind.”

“You gave him magma,” MJ said.

The door chimed.

MJ guessed who it was before she looked up.

Harry Osborn had a way of entering rooms like he expected something to go wrong. Not paranoid. Just… alert. His shoulders were relaxed, but his eyes flicked once across the shop—door, counter, exits, back hallway—before settling on their booth.

He was late.

Of course he was late.

Apparently, having superpowers didn’t automatically turn him into a morning person.

His hair was slightly rumpled, like he’d run a hand through it on the way in. There was a faint crease in his jacket that hadn’t been there yesterday. He looked like someone who had been up too late thinking about something and then pretended he hadn’t.

Gwen brightened automatically.

It was subtle.

MJ noticed anyway.

Harry slid into the booth beside Gwen. “Hey guys! Sorry, I’m late. What’d I miss?”

Peter and Gwen, in perfect, panicked unison:

“Nothing!”

MJ didn’t even pause.

“They gave Mark Allan a remote that turns his skin into magma and now he works for Tombstone.”

Harry blinked.

Just once.

But MJ saw it.

The microsecond recalculation.

The part where he slotted the information into a larger mental board. Tombstone. Mark. Remote. Consequences. Probability trees branching outward.

He knew Tombstone.

He knew this tracked.

He knew this was bad.

“Wow,” Harry said. “Really?”

“Yep.”

Harry leaned back slightly. “Man. Who could have predicted Mark would do something like that?”

Gwen threw her hands up. “I know, right?!”

Peter nodded vigorously. “Completely unexpected!”

Harry nodded along. “Yeah, this was clearly inevitable.”

MJ stared at all three of them.

…seriously?

This was the strategy?

Collective denial?

Typical.

She pinched the bridge of her nose.

“You guys are unbelievable.”

“In fairness,” Peter said, pointing a powdered finger at her, “we were under a lot of pressure.”

“You were under a lot of lava,” MJ corrected.

Gwen covered her face with both hands, laughing helplessly. “Okay. Okay. Yes. In hindsight, maybe the remote—”

“Maybe,” MJ echoed. “We should change the subject. Before I rip my hair out. Or somebody else’s.” 

Gwen would look good with half her head shaved, wouldn’t she?

Harry reached for one of the untouched donuts in the box and took a bite like this was just a normal Tuesday conversation and not a discussion about their accidental creation of a magma enforcer.

He chewed thoughtfully.

“So,” he said around it, “you guys got a spare Halloween costume I can borrow? I totally forgot today was supposed to be a Halloween event at school.”

Peter froze.

“It is?!”

Gwen gasped. “I knew I was forgetting something!”

MJ looked at the three of them.

Three vigilantes.

Two spider-powered geniuses.

One symbiote-bonded corporate heir with a secret identity.

All completely blindsided by a date on a calendar.

She took a long sip of her coffee.

“Why don’t you guys just wear your hero costumes?”

Silence.

Harry blinked at her.

Peter’s jaw dropped.

Gwen’s eyes widened.

“I mean… there’s no way we could get away with that.”

…

I couldn’t believe we’re getting away with it.

That was the first thought that hit me as I pushed through the double doors of Midtown High dressed head-to-toe in living alien fabric.

Well.

Almost head-to-toe.

I left the mask off.

The symbiote rests against my skin like a second pulse, matte black crawling over my torso and arms in that clean, classic pattern. White spider emblem. White eye-shapes currently dormant around my collarbones, waiting to snap up if I ask.

The hallway is chaos.

Orange streamers droop from lockers. Fake cobwebs cling to fire alarms in ways that would absolutely violate several codes if anyone here cared about codes. Music echoes from the gym—something with too much bass for eight in the morning.

And no one.

No one.

Reacted to the fact that I was wearing a living alien.

A freshman dressed as Thor jogged past me with a plastic hammer. Two girls in witch hats argued over eyeliner. Someone in a foam dinosaur costume struggled with a locker combination.

I walked through all of it in a sentient alien supersuit.

No one blinked.

Look at how they’re dressed, Harry! 

They could be our enemies! That one has a horn! Rhino had a horn!

‘That’s a Viking helmet.’

The Scorpion also had a tail. That one has a tail.

I glanced left.

A sophomore in a bright green morph suit with a pool noodle duct-taped to his back was in the middle of drinking from a Capri Sun. Or trying to, anyways.

‘That’s Kyle from chem.’

Kyle could betray us.

‘Kyle failed chem.’

…We should still watch him.

The noise level was unreal. Lockers slamming. Laughter. Fake battle cries. Plastic web-shooters clicking every few seconds.

For a normal person, it would’ve been overwhelming.

For us?

It was a buffet.

Venom vibrated with it, soaking up the adrenaline like sunlight.

They are hiding in plain sight. We approve of this ritual.

‘You approve of Halloween?’

It is socially sanctioned deception. We respect that. But be on guard! We have no idea which of these people intends to betray us.

Fair.

I made it three steps before—

Harry. Three Spider-Men. Eleven o’clock.

I turned casually.

He’s not wrong.

Three different guys in varying degrees of red-and-blue spandex stood by the vending machines. One store-bought. One clearly homemade. One… actually not terrible, which is mildly insulting.

One of them fired a plastic web-shooter at his friend. It made a pathetic clicking noise.

Click-click-click-click!

Behind them—

I almost stopped walking.

There was a Daredevil.

Not just a “red ninja vaguely.” No.

This kid had the horn spacing right. The red tone is darker, almost wine-colored. He even had a baton! Don’t want to know where he got it, but yeah. That’s a solid Daredevil copycat.

It’ was… disturbingly accurate.

I considered texting Matt a picture.

Then I remembered.

He’s blind.

A picture’s probably not that helpful.

We could describe it to him. In detail.

‘Absolutely not.’

I veered toward the cafeteria tables where the candy distribution appears to be centralized.

Venom is still jittery.

There are too many masks, Harry. We need to see faces!

‘You love masks.’

Yes. Ours.

There was a bowl of miniature chocolates sitting unattended near a group of football players arguing about whether fake blood counts as “face paint.”

I don’t even break stride.

I lift one off the pile.

The jock holding the bowl doesn’t notice.

I unwrap it and pop it into my mouth.

Venom hums.

Acceptable tribute.

‘It’s chocolate.’

It is conquest.

‘You need a hobby.’

He settles slightly, the suit loosening microscopically along my shoulders.

The thing about Venom is that he feeds on adrenaline. Noise. Emotion. Big energy. Halloween is basically Times Square for his nervous system.

Which means I have to manage him.

Candy helps.

Sugar spike. Calms the beast.

A familiar voice cuts through the noise.

“Wow.”

I turned.

Gwen.

White, black, pink webbing tracing her sleeves. Ghost-Spider suit without the hood. Blonde hair loose around her shoulders. No mask. No attempt to hide.

She looked like she’d stepped out of a comic panel and decided she belonged there.

Her eyes moved over me slowly. Not subtle. Not shy.

“Okay,” she said, head tilting slightly. “So we’re just… doing this.”

I glanced down at myself, then back at her. “It is Halloween.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

She stepped closer. Close enough that our shoulders nearly touched.

Her gaze flicked to the emblem on my chest.

“You didn’t even half-commit. No jacket. No flannel tied around your waist. No ‘haha it’s ironic.’ This is just you. The only thing missing is the mask.”

“That’s the idea. Can’t let people think about it too much.”

Her eyes lifted to mine again, sharp and bright.

“You know you look good, right?”

The hallway noise dimmed for half a second.

We do. But it is pleasant to hear.

‘Venom?’

Yes, Harry?

‘Could you give me a minute?’

Ugh. Fine.

“I had a mirror this morning,” I managed.

“That wasn’t the question.”

She bumped her shoulder lightly into mine.

It wasn’t an accident.

I felt it through the suit anyway.

“You could’ve at least pretended to try to blend in, with all the other guys,” she continued. “For my sake. I can’t have you looking too good. Other girls would stare. And I would get jealous.”

“You’re wearing a full tactical spider suit to sophomore English.”

“Yes,” she said calmly. “But mine has color blocking.”

I laughed before I could stop myself.

She watched me like she’d won something.

“You nervous?” she asked.

“About what.”

“About walking around school dressed like the thing we actually are.”

There it was.

Not teasing. Not entirely.

Just honest.

I shrugged slightly. “If anyone here thinks we’re real, they also have to believe Peter’s is real.”

“And that would be ridiculous.”

“Obviously.”

Her smile softened.

“You’re okay?” she asked more quietly.

I knew what she meant. Not the costume. Not the hallway.

Everything.

The guys we sent to the Raft. Fisk. Mark Allan. Tombstone still out there. I’ve been under a lot of pressure recently. Maybe I should try yoga?

I met her eyes.

“I’m good.”

She studied my face like she was checking for cracks.

Then she nodded once, satisfied.

“Good,” she said. “Because if you passed out in the hallway again, I’d have to carry you. And I’m not doing that in front of the marching band.”

“You carried me fine last time.”

“That was different. You were bleeding. It was dramatic. I looked amazing.”

“You did.”

She blinked once, then a slow grin spread across her face.

“Careful.”

“With what.”

“You keep agreeing with me like that and I’m going to start thinking you’re obsessed.”

“Start?”

She inhaled sharply through her nose, trying not to laugh.

She enjoys this. We enjoy this. This is acceptable courtship behavior.

‘Please never call it that again. And didn’t I tell you to give me a minute?’

You suck!

Before Gwen or I could respond, Peter appeared beside us like a stress-induced hallucination in red and blue.

“This is a nightmare.”

Full suit. No mask. Hair slightly flattened. Eyes wide and twitchy.

“Do you have any idea how many fake web-shooters are in this building? They all click. All of them. My brain keeps flagging them as threats. Nerf gun. Silly string. Capri Sun straw. I can hear them from three hallways away.”

He demonstrated the clicking sound.

Repeatedly.

Gwen winced.

“You look like you’re about to fight a juice box.”

“I am calmly evaluating environmental risk.”

“You flinched at glitter.”

“It was aggressive glitter.” Peter cried, looked genuinely wounded. “And even it didn’t compare to the silly string. These people are animals.”

Said the human-spider.

He’a right. There are far too many projectile devices. We should confiscate them.

‘We are not confiscating silly string.’

Peter looked between us. “Also. Is it just me, or does not wearing the mask make this more suspicious?”

I glanced toward the vending machines where Spider-Man #2 posed for selfies.

“I think we’re fine.”

“Famous last words.”

“You’re the one vibrating like a caffeinated chihuahua,” Gwen told him. “If anyone’s suspicious, it’s you.”

“I am not vibrating.”

He was.

Before he could spiral further, MJ slid into the space beside Peter with the calm confidence of someone who did not have superpowers and therefore feared nothing.

Jeans. Boots. Red Spider-Man shirt.

That was it.

She took in the three of us in full suits and nodded once.

“I see we’re all committing to the bit.”

Peter gestured at her shirt. “And you’re…?”

“Method dressing.”

Gwen snorted.

I grinned.

MJ’s eyes flicked briefly to where Gwen and I were standing almost shoulder-to-shoulder.

Then she tilted her head.

“So,” she said lightly, “who’s ready to turn some heads?”

…

Gwen liked seeing Harry relaxed.

It wasn’t that he was ever frantic. He wasn’t Peter. He didn’t vibrate when stressed. He didn’t spiral out loud. Harry carried things quietly. Too quietly. Like if he held them still enough, they might decide not to explode.

Today, though?

He looked… lighter.

It was subtle. If you didn’t know him, you wouldn’t clock it. His shoulders weren’t as tight. His head wasn’t on a swivel every three seconds. He still scanned exits—he always scanned exits—but it felt habitual instead of urgent.

He stood differently.

Less coiled. More present.

She liked that.

It made something in her chest loosen in response.

Across the gym, fake cobwebs sagged from basketball hoops and someone had draped a plastic skeleton over the scoreboard like Midtown High had personally slain it. The Halloween “event” had evolved into a full-blown assembly. Music thumped. People shouted over each other. A table of judges—three teachers who clearly regretted volunteering—sat behind a folding table decorated with construction-paper pumpkins.

Costume contest.

Of course there was a costume contest.

Peter was already arguing about criteria.

“That’s not even screen-accurate,” he insisted, gesturing wildly at a sophomore dressed as Captain America in what was very clearly a Halloween Superstore knockoff. “The shade of blue is wrong.”

“Peter,” MJ cut in patiently, “this is not Comic-Con.”

“It’s about standards.”

“It’s about free candy.”

Harry leaned back against the bleachers beside Gwen, arms folded loosely over the black spider emblem stretching across his chest. He watched Peter like this was the greatest show on earth.

She watched him watching Peter.

There was something warm about the way he did that. Fond. Amused. Protective without hovering.

He had been shot for Peter.

She would never forget that.

Her gaze drifted down his arm. The suit flowed over him like ink under glass. No mask. No apology. Just standing there in the open like daring the universe to notice.

No one did.

Which was ridiculous.

He looked incredible.

She had told him that already. She would tell him again later.

MJ’s eyes flicked toward her.

Not casually.

Knowingly.

Gwen felt the heat crawl up her neck before she could stop it.

Oh no.

MJ knew.

Of course she knew.

MJ always knew.

Gwen straightened instinctively, folding her own arms as if that might somehow reduce the obviousness of her proximity to Harry. She had been standing close. Very close. Close enough that their elbows brushed every time either of them shifted weight.

She did not move away.

If MJ wanted to look, she could look.

Harry leaned slightly toward her to murmur something about Peter filing a formal protest with the student council. His shoulder brushed hers again.

She liked that he didn’t flinch from contact.

Some boys did. Some boys turned stiff and awkward and hyperaware.

Harry just… stayed.

On the gym floor, a junior dressed as Wolverine extended plastic claws and attempted a dramatic pose. The claws immediately bent backward.

Peter made a wounded noise.

“This is chaos,” he declared. “There are no rules. There are supposed to be categories.”

“There are categories,” MJ replied. “They’re just being ignored.”

The English teacher at the judges’ table tapped the microphone. It screeched. The entire gym winced in unison.

“We will now be awarding Best Overall Costume—”

Gwen tuned out the rest.

She wasn’t paying attention. She was thinking about patrol routes. About rooftops. About how the city looked when it was dark and quiet and theirs.

She liked this too, though.

The noise. The absurdity. The fact that for one afternoon they got to be children pretending to be superheroes pretending to be children.

“—Ghost-Spider!”

It took her a full second to realize they were looking at her.

She blinked.

“What?”

MJ clapped once, delighted.

Peter’s head whipped around. “Wait, what?”

The teacher gestured toward her with all the gravitas of someone presenting an Oscar. “The craftsmanship. The originality. The—very modern lines.”

Gwen looked down at herself.

She had sewn half of this suit at two in the morning with a borrowed machine and stubbornness. The hood was down. The mask was in her backpack. She hadn’t even posed.

She hadn’t even tried.

Peter pointed accusingly. “That’s unfair. She has unfair advantages.”

“What advantages?” MJ asked sweetly.

“She— she— the stitching! The proportional accuracy! That’s not store-bought.”

Gwen stepped down onto the gym floor to scattered cheers and confused applause.

She accepted the plastic pumpkin trophy like this was a perfectly normal development.

It was absurd.

She loved it.

Back by the bleachers, Harry watched her with open admiration.

Not showy. Not exaggerated.

Just proud.

It made her spine straighten a little more.

When she returned, Peter was still mid-argument about rule transparency.

“You’re just mad you didn’t win,” she told him lightly.

“I’m mad there wasn’t a rubric.”

“There was a vibe.”

“That’s worse.”

Harry laughed under his breath.

She felt it more than heard it.

She leaned closer without thinking. “You going to protest on my behalf?”

He tilted his head. “Oh, absolutely. I’m drafting a strongly worded letter.”

“Good. Make sure you emphasize my modern lines.”

“Already on it.”

She smiled.

God, she liked him.

Not just because he was brave. Not just because he dove in front of bullets or stopped vans or took down criminals twice his size.

She liked him because he noticed things. Because he listened. Because he made space for her to be competent instead of threatened by it.

And because when she won a plastic pumpkin for a costume she literally wore every night, he looked at her like she had just cured something.

The music swelled again as the assembly dissolved back into chaos. Students flooded the gym floor. Candy was redistributed with alarming speed.

She nudged his arm lightly.

“Hey.”

He looked at her immediately. Always immediate.

“You patrolling later?”

There it was.

The real question.

Not about costumes. Not about trophies. 

About rooftops, criminals, and swinging to the rescue.

His expression didn’t change much, but something focused behind his eyes.

“Yeah.”

Of course he was.

He would have been even if she hadn’t asked.

She grinned.

“Good.”

Peter was still arguing about procedural fairness in the background. MJ was pretending not to enjoy it.

Gwen looked at Harry again, at the way he stood a little easier today, at the way the black suit caught the gym lights without swallowing them.

He looked happy.

Which made her pretty happy.

Gwen just might owe Peter and MJ an apology for teasing them about being all lovey-dovey. Turns out, love was actually pretty awesome. Who knew? 

Besides most of humanity, that is.

…

Halloween was the worst night of the year for credible testimony.

Jessica sat behind her desk at Alias Investigations, boots propped on a filing cabinet that had never once successfully contained a file. The city outside her window pulsed orange and purple, sirens layering over bass from block parties three streets over.

Her phone had not stopped ringing for three hours.

Every caller had a monster.

A vampire in Hell’s Kitchen. A demon in Queens. A “shadow creature” near the FDR.

One guy had been absolutely certain a werewolf stole his catalytic converter.

She had asked if the werewolf left paw prints.

He had hung up.

She rubbed a hand over her face.

Masks. Fog machines. College kids with too much time and access to theatrical blood. Every idiot in the city decided tonight was the perfect time to misinterpret normal stupidity as supernatural conspiracy.

Which meant if something actually weird happened?

Good luck filtering it out.

The phone rang again.

She stared at it for two rings before grabbing it.

“Alias.”

On the other end, a woman’s voice—breathless, rattled.

“There was— I don’t know— something—”

Jessica closed her eyes briefly.

“Slow down.”

The woman tried. Failed. Tried again.

Someone had run screaming out of an alley in Midtown. No costume. No visible injuries. Just pure panic. Said something was chasing him. Then bolted into traffic and kept running.

Jessica’s gaze drifted to the wall.

Midtown.

Of course.

“What was chasing him?”

“I didn’t see anything.”

“Did he?”

“I— I don’t know. He just kept yelling.”

“Yelling what?”

The woman hesitated.

“That it was right behind him.”

Jessica let the silence stretch.

Running from nothing on Halloween did not qualify as a case. It qualified as Thursday.

“Did anyone else see anything?”

“No.”

“No sounds? No property damage? No bleeding portals to hell?”

“…No.”

“Then it was probably a prank.”

The woman didn’t sound convinced.

Jessica didn’t particularly care.

She took down the cross street anyway. Wrote it on the corner of a takeout menu with a pen that barely worked.

Midtown.

Again.

She hung up and leaned back.

Someone ran from nothing.

On Halloween.

Statistically meaningless.

Still.

Midtown.

She didn’t believe in coincidence. Not anymore.

Her eyes shifted to her phone.

Harry would already be out.

If he wasn’t patrolling yet, he would be soon. The kid had a talent for drifting toward trouble like it owed him money.

She had fired him.

Technically.

Then unfired him.

Then told him if he died doing something stupid, she would haunt him personally.

He had grinned at that.

Fourteen.

Christ.

Jessica had an entire year on him when she got her powers, and you didn’t see her stopping muggings, rescuing kidnapped kids, or fighting superpowered criminals. What is wrong with this generation?

Fourteen-year-olds were supposed to be arguing about homework, not dismantling organized crime syndicates.

She picked up the phone.

Set it down.

This was nothing.

A scared guy. A crowded night. Too much adrenaline and imagination.

Calling Harry would only validate paranoia.

Her rule was simple.

Don’t be stupid.

If there was more to it, call her.

She exhaled slowly.

She had almost died the last time she dismissed something as nothing. Juggernaut had been “probably just a rumor” until he wasn’t.

She picked up the phone again.

Dialed.

It rang twice.

“Hey, Jess.”

Too bright. Too casual.

He sounded happy.

Good.

She almost hung up.

Instead—

“You in Midtown tonight?”

“Yeah.”

Of course he was.

“There was a report. Guy ran screaming out of an alley near Seventy-Third. Said something was chasing him.”

Silence on the other end, but not empty silence. Processing silence.

“Did anyone see anything?”

“No.”

“So probably nothing.”

“Probably.”

She leaned back in her chair again, eyes on the ceiling.

“If it’s kids with a fog machine, ignore it.”

“Got it.”

“If it’s more than that—”

“I call you.”

“Yes.”

It’s nice to see he still listened some of the time. His follow through could use some work, though.

“You okay?” Jessica asked, the question slipping out before she could stop it.

Annoying.

“I’m fine.”

She believed him.

Mostly.

“Don’t be stupid.”

A faint huff of amusement. “That’s the plan.”

She hung up before she could add anything else.

The office felt too quiet after.

She stared at the takeout menu with Midtown scrawled across it.

Probably nothing.

Almost definitely nothing.

She reached for her bottle.

Paused.

Put it back.

If there was more to it, he would call.

If there wasn’t, she had just bothered a fourteen-year-old on Halloween because she cared.

She leaned back in her chair and glared at the ceiling.

Very annoying.

…

Peter loved Halloween.

Peter also hated Halloween.

Both of these things were true at the exact same time.

He swung between buildings, the city dressed in orange string lights and plastic gravestones, and his spider-sense would not shut up. It buzzed against his skull like an overcaffeinated smoke alarm.

Left.

He twisted mid-arc. A firework shot past his head and exploded against a water tower in a shower of green sparks. Annoying, and dangerous.

Not to mention illegal in New York without a permit, people!

Right.

He snapped his body horizontal as something whizzed under him. Another firework. Roman candle. Definitely not NYPD-approved. It detonated against a billboard featuring a grinning pop star dressed as a vampire.

Up.

He yanked his webline short, flipping over the roof’s edge just as a fake pistol discharged below. His spider-sense had flared hard enough to make him move before his brain caught up.

He clung to the brick wall and peered down.

Two pirates were dramatically “holding up” a guy in a hotdog costume.

The hotdog laughed.

One of the pirates lowered the neon-orange toy gun and took a bow.

Peter exhaled slowly.

Okay. Fine. Performance art robbery.

His spider-sense flickered again—softer this time, but constant. It had been doing that all night. Not danger-danger. Just… chaos-danger. The city had turned into one massive unpredictability generator. Every loud bang registered like a gunshot. Every sprinting teenager in a scream mask looked like an active threat for half a second too long.

A bottle rocket shrieked up from the street and burst directly in his peripheral vision.

He flinched.

“I swear, I’m filing a complaint,” he muttered to no one.

He launched forward again, trying to settle into rhythm. Patrol. Breathe. Swing. Scan. Don’t punch a thirteen-year-old dressed as the Winter Soldier.

His spider-sense spiked hard.

Behind him.

He dropped straight down.

A figure in a Spider-Man mask—just the mask—stumbled across a rooftop ledge and tripped over his own untied shoelace. The guy windmilled dramatically, arms pinwheeling, and Peter shot a web on reflex.

He yanked the man back from the ledge before gravity could make a very permanent decision.

They collapsed in a heap.

The mask-only Spider-Man stared up at him through plastic white lenses.

He was wearing gym shorts. And Crocs.

“That was close,” Peter told him.

The guy squinted. “Bro… sick costume.”

Peter looked down at himself.

Right.

He resisted the urge to explain the difference between costume and actual lifestyle choice.

“Maybe next time commit to the whole outfit,” Peter suggested, hauling him upright. “Also maybe shoes that… tie.”

The guy gave him a thumbs-up and immediately tripped again walking toward the stairwell.

Peter watched him go, deeply concerned for the survival rate of Midtown’s male population.

His spider-sense flared sharp and focused this time.

That felt different.

He pivoted toward it and dove off the building.

Three blocks down, a convenience store’s door had burst open. Two figures in ski masks sprinted out carrying what looked like armfuls of merchandise. The cashier stood in the doorway yelling.

Finally.

Peter hit the ground in front of them in a classic crouch, because if you were going to do it, you might as well do it right.

“Okay! Fun’s over. Candy redistribution program is cancelled.”

The two “robbers” froze.

The cashier stopped yelling.

One of the masked figures slowly lowered the bag.

Music started.

Loud.

Upbeat.

The “robbers” tore off their ski masks to reveal glitter makeup and synchronized grins. The cashier leapt off the step and joined them. The convenience store lights flicked off and on in rhythm.

More people poured out from behind parked cars.

Flash mob.

Peter stayed crouched for a full three seconds, processing that he had just superhero-landed into choreography.

Someone shoved a glowstick into his hand.

The crowd cheered.

“Oh. Oh, no,” Peter breathed.

A ring formed around him instantly. Phones lifted like a field of glowing eyes.

He straightened slowly.

“So this is… not a robbery.”

The cashier beamed. “You’re part of it now!”

Music blasted louder.

The dancers closed in.

And then—

They flashed him.

Cameras. Phone flashes. Professional DSLR bursts. For half a second his spider-sense lit up again before his brain caught up and realized the threat level was “mild paparazzi.”

He threw his hands up in surrender.

“Okay! Okay! I appreciate the enthusiasm!”

Another burst of flashes.

“But I already have a very exclusive photographer! Very talented! Very good-looking! But don’t get any ideas, because he’s taken!”

The crowd oohed.

He felt heat crawl up under his mask.

“Wait, I didn’t mean like—gah!”

He backflipped out of the circle before anyone could ask follow-up questions. Webline. Swing. Gone.

Behind him, the music resumed like nothing had happened.

He cleared two rooftops before the laughter bubbled up.

It spilled out of him mid-swing, breathless and wild. The absurdity of it. The fireworks. The fake guns. The Crocs. The flash mob. His spider-sense having an existential crisis because the entire city had decided to cosplay danger.

This was not how crime statistics were supposed to work.

He landed on the edge of a church steeple to catch his breath.

“You look overwhelmed.”

He nearly fell off.

Gwen hung upside-down from a webline, mask off, blonde hair dangling toward the streetlights below. Any other night, she would absolutely have not gotten away with it. Tonight? Who knew? 

“I am being attacked by choreography,” he informed her.

“… doesn’t all fighting involve choreography.”

“Maybe. But not all choreography involves fighting.”

A slow clap echoed from the opposite rooftop.

Peter turned.

Harry perched on a stone gargoyle like he’d been born there, black suit drinking in the moonlight. No mask. Just that faint, knowing smirk like he’d been watching the whole thing unfold for sport.

Peter pointed accusingly. “You knew about the flash mob.”

Harry’s expression did not change.

Gwen twisted slightly on her webline, peering at him. “Did you just announce you were taken to a crowd of strangers?”

“Technically I announced that my photographer was taken.” Peter felt his face heat again. “It was a defensive maneuver.”

“Very strategic,” Harry replied dryly. “Now people will only think that you’re dating yourself. Or rather, that Spider-Man is dating Peter Parker.”

“They will?!”

Another firework shrieked up between buildings and exploded overhead in a shower of gold.

All three of their spider-senses went off at once.

They scattered on instinct.

A bottle rocket ricocheted off the church bell and shot sideways down the block. Peter webbed it mid-flight and flung it harmlessly into the sky before it could decapitate someone dressed as Elsa.

He landed back beside them, adrenaline still humming.

From the street below, someone yelled, “It’s the Spider-Guys!”

Peter looked at Gwen.

Gwen looked at Harry.

Harry looked faintly pleased with himself.

And suddenly Peter was laughing again, right there on the rooftop, fireworks bursting behind them like they’d choreographed it on purpose.

This was insane.

Fisk was in prison. Scorpion and Rhino were in the Raft. Tombstone was still out there playing chess with people’s lives. Daredevil was probably brooding somewhere. The city was dangerous. Complicated. Real.

And tonight it was also full of pirates with toy guns and spontaneous dance numbers.

His spider-sense buzzed again—another firecracker, another near-miss.

Peter shot a webline and launched himself back into the noise without hesitation.

“Race you to the next false alarm.”

Gwen whooped and dove.

Harry dropped from the gargoyle like a shadow.

And Peter swung headfirst into the madness, still laughing.

…

I had forgotten how much New York loved Halloween.

That was on me.

We dropped out of Midtown’s orbit and into street-level Manhattan because Peter had heard screaming—actual screaming, not “haunted house attraction” screaming—and I had followed because that was what we did now. We didn’t debate it. We just moved.

The alley smelled like garbage, cheap cologne, and fear.

A guy in a construction vest had a woman backed against a brick wall. Wallet halfway out of her purse. Knife shaking in his hand in a way that suggested this was either his first mugging or he really regretted his life choices.

I landed between them in a ripple of black.

The woman screamed louder.

The mugger yelped.

And I immediately understood the problem.

The symbiote suit—sleek, matte, alive in a way fabric had no right to be—flowed over my skin like ink deciding what shape it wanted to be. It absorbed the alley’s light. It made my eyes look too white. Too sharp.

Unbelievably badass.

Possibly… not comforting.

And for a split second, I stood there thinking: Right. From her perspective, two monsters had just shown up.

We look magnificent, Harry. Terrifying. Apex.

‘Not helping.’

The guy with the knife glanced between us like he’d accidentally walked into a boss fight. He bolted.

I caught the knife mid-drop, webbed it to the wall, and stepped toward him—slowly. Hands open. Non-murdery posture.

The woman’s voice shook. “Please don’t hurt me.”

I really need to work on my body language.

I turned my head slightly so she could see my face. No mask tonight. Just me in the black. Teenage billionaire nepo baby turned alien-bonded vigilante trying very hard not to traumatize civilians.

“I’m not with him.”

Calm. Measured. Human.

She blinked.

The construction vest kid tripped over a trash bag and face-planted. I webbed his ankles before he could recover. He squirmed, panicked, shouting that he hadn’t meant it, that it was just Halloween, that he needed the money.

The woman stared at the webbing.

Then at me.

Then at the guy cocooning himself like a very unfortunate caterpillar.

“Oh.”

Yeah. Oh.

I offered her the purse. She snatched it back like I might change my mind and eat it.

We would not eat the purse. It looks dry.

‘Seriously. You are not helping.’

Footsteps echoed at the mouth of the alley. A small crowd had gathered. Phones already out.

And then—because this was my life now—they started cheering.

Actually cheering.

One guy in a Captain America hoodie pumped his fist. Someone wolf-whistled. A kid yelled, “Yo, Black Spidey!”

Oh no.

No, no, no.

That is wrong on so many levels. I really need to start my own twitter account or something. Really let the people know my name is Venom. I wonder if Gwen has these problems…

Of course, that wasn’t even the worst part. No, sir. The worst part was, they love us.

‘I don’t like where this is going.’

A girl dressed as Black Widow shoved her friend forward. “Can we get a selfie?”

I stared at her.

A selfie.

In an alley.

With a webbed criminal at my feet.

My brain tried to process that sentence like it was written in another language.

The mugger—still struggling—looked up at the crowd and shouted, “He jumped me first!”

Which did not help my reputation.

The woman I’d saved hovered uncertainly, clearly trying to decide whether she should thank me or run. I gave her a small nod, stepping back to give her space. She took it. That seemed important.

The crowd surged closer.

We are getting famous, Harry. We should use this. Think of how much money we can make. Merchandise. Appearances. We could demand tribute.

‘We are not influencers.’

You are thinking too small. Influencer is beneath us. We are a brand.

Somewhere in the distance, sirens wailed. Good. Adults. Paperwork. Consequences that were not my problem.

A sharp movement to my right.

Someone bolted from the edge of the crowd.

Green. Tail. Stinger..

Scorpion.

Adrenaline hit before logic did.

I fired a webline and launched.

The crowd gasped in delighted unison because to them this was apparently immersive theater.

The “Scorpion” vaulted over a parked car with surprising agility. I followed, landing on the hood and denting it slightly. Sorry, random civilian.

He ducked into another alley. Narrow. Darker. Less audience.

Better.

I landed at the far end before he could clear it.

He froze.

Up close, the costume was… homemade. Cardboard plating. Spray paint. The tail was duct-taped to a backpack frame.

The mask trembled.

“Please don’t— I didn’t do anything!”

The voice cracked.

High.

Too high.

I stepped closer, slower this time. No dramatic shadows. No looming.

I peeled the mask back gently.

Fifteen. Maybe. Acne. Tear tracks cutting through green face paint.

Oh.

Right.

Halloween.

He swallowed hard. “I was just running because everyone started running.”

Which tracked. Herd panic. Monster jumps into alley. Second monster chases guy in villain costume. Honestly, if I were him, I’d run too.

He fled the scene. Suspicious. We should interrogate him.

‘He’s a kid.’

So are you.

Fair.

I crouched so we were eye-level.

“You can’t sprint away from crime scenes in a supervillain costume.”

He nodded rapidly. “I know. I know. I just— I saw you and—”

He gestured at me helplessly.

Yeah.

That.

I looked down at my suit. The black shimmered faintly, catching the streetlight like oil on water. It was elegant. Predatory. Designed in a lab to be the solution to a terminal genetic condition and accidentally moonlighting as nightmare fuel.

Still incredibly badass.

Still a little intimidating to the ordinary citizen.

“I’m not the bad guy.”

He stared.

I considered that sentence.

Yeah. That wasn’t really going to help my case, wqs it?

“You didn’t try to mug anyone?”

“No!”

“Knife?”

“It’s foam! For the costume contest!”

He held up a rubber stinger like evidence in court.

I exhaled.

Behind me, the sirens grew louder.

I stood and peeled the webbing off his wrists.

He blinked. “You’re… letting me go?”

“Yeah, why not? It’s Halloween.”

His shoulders sagged in visible relief.

“Go home. And maybe avoid dark alleys when a ten-foot shadow monster shows up.”

He nodded again, backing away.

We are being merciful. I prefer fear.

‘We’re not building a crime empire.’

Yet.

The kid ran—this time toward the streetlights.

I watched until he disappeared into the noise.

The crowd’s cheers drifted faintly from the other alley. Police lights painted brick red and blue. Somewhere, someone was still trying to get a selfie.

I flexed my fingers. The symbiote shifted with me, alive and warm and protective.

So cool.

So bad for PR.

I vaulted back toward the sirens before anyone could ask about sponsorships.

…

Hell’s Kitchen never went quiet.

It shifted.

Tonight, it throbbed.

Matt stood at the edge of a rooftop, billy club resting loosely in his hand, and let the city assemble itself in his mind. The skyline wasn’t lights and glass to him. It was pressure and rhythm. Air currents bending around brick. The tremor of traffic vibrating through steel beams. The layered percussion of thousands of heartbeats, each one a metronome in flesh.

There were too many.

Not in number. In tempo.

Elevated pulses everywhere. Spiking. Dropping. Spiking again. Laughter pitched high and sharp. Shouts that crested into screams and then broke into applause. Firecrackers burst like gunshots, and every time they did, a dozen heart rates leapt in sympathetic panic before settling.

False alarms.

His jaw tightened slightly.

Halloween.

The word tasted like smoke and sugar in the air. Cheap fabric dye. Latex masks. Synthetic fog fluid drifting between buildings.

Fear smelled different tonight.

Normally, fear carried weight. Metallic. Bitter. A sourness under sweat that lingered, thickened, turned the air viscous.

Tonight, it flashed hot and vanished. Startle responses. Adrenaline spikes without sustained threat. A city playing at danger.

His head tilted.

Two blocks south, a cluster of heartbeats accelerated sharply. One broke pattern—too fast, too erratic.

That one wasn’t laughing.

Matt stepped off the roof.

He fell three stories before the line caught. Swung. Redirected. Landed silently on a fire escape and descended into the alley.

The hyperventilation was immediate now. Ragged. Shallow pulls of air that scraped the throat on the way in. The heartbeat attached to it hammered against ribs like it was trying to escape.

He moved slowly.

“No one’s going to hurt you.”

The breathing stuttered. A sneaker scraped against brick.

There was only one set of footsteps in the alley. One body. No second heartbeat hiding behind dumpsters. No shift of weight from someone poised to strike. No metallic tang of drawn steel. No cordite. No ozone.

He listened wider.

Nothing.

A young man—early twenties, if Matt judged by lung capacity and vocal timbre—pressed himself against the wall near the alley’s mouth. His costume fabric rasped faintly when he moved. Synthetic cape. Plastic chest plate. The smell of face paint sweating off under stress.

“There was something,” the man managed. “It was right there.”

Matt angled his head toward the far end of the alley.

Empty.

“What did you see?”

The man swallowed. The sound was loud in the narrow space.

“A shadow. It— it moved wrong.”

Wrong how?

Matt didn’t ask it that way. He kept his voice even.

“Was anyone else here?”

“No. I mean— I don’t think so. It was just—” The man’s breath hitched again. “It whispered.”

Matt waited.

When people described violence, they filled silence quickly. They relived it in detail. Gave it shape.

This man hesitated.

“It said my name.”

The alley held steady.

Matt extended his senses outward again, mapping brick and trash bags and rusted ladder rungs. The faint drip of water from a gutter. A rat shifting in a cardboard box twenty feet away.

No displaced air currents. No second body heat imprint lingering against brick. No heartbeat fading into the distance.

“When did this happen?”

“Just now. I was cutting through to get back to my friends and it— it was just there. And then it wasn’t.”

The man’s pulse began to slow, embarrassment bleeding into the adrenaline. Matt could hear it in the way his breathing evened out. Panic curdling into self-doubt.

“It’s Halloween,” the man added weakly. “Probably someone messing with me.”

Probably.

Matt stepped past him, deeper into the alley, letting his boots scuff deliberately this time so the man knew he was moving.

He crouched where the man had pointed.

Brick. Cold. Unremarkable.

He ran gloved fingers lightly over the surface. Mortar lines. Flaking paint. No fresh gouges. No scuff marks suggesting someone had braced there. No shift in debris that would imply sudden movement.

He stilled.

Listened.

Above them, fireworks exploded. The concussive boom bounced between buildings. Dozens of heartbeats jumped in reflex.

The hyperventilating man flinched again.

Matt cataloged the reactions automatically. That spike matched the fireworks. Clean cause and effect.

The earlier spike had not.

He stood.

“There’s no one here now.”

The man let out a shaky laugh. “So I’m not crazy?”

Matt considered the question carefully.

“Fear doesn’t require an audience.”

It was the closest thing to reassurance he offered.

The man nodded, steadier now. His pulse had settled into something approaching baseline. Embarrassed. Slightly sheepish.

“I’m going back to my friends.”

“That’s a good idea.”

Footsteps retreated toward the street. The alley returned to its previous state—garbage shifting in the breeze, distant bass from a passing car vibrating faintly through concrete.

Matt remained a moment longer.

He expanded his awareness again, slower this time.

Heartbeats layered across the Kitchen like static. Too many surges. Too many sudden peaks unaccompanied by follow-through. Startle without substance.

Fear smells different tonight.

He tilted his head toward the rooftops.

Two blocks east, a group of teenagers vaulted across buildings—light, controlled impacts. Familiar rhythms. One laugh bright and unrestrained even mid-leap. Another movement heavier, almost predatory in its silence.

He allowed himself the faintest exhale.

Not that.

His attention returned to the alley.

Nothing lingered. No echo of a second presence. No whisper of displaced breath.

And yet the man’s heartbeat when Matt had arrived—

That had not been theatrical.

He turned back toward the fire escape and climbed.

At the rooftop’s edge, he paused, listening once more to the restless pulse of Hell’s Kitchen. Fireworks cracked. Sirens wailed half-heartedly in the distance. Laughter rose and fell like surf.

Under it all, something felt misaligned. Not loud. Not violent.

Just… off.

He did not name it.

He simply filed it away.

Stranger things have happened in New York.

…

The scream cut through the city wrong.

Not fireworks-wrong.

Not haunted-house-wrong.

Not flash-mob-wrong.

Wrong-wrong.

It didn’t crest into laughter. It didn’t fragment into applause. It didn’t have the theatrical edge of someone performing for their friends.

It tore right through the throat.

My body reacted before my brain labeled it. I pivoted mid-swing, redirected, let the symbiote streamline along my arms as I accelerated.

That one is real.

‘I know.’

We hit the alley in a ripple of black.

Empty.

No attacker. No fleeing footsteps. No metallic scent of blood. No weapon clattering against pavement.

Just a grown man on his knees beside a dumpster, clawing at his own face.

His heartbeat was catastrophic. Too fast. Too arrhythmic. Full panic spiral.

“Hey.”

He flinched like I’d fired a gun.

His hands were wrapped around a mask. Thick rubber. Industrial. The kind you saw in documentaries about chemical spills. The filter canister hung heavy at the mouthpiece.

“It was in the mask,” he gasped.

I crouched slowly. No sudden movements. No looming.

“In the mask?”

“It—” His breath hitched violently. “It was inside the mask.”

That sentence took a second to settle.

Inside.

I glanced around again. Alley walls. Fire escape above. No shadow detaching itself from brick. No second presence shifting weight in the dark.

The man tore the mask off fully and threw it away from himself like it was radioactive.

I caught it before it hit the ground.

It was heavier than a Halloween prop had any right to be. Real rubber. Real filter cartridge. Not decorative.

The man scrambled backward on hands and heels. “Don’t put it on.”

“I won’t.”

I turned it over in my hands.

The intake valves were reversed.

That was… different.

Gas masks filtered air in, yes—but this one’s configuration suggested something more deliberate. The internal lining was damp. Not from breath. From residue.

I brought it closer to my face but didn’t seal it.

Nothing obvious. No visible vapor. No shimmer. No particulate cloud.

‘Venom?’

There was a pause—felt more than heard. A subtle shift along my spine as the symbiote stretched awareness outward through me.

Chemicals.

The word slid through my head slow and certain.

‘What kind?’

The symbiote’s attention sharpened. I felt it tasting the air—not with a tongue, not literally, but with something older. More primal.

It’s faint. Most of it must be in his system by now.

I inhaled carefully through my nose.

Nothing but trash, wet brick, and the metallic tang of fear-sweat.

To me.

Venom was quiet a moment longer.

It does feel… intoxicating.

That word made me still.

‘Define intoxicating.’

They agitate the mind. Heighten response. Distort perception.

The man on the ground let out a shaky sound that might have been a laugh if it wasn’t so close to a sob.

“I thought something was behind me,” he whispered. “I thought it was breathing on my neck.”

I scanned the alley again. Empty. Still empty.

“You didn’t see anyone?”

“No. I just— I heard it.” He squeezed his eyes shut. “It said things.”

My pulse slowed deliberately.

Gas that filtered in.

Induced hallucinations? Paranoia? Amplified fear response?

Fireworks. Flashing lights. Crowds. Elevated baseline stress across the city.

Layer something intoxicating on top of that and—

You wouldn’t need a visible attacker.

You’d just need to be close enough to the culprit.

I examined the filter housing more closely. There were faint scoring marks near the seams. Recently opened. Recently modified, maybe.

‘Could you identify the compound?’

No. It is diluted. A trace. But it lingers.

Venom didn’t sound threatened. If anything, he seemed slightly interested in whatever drug caused this.

Curious.

That bothered me more.

The man’s breathing had slowed marginally now that the mask was several feet away. His heart rate was still high, but not cardiac-event high.

“Did anyone give you the mask?” I asked.

He nodded weakly. “Guy at the party. Said it would make the costume more authentic.”

“Do you know him?”

“No.”

Of course not.

I set the mask down carefully, avoiding direct inhalation through the filter.

“Did anyone else try it on?”

“I don’t think so.”

That didn’t mean they hadn’t.

I straightened slowly.

No attacker. No visible threat. Just a delivery system.

‘We’ve seen this pattern before,’ I thought. Not here. Not in this exact form. But fear as a weapon? Fear as spectacle? That was practically a New York pastime. But delivered like this? It seemed almost… familiar.

Fisk weaponized desperation. Scorpion weaponized rage. Rhino weaponized brute force.

This felt… subtler.

Micro.

The kind of thing you tested before you scaled.

The man wiped his face with trembling hands. “I’m not crazy, right?”

I shook my head.

“No.”

His relief was immediate. Tangible.

I pulled my phone from the suit—another benefit of not having giant monster jaws—and snapped a quick photo of the mask. Intake valves. Filter type. Serial numbers if there were any.

“Go home,” I told him. “If you start feeling dizzy, nauseous, or disoriented, go to the ER. Tell them you may have inhaled something.”

He nodded rapidly and stumbled toward the streetlights.

I watched him until he merged with the noise of the city.

Then I looked back down at the mask.

Fireworks popped somewhere distant. Sirens rose, then faded. Laughter echoed between buildings.

It all sounded the same as it had an hour ago.

It didn’t feel the same.

We do not like this, Harry.

‘Neither do I.’

I crouched again and leaned closer—not enough to inhale directly, just enough to examine the seams.

No branding. No obvious manufacturer stamp.

Deliberate.

‘Intoxicating,’ I repeated internally. ‘Fear amplification?’

Something like that.

I hummed quietly to myself.

Call me paranoid, but Halloween plus an inhaled psychoactive compound that made people hear whispers felt less like coincidence and more like a field test.

I slipped the mask into a sealed evidence bag from my belt. Thank you, over-prepared future billionaire brain.

‘We’re calling Jessica.’

She will be displeased.

‘She’s always displeased.’

I rose and launched back to the rooftops, already pulling up my contacts.

Jessica for adult supervision.

Peter and Gwen for a few more helpful eyes. If this was happening in Hell’s Kitchen, it might be happening in Queens too. In fact, didn’t Jessica mention there was something weird going on in Midtown earlier?

Maybe it’s a coincidence.

But in my line of work, it’s better to assume guilty until proven innocent.

…

Turk Barrett had always considered himself a survivor.

That was the trick in New York. You didn’t need to be the strongest. Or the smartest. Or the richest.

You just needed to know when to duck.

When Wilson Fisk started putting men like the Scorpion on payroll, Turk had ducked. When Daredevil took Fisk down, Turk ducked again. When Spider-Men — plural, apparently — started webbing up half the underworld, Turk considered moving to Jersey.

He didn’t.

Because when a man called offering cash up front for specialty gear — empty gas grenades, syringe delivery systems, dispersal rigs — and promised a small fortune, and a quiet place to lie low in exchange?

Well.

Turk had figured that was the universe rewarding him for ducking at the right time.

The wax museum hadn’t been what he expected.

The place had been closed for “renovations.” Boards over the windows. A faded banner hanging loose. The kind of joint nobody questioned.

Inside, it had smelled like chemicals and hot plastic.

The figures had been unsettling. Too glossy. Too detailed. Sherlock Holmes stared from beneath his deerstalker cap. Queen Elizabeth II stood frozen mid-wave. Richard Nixon’s smile had been a crime all its own.

Turk had laughed nervously.

He’d always hated museums.

The buyer hadn’t looked like much. Tall. Slender. Dressed in a dark suit beneath a long coat. A smooth, expressionless mask stretched over his face — no features, just the suggestion of them. Like melted wax.

The man had examined the weapons Turk laid out.

Silence had stretched.

Turk had filled it.

Explained margins. Supply issues. Heat from the feds. Explained how hard it was to source clean dispersal valves these days.

The masked man had tilted his head.

And then Sherlock Holmes had moved.

Not much.

Just enough.

Turk had thought he imagined it.

Then Genghis Khan stepped off his pedestal.

Turk had not imagined that. Or the brawl that came almost immediately after.

They had been stronger than they looked. Harder, too. Wax didn’t bend. It cracked.

His shoulder still ached where Shakespeare’s elbow had slammed into it. The irony had not been lost on him. He would’ve appreciated the joke more if he hadn’t been tied to a surgical chair five minutes later.

The masked man had moved with clinical efficiency. Gloves. Instruments. Vials arranged like a dinner setting.

Turk’s heart had tried to beat out of his ribs.

“You said these were high-grade dispersal units,” the man had said.

Calm. Measured.

Disappointed.

Turk had tried to explain again. Supply chain. Fisk fallout. Everybody scrambling.

The man had lifted one of the grenades.

Turned it in his fingers.

“It leaks.”

Turk had swallowed.

He had survived Fisk. Survived Daredevil. Survived a city that chewed up men braver than him.

This was a misunderstanding. That was all.

The masked man had stepped closer.

Up close, the mask wasn’t smooth.

It had pores. Imperfections. Like something molded from a real face.

“Hmm. I understand. Believe me, I understand. My colleagues once accused me of cutting corners,” the man had said quietly. “They lacked vision.”

Turk had not liked the direction of this conversation.

The man had continued working as he spoke. Drawing liquid from a vial the color of weak tea.

“I performed surgeries without anesthesia when patients could not afford it. I diluted medication to stretch supply. I experimented.”

A syringe clicked.

“I saved lives.”

The words had sharpened, just slightly.

“And what do they do? How do they repay me for my gallantry, my charity, my nobility? They revoked my fucking license.”

Turk had tested the restraints.

Bad move. Genghis Khan’s wax hand had tightened on his shoulder. Something had cracked. Possibly Turk.

“I found new work. Preservation. Expression captured in stillness.” The man’s head tilted toward the displays. “It was… satisfying. For a time. But I am a scientist. My life’s work is testing the boundaries of what could be done.”

He growled.

“So, I begin experimenting again.” He continued. “With new serums. I brought these wax sculptures to life. I animated them, and dazzled, and entertained, and educated those who came to visit. They loved it. I loved it. It felt like I had truly discovered a new calling in life.”

The syringe filled.

“Then they fired me. Closed the museum. Twice I was denied my purpose.”

Turk’s breathing had grown shallow.

This wasn’t about grenades.

This was about something else.

The masked man stepped into Turk’s field of vision.

“Do you know what my greatest fear is?”

Turk did not answer.

He couldn’t.

“A life of mediocrity. Of unimportance.”

The syringe hovered inches from Turk’s neck.

“This city has imposed it upon me. And thus, they made my worst fear come true.”

He paused, and for a moment, Turk hoped that he had a change of heart. And then the masked man dashed that hope with his next words.

“So I will return the favor.”

Turk tried to jerk away.

Sherlock Holmes held him steady.

The needle slid in.

Cold flooded his veins first.

Then heat.

Then something else.

The museum shifted.

The wax figures began to melt.

Their faces sagged, eyes dripping down cheeks, mouths stretching into silent screams. Nixon’s grin split open impossibly wide. Shakespeare wept black tears. Queen Elizabeth’s wave bent backward at the wrist until bone pierced wax.

Turk screamed.

Or thought he did.

The sound stretched. Warped. Multiplied.

The masked man watched, head slightly tilted, clinical curiosity in the posture.

“Tell me, Turk. What are you afraid of?”

Turk’s world dissolved into terror so complete it stopped feeling like fear and started feeling like truth. And the last thing he saw before his vision fractured completely was the smooth, almost-human face leaning closer to observe the results.