Chapter 18: Playing with Fire
The tension in the lab was so thick I could practically taste it—and I didn’t like the flavor.
I stood in the doorway, the black suit a living shadow that hummed with the remnants of the adrenaline I’d been burning all day. My lenses were locked on the silver-haired intruder currently clutching my microbots like they were the Crown Jewels… and to be clear that’s crown jewels not family jewels.
Those are two completely different things.
Up close, Felicia Hardy looked less like a common thief and more like a high-end nightmare in form-fitting leather. Honestly, she was hot. It’s a good thing I have a girlfriend, and this girl was robbing me. Otherwise her seduction approach might’ve worked.
“I’ll ask one more time,” I said, my voice carrying that low, vibrating edge the suit provided. “What are you doing in my lab?”
Felicia didn't flinch. She didn't even look worried.
Instead, she tilted her head, a stray lock of white hair falling over her mask as she looked me up and down with a clinical, almost playful interest. “Your lab? Funny, I could have sworn the sign downstairs said Osborn. You look a little… dark for a billionaire.”
… I’m really bad at keeping my identity secret.
In my defense, criminals didn’t usually break into my home.
“But since we’re sharing, what are you doing here, gorgeous?” Felicia retorted. “Aside from making the decor look significantly more menacing. Which it definitely needed.”
She has a lot of heart.
Venom rumbled, a dark heat spreading across my shoulders.
We want to see what it tastes like.
‘Control yourself. We’re working,’ I thought, though the sentiment was mutual.
I shifted my weight, the suit’s surface rippling.
“The decor is an acquired taste.” I allowed. “The tech, however, isn’t up for grabs. Put the containers down and walk away, kitty cat. Don’t make me ask again.”
Her playful smirk faltered for a fraction of a second at the threat, a flicker of something sharp and old crossing her eyes before the mask of the Black Cat slid back into place. “Oh, so we are on a nickname basis? I’m flattered. Truly. But I’ve never been very good at returning things once I’ve taken a liking to them.”
Before the last word even left her lips, she moved. It wasn’t a run; it was a blur of calculated gymnastics. She vaulted over a server rack, her movements far more fluid than a normal human's should be, and headed straight for the balcony access.
“Hey!” I lunged after her, my boots sticking to the floor for a microsecond before I launched myself forward.
She is fast! Catch her! Bite her!
‘I’m trying!’
I fired a web line, aiming for the bag slung over her shoulder, but she twisted in mid-air with a feline grace that shouldn't have been possible, the strand whistling past her ear and sticking uselessly to the glass door.
She hit the balcony railing, paused for a heartbeat to blow a literal kiss over her shoulder, and then plummeted off the edge into the sixty-story abyss of the New York night.
I skidded to the railing, my heart hammering against my ribs. In any other universe, my first instinct would have been to lean over and watch her fall. But I’d read enough comics and watched enough movies to know how this played out.
Gravity was a suggestion for people like her, and the "falling off a building" bit was the oldest trick in the book.
I didn't look down. I looked up.
Sure enough, there she was. Felicia hadn't fallen; she’d used a grappling hook or her own sheer momentum to swing back up and perch on the very edge of the roof’s overhang.
She was lying stomach-down on the cold metal, her chin resting lazily in her palms, her boots kicking back and forth in the air like she was watching a movie instead of being hunted by a symbiote-clad vigilante.
“You’re smarter than you look, Spider-Noir,” she teased, her voice drifting down through the wind. “Most boys would be halfway to the sidewalk by now. Let me help with that.”
She waved a gloved hand at me, a silver cylinder glinting between her fingers. Before I could process the threat, she dropped it.
‘Shit.’
No! Loud—!
The world didn't explode. It shattered. The flashbang detonated five feet from my face, and for the symbiote, it was like being hit by a freight train made of pure noise and light. The suit vibrated, rippled, and shrieked, the surface bubbling and tearing as it tried to pull away from the sensory assault.
I didn't just lose my vision. I lost my balance, my sense of gravity, and for a terrifying second, my connection to the suit. I felt myself tip backward, the cold air rushing past as I tumbled off the balcony.
Pain, white and jagged, flared through my skull. My ears were ringing with a high-pitched whine that drowned out even Venom’s panicked roaring. Instinct took over. My hand shot out, the suit responding through the haze of agony, and my fingers sank into the concrete of the building’s exterior three stories down.
I hung there, gasping for air that felt like lead, waiting for the spots in my eyes to clear. My skin felt raw, the suit slowly knitting itself back together over my trembling limbs.
Hate her!
Venom hissed, the voice sounding thin and ragged in my mind.
Hate the shiny-stinging-girl!
‘Yeah,’ I coughed, pulling myself back toward the wall. ‘Me too, buddy. Me too.’
I didn't wait for the ringing to stop. I scrambled up the side of the tower, my movements frantic and fueled by a burgeoning spite. I vaulted over the balcony railing and leaped straight to the roof, ready to tear the metal plating off the building to find her.
The roof was empty. The wind whistled through the vents, and the distant hum of the city felt mocking. No cat, no silver hair, and most importantly, no microbots.
I walked toward the spot where she’d been lying. Taped to the ledge was a small, cream-colored piece of stationery. I picked it up, my claws retracting just enough to keep from shredding the paper.
“You really kept me waiting, V. I had enough time to write this, check my makeup, and realize you’re much slower than the brochures promised. Better luck next time. XOXO, FC.”
I crumpled the note in my fist, the black material of my glove swallowing the paper. The humiliation was a duller ache than the flashbang, but it lingered longer. She’d played me. She’d used my own house, my own tech, and my own expectations against me.
“It’s not over,” I muttered, the suit rippling with my anger. “I have trackers in every single one of those bots. You can’t hide from the guy who built them.”
I turned and dropped back down to the balcony, heading straight for the lab doors. I just needed to get to the main console, run a localized scan on the Oscorp frequency, and—
I reached for the handle. It didn't budge. I swiped my hand near the sensor, but instead of the familiar green glow, the strip remained a defiant, cold red.
The realization hit me like a second flashbang.
When I’d chased Felicia out, the automated security—the security my father had just updated to lock me out—had engaged the moment the door clicked shut. Norman had revoked my access, and in my rush to play hero, I’d effectively locked myself out of the only room that could help me find her.
I stared at the red light, the silence of the penthouse suddenly feeling very heavy. I could feel the strength in my arms, the sheer power of the symbiote ready to punch through the reinforced glass and high-grade steel. I could tear this door off its hinges in five seconds.
But then I’d have to explain to Norman why his "grounded" son had smashed his way into a restricted lab in the middle of the night. After the stunt I’d pulled earlier, using my own life as a bargaining chip, breaking into the lab now would be like handing him the match to burn the whole house down.
Break it!
Venom urged, a low vibration in my chest.
The door is between us, and finding the thief! Rip it apart! Rip her apart!
‘No,’ I thought, leaning my forehead against the cool glass. ‘We can’t. If we break in now, dad'll get even more hissy. He’ll get the excuse he needs to ship me off to some "treatment facility" in Europe or worse.’
I looked out over the city, the lights of Manhattan mocking me with their vastness. Felicia was out there, somewhere, with the tech that could track her, while I was stuck. Just getting the threshold of finding her.
I’d have to wait for the morning. I’d have to play the victim, tell the "truth" about a break-in, and hope my father’s arrogance was greater than his suspicion.
‘Go to sleep, Venom,’ I sighed, the mask receding to reveal my tired, frustrated face. ‘The cat gets a head start tonight. But tomorrow? Tomorrow, we go hunting.’
…
The smell of frying onions and garlic usually acted as a reset button for Gwen, a way to anchor herself back to being a fourteen-year-old girl in a quiet apartment instead of a vigilante who had spent the afternoon dodging bullets in Central Park. She stood at the stove, still feeling the faint hum of adrenaline beneath her skin despite the scalding shower she’d taken the second she got home.
Every muscle ached with the kind of deep fatigue that only comes from saving a family while simultaneously trying not to get arrested by your own father.
The front door creaked open, followed by the heavy, rhythmic thud of duty boots. Gwen kept her eyes on the pan, her heart doing a nervous little tap-dance against her ribs.
“Gwen? You home?” George’s voice was raspy, the sound of a man who had spent the last six hours shouting over sirens and radios.
“In the kitchen, Dad!” She called back, trying for a tone that was bright and homework-focused, rather than "I-just-fought-a-gang-war" exhausted.
He appeared in the doorway a moment later, and Gwen had to squeeze the handle of the spatula to keep her composure. He looked terrible. His uniform was rumpled, dusted with the dry grass of the park, and he carried the sharp, metallic tang of cordite like a second skin.
He didn't come in further, though; he was too busy pressing his phone to his ear, his face contorted into a mask of professional fury.
“I don’t care what the DA’s office ‘prefers,’ Samantha,” George snapped into the receiver, pacing the small hallway. “We have bodies, we have high-grade military hardware, and we have a park that looks like a war zone. You can’t just sweep an ongoing investigation under the rug because the optics are bad for the Mayor’s re-election.”
He paused, listening, his jaw muscles working. Gwen turned the heat down on the stove, her ears ringing. Samantha Reyes. She’d heard Harry talk about her—the kind of woman who treated justice like a PR campaign.
“Unfortunate circumstances?” George let out a harsh, disbelieving laugh. “A man was shot in the head in front of his wife and children. We’ll talk in the morning, Counselor. Try not to lose the files before then.” He hung up with a forceful jab of his thumb and tossed the phone onto the counter, letting out a long, shuddering breath.
“Tough day at the office?” Gwen asked softly. She plated a portion of the stir-fry and pushed it toward him, hoping the steam would hide the way her hands were shaking.
George looked at her, and for a second, the hard-boiled police captain vanished, replaced by a father who looked like he wanted to wrap his daughter in bubble wrap. He pulled a manila folder from under his arm and set it on the table. Right on top, visible in the dim light of the kitchen, were grainy, long-lens photos of three figures: a red-and-blue blur, a sleek black shadow, and a girl in a white-and-pink hoodie.
The "Ghost-Spider" file. It was sitting right next to his dinner.
“I got a call from the school today, Gwen,” George said, his voice dropping the anger but gaining a heavy, disappointing weight. “They said you skipped the last two periods. Missed your AP Bio lab.”
Gwen felt a pang of genuine guilt. She hated lying to him—mostly because she respected him too much to think he was easy to fool. She leaned against the counter, crossing her arms to hide the faint bruise blooming on her forearm where a stray piece of debris had clipped her.
“I’m sorry, Dad. I really am,” she said, and it wasn’t a lie. “A friend of mine was going through something… a really bad situation. They needed me. I couldn't just leave them.”
Technically, Mark Allan was a friend, and being mind-controlled by a mob boss was definitely a "bad situation." It was a half-truth, the currency she dealt in lately, but it still felt like lead in her stomach.
George stared at her for a long beat, his blue eyes searching hers for the spark of rebellion he usually associated with the kids he picked up on street corners.
Finally, he sighed and pulled the plate toward him. “I’m glad you care about your friends, Gwen. I am. And in this city, after today… I’m just relieved you’re safe at home. But you can’t disappear like that. Not with the way things are going.”
He gestured vaguely toward the folder on the table, his expression souring again.
“The city is coming apart at the seams,” he muttered between bites. “We’re trying to do things by the book, trying to build a case against guys like Lincoln, and then these… these masked freaks show up. They jump into the middle of a delicate operation, start throwing cars and webs, and suddenly my crime scene is a circus. The DA is using their interference as an excuse to bury the whole thing. They make it impossible to do the job the right way.”
Gwen opened her mouth to defend them—to say that if the "Spider-Squad" hadn't been there, the Castles would be dead—but she caught herself. She had to be high school-level smart here, not a defiant vigilante.
“Do you really think they’re making it worse?” She asked carefully, picking at a loose thread on her sweater. “Maybe they’re just trying to help where the system can’t?”
“The system is the only thing keeping us from being animals, Gwen,” George said firmly, pointing his fork at her for emphasis. “When people take the law into their own hands, they decide who’s guilty and who’s not without a jury. That’s not help. That’s chaos. Now we’ve got a mob war on our hands, and the only people the public wants to talk about are the kids in spandex.”
He shook his head, looking back down at his plate with a weary sort of resignation. “Just… stay away from the windows, okay? And no more skipping school. I can’t worry about you and the Big Man at the same time.”
“I know, Dad,” Gwen said, moving to the sink to start the dishes so he wouldn't see the flash of hurt in her eyes. “I’ll be careful. I promise.”
As the water ran, Gwen stared at her reflection in the dark kitchen window. She loved her father’s integrity, but hearing him call her work "chaos" stung worse than the Scorpion did. She knew the system was failing—she’d seen the Blacksmith’s shadow today just as clearly as her father had.
If the "right way" meant letting families get caught in the crossfire while Reyes played politics, then maybe chaos was exactly what New York needed.
She just wished she didn't have to break her father’s heart to prove it.
…
The silver spoon felt heavy in my hand, reflecting a distorted, miniature version of the breakfast room. It was a beautiful morning in the penthouse, the kind of New York sun that made everything look expensive and clean, but the atmosphere at the table was anything but.
Norman sat at the head, his eyes buried in a holographic tablet, radiating a cold, pressurized silence that could have turned coal into diamonds. Across from him, Mom was sipping her tea, her presence the only thing preventing the room from reaching absolute zero.
He is grumpy.
Venom observed, his voice a low vibration in the back of my teeth.
We should throw the grapefruit at him.
‘Not helping,’ I thought, pushing a piece of melon around my plate. ‘I’m going for the sympathy card, remember?’
I cleared my throat, the sound unnaturally loud in the quiet room. “So, about last night. I heard some strange noises coming from the lab after you guys left for dinner—and you know, obviously it wasn’t me, so I checked up on it—and I walked in on a robbery.”
Norman didn’t look up from his tablet, but his finger stopped scrolling. The silence sharpened.
“A thief,” I continued, trying to sound more like a concerned teenager and less like a vigilante who’d just been flashbanged off a balcony. “A girl in a tactical suit. She broke in, somehow, and made off with the microbot prototypes. I tried to stop her, but she… she was professional. She got away with the whole batch.”
“Professional?” Norman said, finally looking up. His voice was a flat, dangerous monotone. “You mean to tell me that after I specifically forbade you from entering that lab—less than a day later—a professional thief breaks in and steals the prototypes you designed? Did you allow her to steal them just to spite me? Or did you send her in the first place?”
“Neither! I was trying to stop her!” I shot back, though I had to keep my temper in check. “I told you!”
“And I told you to stay out of the lab, Harry. Instead, you were in a restricted area, failing to secure equipment that I’ve spent millions developing.” Norman set the tablet down with a sharp clack on the mahogany table. “I locked those doors to keep you out. If you hadn’t been meddling, the automated security would have been active, and that girl would be in a holding cell right now.”
“She broke in before I even got there!” I reminded him, argumentatively.
“A likely story.” Norman scoffed.
I do not like the loud-man. His head would be crunchy.
‘Focus, buddy. Mom’s turn.’
“Norman, please,” Mom said, her voice soft but possessing that effortless authority that always seemed to catch my father off guard. She set her teacup down and reached across the table, placing a hand on his arm. “Our son was just attacked in his own home. He could have been seriously hurt. The tech is replaceable; Harry isn’t.”
Norman’s jaw tightened. He looked like he wanted to argue, to keep twisting the knife, but under Mom’s steady, empathetic gaze, he began to deflate. It was the only time he ever looked human—when he realized he couldn't bully her.
He slumped back into his chair, looking less like a titan of industry and more like a sulking child who’d just been told he couldn't have dessert.
“He shouldn't have even been there, Emily,” Norman muttered, though the bite was gone.
“But he was,” she replied firmly. “And now he’s trying to fix it. Harry mentioned he has trackers on those bots? That sounds like a responsible precaution to me.” She turned to me with a small, encouraging smile. “Right, Harry?”
“Yeah,” I said, seizing the opening. “I have a localized frequency ping. I just need five minutes on the main console to triangulate the signal. If we wait, she might find a way to shield them. I can get them back, Dad. I just need you to let me in.”
Norman let out a long, theatrical sigh, rubbing his temples. “Fine. But I’m coming with you. I will not have you ‘investigating’ the lab on your own. You will find the location, you will give the coordinates to Oscorp security, and then you will go to school.”
Walking back into the lab felt like entering a tomb. Now that I wasn’t allowed in here anymore, it had a different feel to it. Not sure if I liked it more, or less. My father stood behind me, his arms crossed, watching my every keystroke on the holographic interface.
I could feel his breath on the back of my neck—proprietary and suffocating.
“Who was she?” Norman demanded, his eyes narrowing as the map of Manhattan flickered to life on the screen. “I want a full description for the police report. What kind of gear was she using?”
I kept my face neutral, staring at the lines of code. I couldn't exactly tell him it was Felicia Hardy. If he found out the daughter of the man who’d shot me—the man whose existence was a constant reminder of Norman’s perceived failures as a protector—had just robbed him, he wouldn't just be angry.
He’d be apocalyptic. He’d hunt her down with every resource Oscorp had, and I’d lose my chance to handle this my way.
“It was dark,” I lied, my fingers flying across the keys. “She had a mask. Some kind of high-tech goggles. I didn't get a good look at her face before the flashbang went off.”
“Incompetent,” Norman spat. “You fight criminals on a daily basis, and you can’t identify a common thief because it was dark?”
A bright red dot suddenly pulsed on the map, centered over a grimy industrial district in Hell’s Kitchen. My heart leaped.
“There,” I said. “That’s the signature.”
I reached out to save the data to my phone, but Norman’s hand moved faster. He tapped a command on the console, shunting the data to his own private server and locking the display.
“Good,” Norman said, his voice returning to that chilling, possessive chill. “I’ll have my recovery team handle this. You’ve done your part.”
“Wait, I should go with them,” I protested. “I know how the microbots respond to the frequency, if they’re damaged—”
“No.” Norman turned to me, his silhouette framed by the glowing map. “You seem to be under the mistaken impression that these are your toys, Harry. They are Oscorp property. They are my property. And you? You are a student who is already late for his first period. You will go to school, you will stay there, and if I hear so much as a whisper that you’ve skipped a single class, I will have the symbiote extracted and analyzed in a lab that makes this one look like a nursery.”
He’a bluffing. He’s done this before.
‘I’m not so sure. He might just let me suffer the effects of dying from a deadly disease for a few days, before giving you back. You know he likes to prove a point.’
You’re right… is eating him still an option?
‘No.’
Norman leaned in closer, his eyes cold. “I’ll be checking with the administration every hour. Don’t test me, Harry.”
He walked out, the heavy doors hissing shut and locking behind him with a finality that made my skin crawl. I stood there in the hallway, the red security light reflecting in my eyes.
He is a very bad father. We should hide his shoes.
‘A little more extreme than that, buddy,’ I thought, adjusting my backpack. ‘But he’s right about one thing. I’m going to school. I just didn't say what I’d be doing after.’
I quickly transferred the coordinates to my phone—along with the active, real time tracker.
Call it a hunch, but even with an eight hour head start, I still liked my chances of catching Felicia before Oscorp’s security teams. Our hiring standards are not that high.
…
The drama club rehearsal room at Midtown High usually smelled of floor wax and unearned ambition, but today it felt claustrophobic. Mary Jane sat on the edge of the stage, her script clutched in hands that felt unusually heavy.
Across from her, Liz Allan was staring at a stack of painted flats, her eyes wide and glassy, vibrating with a nervous energy that was practically humming through the floorboards.
Liz was a mess. There was no other way to put it.
“Okay, from the top of page twenty,” MJ said, her voice smooth and grounded. She watched Liz jump at the sound, nearly dropping her own script. “And Liz? Try to breathe. Just a little bit. It’s good for the vocal cords.”
“I’m breathing, MJ! I’m totally breathing,” Liz insisted, though her chest was hitching in a way that suggested she’d forgotten how. “It’s just… a lot has happened. My brother, the news, everything. I’m just waiting for the next shoe to drop, you know? Or the whole closet.”
MJ felt a familiar tug in her chest. She wasn't a "Spider." she couldn't bench-press a sedan or stick to the ceiling, and she didn't have an alien voice in her head telling her who to eat. But she knew how to read a room. She knew how to wear a mask long before Peter and Gwen ever put on theirs.
Acting wasn't just a hobby for her; it was a survival mechanism. People called it shallow, just pretending to be someone else for a round of applause, but MJ knew better. It was about empathy. It was about finding the truth inside a lie.
“Hey,” MJ said, standing up and closing the distance between them. She didn't use her ‘rehearsal’ voice; she used the one she saved for the quiet moments in the hospital or the back of Stan’s Subs. “Forget the lines for a second. Look at me.”
Liz finally turned her head, her lower lip trembling. “I don’t know how you do it. You’re always so… ‘face of the franchise.’ Even with everything Peter and Harry get dragged into. I spent half of last semester being a total brat to you because I thought you were just perfect and untouchable. I was so jealous of you, MJ. I still am, a little bit.”
The admission hung in the air, blunt and honest. MJ felt a wave of surprise, followed by a soft, grounding warmth. She reached out, squeezing Liz’s shoulder.
“You were jealous of me?” MJ laughed softly, a genuine sound that echoed in the empty theater. “Liz, I’m the girl who spends half her time making sure my boyfriend doesn't get in over head. I’m not untouchable. I’m just really good at lighting. And for the record? I’m not perfect. I’m just the one who makes sure everyone else doesn't fall apart while they’re busy saving the world.”
It was the first time she’d really articulated it to herself. She was the emotional glue. Harry had the teach and symbiote, Peter and Gwen had the power, but she was the one who kept them human. She was the anchor.
Liz wiped her eyes, a small, sheepish smile breaking through the panic. “You did so much for me, MJ. After everything… I don’t think I could have handled even half of what you did. You stood up for me when no one else would.”
“That’s what friends do,” MJ replied, sitting back down and pulling Liz with her. “And speaking of friends, Peter and the others are on it. They’re helping Mark. You know they won’t stop until he’s clear of all this.”
Liz nodded, and for the first time in weeks, the tension in her shoulders seemed to evaporate.
She looked lighter, almost glowing in the dim stage lights. It was a staggering transformation. Even with Mark Allan currently on the run from a literal crime lord—even with her brother technically being a wanted fugitive—she looked genuinely optimistic.
“You’re right,” Liz said, her voice gaining a new strength. “They’re going to help him. I feel like… like for the first time, everything is actually going to be okay. Mark’s going to get a fresh start. We’re going to be a normal family again.”
MJ smiled back, but a cold shadow flickered at the edge of her mind. She wanted to believe it. She really did. But she’d spent enough time around the "Spider-Squad" to know that when things felt this light, the darkness usually wasn't far behind.
She watched Liz stand up, moving with a newfound confidence to grab her water bottle, looking like a girl who finally believed in a happy ending.
‘Please let her be right,’ MJ thought, the script crinkling in her grip. ‘Just this once, let the good guys win without the bill coming due.’
“Alright, Allan,” MJ called out, masking her worry with a bright, theatrical grin. “From the top. And this time, try to actually sound like you’re in love with the lead, okay? Give me some of that optimism.”
“You got it, MJ!” Liz chirped, flipping through her pages with a grin.
The rehearsal continued, the lines of the play filling the room, providing a temporary, beautiful shield against the world waiting outside the theater doors. For now, the story was going exactly according to the script.
…
The moment the final bell rang at Midtown High, I was a ghost. I’d managed to dodge a few questions from Peter and Gwen about why I looked like I’d spent the night fighting a garbage disposal, but my mind was already six miles south in Hell’s Kitchen. Norman’s "recovery team" was probably still filling out paperwork or checking their reflection in the mirror, but I didn't need a corporate strike team.
I had a symbiote, a grudge, and a signal that was screaming my name.
I swung through the concrete canyons of the city, the black suit moving in perfect synchronization with the wind. The tracker was active, pulsing a steady, arrogant rhythm on my phone. It was moving—fast.
She is fleeing.
Venom growled, the suit tightening around my biceps.
She thinks she is a ghost. We are the shadows.
‘We’ve got her,’ I thought, pushing off a water tower and launching myself into a terminal-velocity dive. ‘She’s in a white van, heading toward the docks. Real original.’
I caught sight of the vehicle three blocks ahead, weaving through traffic with a desperate, jerky energy. I didn't bother with a subtle approach. I dropped from the sky like a lead weight, slamming onto the roof of the van with a thunderous thud that sent the suspension screaming.
I reached over the edge, my fingers elongating into sharp, obsidian claws, and punctured the front tires. The van lurched, sliding sideways before I shot a web line to a nearby streetlamp and yanked the whole vehicle to a bone-jarring halt.
I didn't wait for the driver to recover. I ripped the driver-side door off its hinges and reached inside, grabbing the occupant by the collar and hauling them out into the light. I slammed them against the side of the van, the suit’s mask shifting into that jagged, toothy snarl I usually saved for the truly bad guys:
“Where are they?” I hissed, the dual-voice of the suit vibrating against the metal. “Where are the bots, kitty cat?”
The… man in my grip didn't scream. He didn't even look surprised. He just looked… tired.
“Oh, for the love of—not you again,” Turk Barrett groaned, his hat lopsided on his head. He blinked at me through a cloud of cigarette smoke that seemed to follow him everywhere. “Look, Venom. I don’t know any cat. And I definitely don't have any bots.”
I blinked, the mask receding just enough for my confused lenses to widen. “Turk? What the hell are you doing driving this van?”
“I’m working, man! A guy’s gotta make a living!” Turk adjusted his jacket as best he could while being dangled six inches off the ground. “Some silver-haired chick sold me a crate of ‘high-end security hardware’ for a steal. Said if I drove it to the docks, she’d waive the finder’s fee. I thought it was my lucky day. Turns out, it was just another Tuesday in this hellhole of a city.”
He is lying. Let us taste his liver.
‘He’s not lying, Venom. He’s Turk. He’s too unlucky to be lying.’
I dropped him, my feet hitting the pavement with a dull slap. I moved to the back of the van and tore the rear doors open. There, sitting in the middle of a pile of empty crates, was a small, reinforced Oscorp container.
I ripped the lid off, expecting to see the swarm of microbots I’d spent months perfecting.
Instead, I found a pile of loose circuit boards. Specifically, the tracking modules. She’d uninstalled every single one of them.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” I muttered, picking up one of the modules. It had been meticulously removed—not smashed, not fried, just… detached.
“Hey, careful with those!” Turk shouted from the sidewalk, straightening his hat. “I paid good money for those ‘premium signal boosters!’”
“Signal boosters?” I turned, feeling the heat rise in my face. “Turk, these are garbage. They’re tracking chips. She used you as a decoy.”
“A decoy?” Turk’s face fell. “Wait, so I ain't gettin' paid? Man, I hate this town. I really do.”
I ignored him, my eyes catching a flicker of white at the bottom of the crate. I reached in and pulled out another one of those cream-colored stationery notes. This one was even smaller, with a tiny, hand-drawn heart at the bottom.
“You’re getting closer, V! But you really should vet your sources. Poor Turk was so excited for a deal. I figured you’d appreciate the microbots more if you had to work for them. Consider this a lesson in ‘Look, don’t touch.’ XOXO, FC.”
I crushed the tracking module in my hand, the sparks dancing between my fingers. She hadn't just outsmarted me; she’d turned me into a punchline. She knew I was tracking the bots, she knew how the frequency worked, and she’d managed to profit off the trackers while I was busy sitting in AP Chem.
Not to mention throwing me off the trail in the process.
She is very good.
Venom noted, a trace of reluctant admiration in his voice.
And very frustrating. We should definitely eat her now.
‘I’m starting to agree with you,’ I thought, the suit rippling with a black, oily fury.
I looked at Turk, who was currently kicking the flat tire of his van and swearing at the sky. He was the most pathetic arms dealer in the history of the Marvel Universe, and yet, somehow, he’d been the one to deliver the final sting.
“Go home, Turk,” I said, my voice flat. “And better not see you, again!”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m goin’!” Turk muttered, already walking toward the nearest subway entrance. “Next time, call a cab! I’m out of the delivery business!”
I fired a web and hauled myself back to the rooftops, the city lights beginning to flicker on as the sun dipped below the horizon. I was empty-handed, my tech was gone, and I’d just been played by a girl in a cat suit who was probably laughing at me over a glass of expensive wine right now.
This wasn't just about the bots anymore. This was personal. And if Felicia Hardy thought a few notes and a flashbang were enough to keep me off her trail, she really didn't know who she was dealing with.
I had the meta-knowledge of a hundred timelines, and I knew exactly how "The Black Cat" liked to play.
But first, I had to deal with the fact that I’d just been stood up by my own technology.
Ugh.
I could really use a win, right now.
…
The elevator doors of the Daily Bugle opened to the usual symphony of clacking keyboards and ringing phones, but there was a sharp, jagged edge to the noise today. Peter clutched his camera bag to his chest, feeling the weight of the digital memory card like it was made of lead.
He had the shots. He’d stayed up late editing them—clean, crisp images of the chaos in Central Park, the muzzle flashes in the trees, and the sleek, black-clad figure of Venom shielding a terrified family.
It was exactly the kind of "win" he needed. Not just for the rent money Aunt May was always stressing over, but for the truth.
“Parker! In here! Now!” J. Jonah Jameson’s voice boomed from his office, vibrating the glass partitions.
Peter straightened his glasses and hurried inside. Jameson was behind his desk, looking less like a boisterous newsman and more like a cornered animal. He was stabbing a cigar at a stack of legal documents while Robbie Robertson stood by the window, looking uncharacteristically grim.
“You got ‘em, kid? The Times Square mess with Electro?” Jonah demanded, his eyes darting to Peter’s bag. “I want a front-page spread. ‘Masked Menace Turns Brings Madness to Manhattan!’ I want the city screaming for a crackdown!”
“I do.” He reluctantly admitted. “But I was actually hoping you might be interested in my photos from the incident at Central Park?”
“The park?” Jonah repeated, suddenly dour. “You were there for that clusterf—ahem—diabacol with the spider freaks starting a gang war?”
“Actually, Mr. Jameson, they were stopping the gang war,” Peter said, pulling his laptop from his bag to show the previews. “The shooter was aimed right at those kids. Spider-Man and the others—they saved them. Look at this shot of Venom. He’s taking a hit for them.”
Jonah squinted at the screen for a half-second before waving it away with a groan that sounded like a physical ache. “Doesn't matter. Save your breath and your bandwidth, Parker. We aren't running them. We aren't running anything even remotely related to Central Park.”
Peter froze, his finger hovering over the scroll wheel. “What? Why? These are the best shots I’ve ever taken. They prove what really happened.”
“It’s not about the quality of the work, Peter,” Robbie said, turning away from the window with a heavy sigh. “We’ve been served. A court-ordered gag order, effective immediately. Any mention of the Central Park incident, the shooting of Frank Castle, or the presence of vigilantes at the scene is under a total legal blackout.”
“A blackout?” Peter’s stomach did a slow, cold somersault. “By who?”
“The District Attorney’s office. Samantha Reyes,” Jonah spat the name like it was a mouthful of spoiled milk. He slapped the legal papers on his desk. “She’s calling it a ‘matter of sensitive ongoing investigation.’ Claims that publicizing the details could compromise the safety of the survivors and lead to further gang retaliation.”
Peter sank into the guest chair, his mind racing. He thought back to the park—the smell of the cordite, the way Harry had looked so desperate to get that family to safety. They had risked everything to do the right thing, and now the "good guys" in the suits were making sure nobody ever found out.
“But that’s... that’s not freedom of the press,” Peter stammered. “You always talk about the public’s right to know, Mr. Jameson. If we don’t tell them what happened, Reyes can just make up whatever story fits her career. She’s burying the truth!”
“I know that! You think I like being told what I can and can’t print in my own rag?” Jonah stood up, leaning over his desk until he was face-to-face with Peter.
For the first time, Peter didn't see a blustering caricature; he saw a man who was genuinely offended by the system.
“I’ve spent thirty years vilifying vigilantes, Parker, but I do it because I believe they’re a danger.” Johna intoned. “I don’t do it because some politician told me to. I have principles. Whereas Reyes is using my paper to protect her own neck. It makes my blood boil.”
“She’s worried about the optics,” Robbie added quietly. “A massacre in the middle of a public park on her watch? If the people know the police were outgunned and the vigilantes were the only ones who stood between those kids and a bullet, her career is over. So, she’s making the whole thing disappear.”
Peter looked at the photos on his screen. The black suit, the white one, his own red-and-blue reflection in a puddle. They were being erased.
“So that’s it?” Peter asked, his voice sounding small even to him. “We just let her hide it?”
“For now, we have to follow the law, Peter,” Robbie said, though he looked like he hated saying it. “If we break a gag order this specific, the city will shut us down before the first edition hits the stands.”
Jonah slumped back into his chair, looking older than he had ten minutes ago.
He grabbed his cigar and pointed it at Peter. “Keep the files, kid. Don’t delete ‘em. Lock ‘em behind a password your own mother couldn't guess. Reyes thinks she can win by keeping us quiet, but the truth has a habit of leaking. When the time is right, I want those photos. And I’ll pay you double. Now get out of here. I have a headache the size of Brooklyn.”
Peter packed his laptop away in silence.
As he walked out through the bullpen, the usual noise of the office felt hollow. He’d spent so much time worrying about whether the city would accept Spider-Man, but he’d never considered that the people in charge would just pretend he didn't exist when it was convenient for them.
He stepped out onto the sidewalk, the afternoon sun hitting the glass of the Bugle building. He felt a sudden, sharp pang of solidarity with Harry. Harry was always talking about the corruption of New York, about how the system was rigged. Peter had always wanted to believe in the rules, in the idea that if you did the right thing, the world would recognize it.
But standing there, with the evidence of a hero’s sacrifice locked in a bag he wasn't allowed to open, Peter realized that the "good guys" weren't just the ones wearing badges or holding gavels. Sometimes, the people in the suits were the ones holding the shovel, and they were busy burying everything he believed in.
He needed to talk to the squad. They weren't just fighting criminals anymore. They were fighting something much more dangerous. They were fighting City Hall.
…
The air in the ICU waiting room smelled of stale coffee and industrial-strength disinfectant, a scent that Maria Castle was beginning to think would never leave her lungs. She sat in a chair that felt like it was made of plastic-wrapped despair, her eyes fixed on the small window of the intensive care unit.
Inside, Frank looked like a stranger. His head was a heavy, immobile mummy of white gauze and bandages, hiding the face she’d woken up to for nearly twenty years. The steady, rhythmic hiss-click of the ventilator was the only thing filling the silence, a mechanical substitute for the deep, snoring breath of a man who should have been home on the couch.
Frank Jr. was slumped in the chair next to her, his chin on his chest, while Lisa sat on the floor, picking at a loose thread in the hospital carpet. They were too quiet. They were usually a hurricane of noise and elbows, but the park had sucked the air out of them. Every time Maria closed her eyes, she still saw the muzzle flashes and felt the way the ground had shuddered.
“He’s strong, Mom,” Lisa whispered, not looking up. “Dad doesn't lose. He’s just… taking a long nap.”
“I know, baby,” Maria said, her voice sounding thin and brittle, like old parchment. She wanted to believe it. She prayed to a God she hadn't spoken to in years that Frank wasn’t just a body being kept alive by wires and tubes.
‘Please,’ she pleaded silently. ‘Don’t let the last thing he saw be that nightmare.’
The heavy double doors of the wing swung open with a sharp, authoritative click. Maria expected a doctor, or maybe the weary Captain Stacy coming back with more questions she didn't have the answers to.
Instead, a woman in a suit that cost more than Frank’s truck stepped into the room. She was followed by two men who looked like they were carved out of granite, their eyes scanning the hallway with practiced detachment.
“Mrs. Castle?” The woman asked, her voice a perfect blend of professional concern and practiced warmth. She didn't wait for an invitation; she stepped into the family’s orbit, offering a hand that was perfectly manicured. “I’m Samantha Reyes. I’m the District Attorney.”
Maria took the hand purely out of habit, her fingers feeling cold against the woman’s palm. “The DA? Is there… is there news? Did they find the people who did this?”
“We’re working tirelessly on that, Maria. I promise you,” Reyes said, pulling a second chair over and sitting close enough that Maria could smell her expensive perfume. It was a suffocatingly sweet scent. “But I’m not here to talk about the investigation. I’m here because I was briefed on your situation, and I was heartbroken. To have a family outing turned into such a senseless tragedy… it’s a failure of the city, and I take that personally.”
Maria blinked, her mind struggling to keep up. She was tired—the kind of tired that lived in the marrow of her bones. “I don’t understand.”
“I know that the financial burden of a long-term recovery can be devastating,” Reyes continued, her eyes locked onto Maria’s with an intensity that felt almost predatory in its kindness. “Frank’s service to this country was exemplary. The city owes him. I’ve personally seen to it that a victim’s compensation fund has been fast-tracked for your family. All of Frank’s medical bills, the children’s counseling, your mortgage for the next year… it’s all covered. Oscorp has even offered to provide a private room and specialized neurological consults.”
Maria felt a sudden, dizzying rush of relief. It was like a weight she hadn't even realized she was carrying had been unceremoniously dumped off her shoulders. ‘The mortgage. The bills. I can just… stay here with him?’
“You’re doing all that?” Maria asked, her voice trembling. “For us?”
“It’s the least we can do,” Reyes said, reaching out to pat Maria’s hand. The gesture felt rehearsed, like a politician hitting a mark on a stage, but Maria was too exhausted to care about the performance.
God knows her life has turned into the absolute worst tragedy she could have ever imagined.
“All I ask in return is that you focus on your family. The media is going to be circling, looking for a story, trying to sensationalize what happened in that park. They’ll try to twist things, talk about vigilantes and gang wars… it’s best for the children if we keep this private. Let my office handle the talking. We want to protect Frank’s legacy from being dragged into a circus.”
Maria looked at her children, then back at the bandaged man behind the glass. She didn't care about the news. She didn't care about the "Spiders" or the men who had been shooting. She just wanted her life back.
If Reyes was giving her a way to keep the lights on while she waited for Frank to wake up, it felt like a miracle she didn't have the strength to question.
“Thank you,” Maria whispered, the tears finally starting to spill over. “Thank you so much.”
“Don’t thank me, Maria,” Reyes said, standing up and smoothing her skirt. She looked down at the Castle family with a small, satisfied smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. “Just take care of those kids. We’ll take care of everything else.”
As Reyes walked away, her heels clicking a sharp, victorious rhythm against the linoleum, Maria leaned her head back and closed her eyes. She felt safe, for the first moment since the first shot had rang out. She didn't see the way Reyes’ assistants were already marking "Case Closed" on their digital tablets.
She didn't see the hush order being filed in the background.
She just saw a future where she didn't have to choose between her husband’s life and her children’s home. It was a gift. And Maria Castle was far too broken to see all the strings attached.
…
The back booth at Stan’s Subs was the only place in the city that felt like neutral ground, though today the air between them was crackling with enough static to power a city block.
Gwen sat with her hands wrapped around a lukewarm soda, watching Harry tap a frantic, rhythmic beat on the table while Peter stared at a pile of napkins like they’d personally offended him.
The silence wasn't comfortable. It was the kind of silence that happened right before a lightning strike.
“My dad’s losing sleep over the DA’s office,” Gwen said, breaking the quiet.
Her voice felt low, edged with a bitterness she usually tried to keep locked behind her lab goggles.
But today, it all came spilling out.
“Samantha Reyes is burying what happened at Central Park.” She spat. “My dad’s trying to follow the rules, but the rules are being rewritten by people who don't want the heroes to look like heroes.”
“Jameson told me the same thing,” Peter added, finally looking up. His eyes were red-rimmed, the weight of the Bugle’s gag order clearly eating him alive.
She did tell him not to take the job.
“He has the photos. He has the proof. But his hands are tied.” He sighed. “We did everything right, Gwen. We saved that family, we stopped the shooting, and it’s like it never happened. It’s like we’re the villains because we didn't ask for permission first.”
“I’m upset,” Harry said, his voice flat and dangerous. The suit rippled beneath his hoodie, a subtle movement Gwen only caught because she was looking for it. “I’m beyond upset. I’m tired of playing defense. I’m tired of reacting to things after they’ve already gone to hell. We need to stop waiting for the system to catch up. The system's so slow a one-legged man can outrun it.”
Gwen looked from Peter to Harry, feeling that familiar, sharp spark of determination. She’d grown up hearing about the "thin blue line" and the majesty of the law, but after seeing what happened to the Castles and how Liz was suffering, the majesty was starting to look a lot like a shroud.
“So we stop reacting,” she agreed, leaning forward. “We need a target. Someone at the center of this web. Someone the law can’t touch because he’s too smart to leave a paper trail.”
“L. Thompson Lincoln,” Harry said, the name sounding like a curse. “Tombstone. He’s the one who put Mark in that position. He’s the one kidnapping kids, and leading turf wars. Fisk is in a cell, but Tombstone is still the Big Man. He’s the root of all of this.”
Gwen tapped her chin, her mind running through the legal hurdles she’d heard her dad complain about a thousand times. “If we want him, we can't just punch him, though. He’ll have ten lawyers on speed dial before the cuffs even click. We need evidence. Insider information. Something that ties him directly to the gang war and the tech.”
“We have Mark,” Harry suggested, his eyes brightening with a tactical gleam. “Tombstone thinks he owns him. He thinks Mark is still his puppet, or at the very least, a loose end he hasn't bothered to snip yet. He won’t suspect him.”
Gwen felt a pang of worry for Mark, but she knew Harry was right. It was the only way to get close enough to the sun without getting burned. “He’s terrified, Harry... But he’s also desperate. He wants his life back. He wants Liz to be safe.”
She pulled out a burner phone, the matching one to the one they’d given Mark after the rescue. Peter and Harry watched her, the tension in the booth reaching a fever pitch. Gwen cleared her throat, taking a deep breath to settle her nerves.
If she was going to do this, she had to be the one he trusted—but not the one he recognized.
She dialed the number and waited. On the third ring, a shaky voice picked up. “Hello?”
“It’s me,” Gwen said. She pitched her voice lower, adding a breathy, slightly distorted edge to it that felt more like a mask than her actual face. It wasn't the chirpy Gwen Stacy who helped him with his homework; it was the Ghost who had pulled him out of the fire. “We need to talk about your future, Mark.”
“I... I’m laying low, like you said,” Mark stammered, his voice echoing with the hollow sound of someone hiding in a cheap motel. “But I can't stay here forever. Liz... I just want to go home.”
“We want that for you, too,” Gwen said, glancing at Harry, who nodded encouragingly. “But Tombstone isn't going to let you go. Not unless we take his teeth out first. We have a plan to make you a free man. A clean life, Mark. No more debts. No more shadows. But we need your help to do it.”
There was a long silence on the other end. She could practically hear him weighing the risk of a life on the run against the terror of facing Lincoln.
“What do I have to do?” He asked, his voice barely a whisper.
“You’re going to go back,” she told him, her heart hammering against her ribs. “You’re going to walk into his office, tell him you’re ready to earn your keep again. And you’re going to wear a wire. Give us one conversation, Mark. One admission of guilt. That’s your ticket out.”
“He’ll kill me,” Mark choked out. “If he finds it, he’ll kill me.”
“He won’t find it,” Harry whispered from across the table, though only Gwen could hear him.
“We’ll be right outside,” Gwen promised Mark, her voice firm with a conviction she hoped would be contagious. “The moment things get sideways, we’re coming through the walls. We saved you in the park, didn't we? Trust the Spiders, Mark. We’re the only ones who can actually give you your life back.”
The manipulation left a bad taste in her mouth. But what was the alternative? She wasn’t lying. They were doing this for Mark. For everyone.
So why did it feel so wrong?
Another beat of silence. Then, a ragged exhale. “Okay. Okay, I’ll do it. Just... make sure Liz is safe. Please.”
“She’s safe,” Gwen said, thinking of MJ sitting with her in the theater. “We’ll see you soon.”
She hung up and set the phone on the table. Her hands were shaking, but the resolve in her chest was like iron. They were stepping outside the lines, playing a game that her father would never approve of, but the "Upset" pact was sealed.
“It’s happening,” she said, looking at the boys. “We’re taking down the Big Man.”
Peter nodded, his jaw set. Harry’s eyes flickered black for a split second, the symbiote reflecting the predatory intent of the plan. They weren't just teenagers at a sub shop anymore. They were the only ones left who were willing to tell the truth, even if they had to steal it.
…
The walk down the hallway of the Lincoln building felt like a march to the gallows. Mark could feel the small, flat transmitter taped to his ribs, a cold patch of plastic that seemed to pulse with every frantic beat of his heart.
His skin was slick with a cold sweat that made the wire itch, and he was certain that if anyone stood close enough, they’d hear the frantic drumming in his chest.
‘Trust the Spiders,’ he told himself, though the words felt hollow in the face of the massive mahogany doors at the end of the hall. ‘They’re outside. They’re watching. Just get him to talk.’
He pushed the doors open. The office was vast and shadowed, dominated by a desk that looked like it had been carved from a single block of obsidian.
L. Thompson Lincoln sat behind it, his pale, alabaster skin shimmering in the dim light. He didn’t look like a mob boss; he looked like a statue, carved into a permanent expression of bored superiority.
“Mark,” Lincoln said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that seemed to vibrate in Mark’s marrow. “I was beginning to think you’d decided to extend your vacation in the park. It’s good to see you’ve come to your senses.”
“I’m back, Mr. Lincoln,” Mark said, his voice cracking just enough to make him wince. He stepped further into the room, trying to keep his breathing steady. “I know I messed up at Central Park. The... the Spiders, they got in the way. But I’m ready to make it right. We can finish what we started with the shipments.”
Lincoln didn’t answer immediately. He leaned back in his chair, his colorless eyes tracking the way Mark’s hand twitched. A slow, terrifying smile spread across his face—a look that held no warmth, only a predatory satisfaction.
“Make it right?” Lincoln repeated.
He stood up, walking around the desk with a slow, measured gait. He stopped inches from Mark, his presence so imposing it felt like the oxygen was being sucked out of the room. He reached out, his hand hovering near Mark’s chest.
“You’ve been through so much, Mark. The stress must be getting to you.” Lincoln swine, consolingly. “Why else would you come in here wearing such a clumsy piece of jewelry?”
Mark’s stomach dropped into a freezing abyss.
Lincoln didn’t rip the wire off. He didn’t even touch it. Instead, he leaned back against his desk, looking directly at the spot where the microphone was hidden, his voice rising in a clear, resonant tone that was meant for an audience.
“It’s truly tragic,” Lincoln intoned, his face a mask of mock sorrow. “I took you in, Mark. I tried to give you a path forward when the world turned its back on you. And this is how you repay me? You come into my place of business, threatening to use those dangerous abilities of yours to extort me? Claiming you’ll ‘burn it all down’ unless I pay for your silence regarding your own rampage at the park?”
“What? No, I never—”
“You’re a loose cannon, son,” Lincoln interrupted, his voice dripping with paternal disappointment. “I told the authorities I was worried about your stability. You’ve become a danger to yourself and this city. Using your Molten Man persona to settle petty grievances... it has to stop. For Liz’s sake, if not your own.”
The office doors didn’t just open; they were thrown wide. Captain George Stacy marched in, flanked by four officers with their weapons drawn. Mark froze, his hands trembling as he looked from the police to the man who was currently framing him for his own life’s destruction.
“Mark Allan,” Captain Stacy said, his face hard and devoid of any semblance of sympathy. “Hands where I can see them. Now.”
“Captain, you don’t understand! He’s lying! I have the wire, I—”
“We heard the wire, Mark,” Stacy said, and the words felt like a physical blow. “We heard you threatening Mr. Lincoln. We heard you admitting to the violence at the park. Turn around.”
As the handcuffs clicked shut around Mark’s wrists, he looked up at the skylight. High above, through the glass and the shadows of the night, he caught a glimpse of three figures perched on the edge of a neighboring roof.
Spider-Man. Ghost Spider. Venom.
They were frozen.
Why weren’t they helping him?!
…
On the rooftop, the silence was absolute. The earpiece in Gwen’s hand was emitting a low, mocking hiss of static. They had planned for a confession; they had planned for a fight. They hadn't planned for Tombstone to be five steps ahead of the legal system they were trying to use against him.
‘We did this,’ the thought echoed through Gwen’s mind as she watched her father lead a sobbing Mark Allan toward a waiting cruiser. ‘We gave him the wire. We told him he’d be safe.’
Harry’s hands were curled into claws, the suit rippling with a violent, frustrated hunger that matched the hollow ache in her chest. They had tried to play the game by the rules—they had tried to be the "good guys" the system wanted them to be.
And in return, they had just handed their friend over to the very people who were being paid to look the other way.
Down on the street, the sirens began to wail, a lonely, mournful sound that signaled the end of their idealism. Despite their quest for the truth, there was only one that prevailed that day.
You can’t fight City Hall.
…
The hospital corridor was a ghost town of linoleum and fluorescent hum. Billy Russo moved through the shadows with the easy, predatory grace of a man who knew exactly where the cameras weren't. He looked the part of the grieving brother-in-arms—expensive jacket, hair just messy enough to look like he hadn’t slept, a face that was still too handsome for its own good.
Inside the private room, the air was thick with the mechanical hiss-click of the ventilator. Frank lay there, a broken mountain of meat and white gauze. Billy looked down at the man who had saved his life a dozen times in the desert, feeling a strange, hollow twinge of something that might have been regret if he were a better man.
But Schoonover had been clear. The Blacksmith didn't like loose ends, and a Frank Castle who could wake up and remember the wrong details was the biggest loose end in the state of New York. Billy reached out, his hand hovering over the power cable of the ventilator. It would be easy. A sudden equipment failure, a few minutes of silence, and Frank would be a memory.
'Sorry, Frankie,' Billy thought, his fingers brushing the plastic casing. 'Business is business. Better you go out like this than waking up to a world that doesn't have a place for you anymore.'
His thumb pressed the latch.
A hand, cold and rough as sandpaper, clamped around Billy’s wrist with the strength of a hydraulic press.
Billy froze. His heart did a violent somersault against his ribs as he looked down. Frank’s eyes were open—bloodshot, frantic, and burning with a terrifying, primal intensity. The ventilator hissed, struggling against the sudden, jagged rhythm of Frank's breath.
“Frank?” Billy gasped. He didn't skip a beat. The cable was forgotten, his hand shifting instantly from a killer's grip to a brother's embrace. He collapsed against the side of the bed, a sob racking his chest that sounded so real it almost fooled him. “Frank! Oh, God, you’re awake! You’re actually awake!”
Frank’s grip didn't loosen. His jaw worked, a low, guttural sound escaping his throat through the tubes. He looked lost, his gaze darting around the room until it settled on Billy.
“Easy, brother. Easy. I’ve got you,” Billy said, his voice thick with "tears of joy" as he gently sat Frank up, helping him as the man coughed and gagged. Billy leaned in close, his forehead pressed against Frank’s, his voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial whisper. “You’re safe now. I’ve been here every night. I wouldn't let them take you.”
Frank managed to pull the tube from his mouth, his voice a scorched-earth rasp. “Maria... the kids...”
Billy let out a long, shaky breath, his expression twisting into a mask of righteous fury. This was the moment. The kill was off the table; but there was another opportunity now. A better one.
He was getting tired of Schoonover anyways. Maybe it was time to start clearing house.
“They’re alive, Frank. They’re safe, no thanks to the people in this city,” Billy spat, the words dripping with a poisoned sincerity. “The gangs... they turned that park into a slaughterhouse. And the cops? The ‘heroes’? They sat back and watched it happen. They’re already burying the files, Frank. Samantha Reyes is shaking hands with the people who ordered the hit while you were lying here dying.”
Frank’s eyes widened, the confusion being rapidly replaced by a cold, obsidian-hard clarity. His fingers dug into Billy’s arm, his knuckles white.
“The police... they did nothing?” Frank wheezed.
“Worse than nothing,” Billy said, leaning in until they were inches apart. “They’re protecting the people who did this. They called it ‘unfortunate crossfire.’ They’re going to let them walk, Frank. All of them. The Kitchen Irish, the Cartel, the Dogs of Hell... they’re all laughing because they know the law is too weak to stop them.”
Billy watched the transformation take hold. The man he’d known in the Marines—the soldier who lived for the mission—was being hollowed out, replaced by something much simpler and much more dangerous.
The grief was still there, but Billy was carefully molding it into a singular, razor-sharp point of vengeance.
“You’re the only one who can make it right, Frankie,” Billy whispered, his hand on the back of Frank’s neck, anchoring him to the lie. “The system is broken. The 'good guys' are just politicians in suits. But you? You’re a scout. You know what needs to be done when the chain of command fails.”
Frank didn't cry. He didn't scream. He just stared at the far wall, his face settling into a mask of cold, dead stone. The man Maria Castle loved was still in that bed, but the man Billy Russo was building was already standing up.
“Tell me,” Frank rasped. “Tell me who.”
Billy smiled, a dark, hidden thing that Frank couldn't see. He had his weapon back. “I’ll do better than that, brother. I’ll give you all the names. And then? We’re going to show this city what happens when they mess with one of ours.”