Chapter 19: Out of the Bag
The red and blue cherries of the police cruisers danced across the glass panes of the nearby skyscrapers, but from this height, they looked less like symbols of justice and more like a fever dream.
Peter Parker gripped the edge of the stone parapet, his knuckles white. Somewhere down there, behind several layers of concrete and cynical bureaucracy, Mark Allan was being processed. Mark, who they had fought to save. Mark, who was now the only one wearing handcuffs.
“It’s the Parker Luck, Gwen. I’m telling you, it’s contagious,” Peter muttered, his voice cracking with a frustration that felt too heavy for a fourteen-year-old. “We try to help, and the universe just finds a more creative way to kick us in the teeth. We were supposed to be the heroes. That’s the whole point of the masks, right? To make things better?”
He looked at his hands. They were steady—perpetually steady thanks to the spider—but they felt useless. Every time he thought he had a handle on the ‘Responsibility’ part of the equation, the variables changed.
They save a kid from mobsters, the kid becomes a criminal. They stop a crime lord, but a new one fills the vacuum like a rising tide. They try to help the kid again, and he gets arrested.
Gwen was standing a few feet away, her hood pulled up against the biting New York wind. She wasn’t spiraling like he was; she was staring at the precinct with a terrifying, quiet intensity. That was Gwen Stacy, for you. She could always keep a level head when he couldn’t. Which was often.
“It wasn’t luck, Peter. It was a calculation,” Gwen said, her voice clipped and precise. She didn’t look at him. “L. Thompson Lincoln didn’t get lucky. He anticipated us. He used our own moral compass to steer Mark right into that interrogation room. I’m the one who told Mark we could protect him. I’m the one who pushed him to trust the ‘good guys.’”
She finally turned, and the moonlight caught the sharp line of her jaw.
There was a flicker of something raw in her eyes—guilt, maybe, but mostly a brewing storm. “We didn’t just fail him. We handed him over.”
“And Harry…” Peter trailed off, the thought of their friend making his chest ache. “He hasn’t answered a single one of my texts. Or MJ’s. You?”
“Nothing.” Gwen sighed, looking even more despondent, and making Peter feel like crap for even bringing it up. “If you think you feel bad about this, imagine how he feels.”
“It wasn’t his fault.” Peter instantly defended.
“It was his plan.” Gwen held up a hand to stop Peter from arguing. “I know, I know. I don’t blame him, either. I’m just saying he feels responsible for how that all played out. Maybe he just needs some space.”
“Maybe…”
It was the silence from the Osborn penthouse that scared Peter the most.
Harry was the glue. He was the one with the plan, the one who navigated the weirdness of their lives with a smirk and a hidden agenda that usually kept them safe. To have him retreat into his room felt like the center wasn’t holding anymore. They were just kids in spandex playing a game against a man who owned the board.
The weight of it was suffocating. Peter felt like he was back in the moment he’d let that thief run past him at the wrestling arena—that paralyzing second of indecision that almost cost him everything. Except this time, the consequences were playing out in slow motion across the entire city.
Were they even making a difference, or were they just creating more vacuums for the monsters to fill?
A dull, rhythmic thud suddenly vibrated through the roof, followed a second later by the sharp, concussive boom of an explosion.
Both of them snapped their heads toward Hell’s Kitchen.
A plume of black smoke was already beginning to choke the orange glow of the streetlights a few blocks over. Then came the staccato rhythm of automatic gunfire—rapid, frantic, and loud enough to echo off the canyon of buildings. It wasn’t the sound of a mugging; it was the sound of a war zone.
Peter felt his spider-sense give a sympathetic hum, a low-frequency warning that the city was bleeding again. The brooding, the guilt, the agonizing over Mark’s legal status—it all vanished in a heartbeat, replaced by the simple, binary clarity of a crisis.
“Hell’s Kitchen,” Peter said, the mask already in his hand. He didn’t have to think. He didn’t want to think. Thinking was for people who weren’t watching a neighborhood burn.
Gwen was already pulling her mask down, the white and pink fabric hiding the pain on her face and replacing it with the blank, focused stare of Ghost-Spider. She didn’t offer a witty retort or a plan. She just glanced at him, her eyes narrowing as she braced herself against the ledge.
“Let’s go,” she said, her voice muffled by the mask but regaining its edge. “People need us.”
Now if only they can be reminded of that without bombs going off…
Peter pulled the mask over his head, the world shifting into the sharp, heightened reality of the Spider-Man. The Parker Luck could wait. Responsibility was calling, and it sounded like a firefight. He leaped into the void, the wind rushing past his ears as he fired the first web line, Gwen swinging right beside him into the smoke.
…
My room felt like a tomb, and I was the ghost haunting it.
I’d spent seventeen hours staring at the ceiling, watching the oily shadows of the symbiote ripple across the walls in rhythm with my own heartbeat… okay, that was just an exaggeration. Or a metaphor. Whatever. The point is, I’m in a rut.
It was a loop I couldn’t break: the look on Mark’s face when the cuffs clicked, the smug tilt of Tombstone’s head, and the crushing realization that I’d played right into the Big Man’s hands. I had the meta-knowledge. I was supposed to be the one three steps ahead, yet I’d walked us all right into a buzzsaw.
Four score and seven years ago... our fathers brought forth... a dream...
Venom’s voice rumbled in the back of my skull, a chaotic mashup of every historical speech I’d ever let him overhear while I was studying.
We shall fight on the beaches! FREEDOM! The only thing we have to fear is... not eating that guy with the fancy cane! Harry, I am bored. My oratory is wasted on you. I require chocolate. Or a pancreas. Ideally both.
‘Be quiet, V,’ I thought, pulling the pillow over my head. ‘We’re mourning.’
We aren’t mourning, we’re pouting. There is a difference. Namely, that no one died, which would have been much more interesting. I am a lethal protector, Harry. Not a weighted blanket.
A sudden, violent CRACK shattered the funereal silence. I bolted upright, my heart hammering against my ribs as glass rained onto my carpet. A silhouette was perched on my window frame, framed by the moonlight and the sheer absurdity of being fifty stories up.
Is it a Batman? A Black Cat? A—
“You know, for a billionaire, you have really shitty security,” Jessica Jones said, hopping down and kicking a stray shard of glass out of her way. She looked exactly the same as always: leather jacket, scarf, and an expression that suggested she’d just smelled something particularly unpleasant.
“Jess?” I blinked, rubbing my eyes. “How did you—we are in a penthouse. You can’t just... did you jump?”
“Your dad’s a dick who wouldn’t buzz me up, and I didn’t feel like talking to the help,” she deadpanned, scanning the room with a judgmental squint. She paused, looking at the lack of laundry piles. “Huh. I’m actually impressed. I was expecting more dirty dishes, tissues, and questionable magazines. You’re either very clean or very boring.”
“It’s the twenty-first century, Jess. All the porn is digital now,” I shot back, though the wit felt hollow. I slumped back against my headboard. “Did you come all this way just to antagonize me?”
“No, dumbass, I came to check up on you. Your girlfriend called me. She’s worried.” She stepped closer, her eyes softening by maybe a fraction of a percent. “Looking at you now, I get why. Have you even changed out of your clothes?”
I looked down at the dark fabric clinging to my skin. Technically, the symbiote was my clothes, shifting to look like a hoodie and sweats when I needed it to. I hadn’t showered, hadn’t eaten—I’d just been existing in a state of static.
“Gwen called you?” I asked quietly.
“Mmhmm. She’s smart. She figured if you weren’t talking to the ‘Good Two-Shoes Brigade,’ you might talk to the neighborhood disaster,” Jessica said, pulling my desk chair over and sitting on it backward. “You want to tell me what’s up? Or should I just start guessing? You look like you just watched your dog get run over.”
“I fucked up, Jess,” I said, the words tumbling out before I could stop them.
I told her everything—the plan to flip Mark, the wire, the way I’d thought I could outmaneuver a guy like Tombstone by being ‘clever.’ I didn’t mention that I knew exactly who Tombstone was from a dozen different comic runs; I just focused on the failure.
All I could focus on, anyways.
“I wanted a win.” I admitted. “Something big and uncomplicated. I saw a shot, I took it, and now Mark’s the one sitting in a cell while Lincoln is probably having a steak dinner.”
I felt small. I was fourteen, sitting in a room that cost more than most people made in a decade, playing hero with an alien god in my head, and I’d still failed a kid who just wanted to protect his sister.
Jessica stayed silent for a long beat, just watching me. I expected a lecture on being too young or a reminder of why she’d fired me from the internship. Instead, she just sighed.
“Yeah, you did. You fucked up. Welcome to the club,” she said, her voice gravelly but strangely grounding. “You think you’re the first person to try and fix the world and end up breaking a piece of it instead? Join the line, kid. It’s a long one.”
“That’s not exactly helping,” I muttered.
“I’m not here to help you feel better, Harry. I’m here to tell you that staying in bed doesn’t help the kid in cuffs,” she snapped, standing up and towering over me. “If you want to be pissed, be pissed. If you want to feel guilty, fine. But fucking put it to good use. You’re an Osborn. You’ve got more resources in your pinky finger than most people have in their entire lives, and you’ve got... whatever that oily thing is.”
She is very rude, Venom hissed. But she is correct. We are wasting our potential for violence.
“Mark is in trouble because of a system that’s rigged,” Jessica continued, pointing toward the window. “So stop trying to play by the rules that the bad guys wrote. If the front door is locked, you kick in the window. I literally just showed you how to do it.”
She headed back toward the shattered pane, pausing to look over her shoulder. “Get in the shower. Call your friends. And then go do something about it. Otherwise, you’re just another rich kid feeling sorry for himself, and I don’t have time for those.”
Before I could even find the words to thank her—or tell her to pay for the glass—she disappeared over the ledge. I sat there in the dark for a moment longer, the cold wind from the broken window finally snapping the fog in my brain.
‘She’s right, V,’ I thought, swinging my legs off the bed. ‘We’re not staying in the dark.’
Good, Venom purred, the fabric of my ‘sweatshirt’ rippling with excitement. Does this mean we can go eat Tombstone? I’m really curious about whether or not our teeth can rip and tear his bulletproof skin.
I didn’t answer him, but I was already reaching for my phone. I had a lot of messages to return, and a very large man to remind that I wasn’t done with him yet.
Yes, Harry! But… um, we really should take that shower first, right?
… right.
…
The smell of Hell’s Kitchen was always a cocktail of old garbage and exhaust, but tonight, it had a metallic, iron-heavy top note that made the hairs on the back of Gwen’s neck stand up. It wasn’t just a firefight. It was a slaughter.
She landed silently on a rusted crane overlooking the docks, Peter thudding down a split second later. Below them, the Kitchen Irish—men who usually carried themselves with the swagger of untouchable kings—were screaming.
It wasn’t the rhythmic, grunt-filled chaos of a Spider-Man brawl. There were no quips. There was only the wet thud of boots hitting bone and the terrifyingly efficient sound of a man who viewed a warehouse full of mobsters as a checklist.
“Gwen, look,” Peter whispered, his voice sounding small under the mask.
In the center of the loading bay, Frank Castle was a blur of tactical precision and raw, unadulterated rage. He looked like a ghost that had crawled out of a shallow grave, his hospital bandages still visible beneath a dark tactical vest.
He didn’t use a web-line to disarm a man; he broke the arm and took the gun. He didn’t incapacitate; he dismantled. He was currently standing over a trembling man, a heavy pipe raised in a white-knuckled grip, his face a mask of sweating, agonizing grief.
He was winding up for a killing blow.
Gwen didn’t wait for Peter to coordinate. She dived, her white hood snapping in the wind, and fired a web-line that snatched the pipe out of Frank’s hand just as he swung. She landed between Frank and the mobster, her palms out, feeling the heat radiating off the veteran.
“Frank! Stop!” she yelled, her voice firm with the authority she’d spent a lifetime watching her father command.
Frank didn’t recoil. He growled, a low, guttural sound, and lunged for a discarded handgun. Peter was there in a flash, webbing the weapon to the floor before Frank’s fingers could close around it.
“Get out of my way, kid,” Frank rasped. His eyes were bloodshot, looking right through them. “They tried to take them. They’re still trying to take them. Russo said... he said the cops are burying it. He said nobody’s doing anything.”
Gwen felt a pang of sharp, hot anger at the name Russo.
Harry had mentioned him sometime after the shooting, back when they were doing some digging on what had happened. Particularly, with Frank Castle. And it looks like Russo—Billy “The Beaut” Russo, Frank’s best friend, was a heartless, and shady mercenary, running a company of heartless, shady mercenaries.
Honestly, she wouldn’t be surprised if the man had something to do with what happened. And if Russo was whispering in Frank’s ear, then he was feeding a fire that didn’t need any more fuel.
“He’s wrong, Frank,” Gwen said, stepping closer despite the way her spider-sense was prickling. She kept her posture relaxed, her heart breaking for the man who had nearly lost his entire world in a park because of a war he didn’t start. “We’re doing something. And the police... they’re trying. But they’re being blocked by people like DA Reyes.”
Frank let out a harsh, jagged laugh. “Reyes. Exactly. The system is a joke. It’s a closed loop, and the only way to break it is to put these animals down so they can’t get back up.”
“If you kill them, you become the distraction Reyes needs,” Gwen countered, her brain clicking into high gear. This was the Stacy diplomacy—the ability to see the board and the players. “She wants a monster, Frank. She wants a ‘mad dog’ vigilante she can point to so the public forgets about the botched sting and the cover-up. If you start leaving bodies, she wins. She gets to label you a criminal and bury the truth about what happened to you and your family under a mountain of ‘public safety’ headlines.”
Frank froze, the logic hitting him harder than any punch could. He looked down at his shaking hands, then back at Gwen. The raw agony in his expression made her want to reach out, but she knew he wasn’t a man who wanted a hug. He wanted justice.
“They’re going to get away with it,” Frank whispered.
“Not if we help you,” Peter added, stepping up beside Gwen. “We’re fast, we’re quiet, and we can get into places you can’t. We know who did this, Frank. We saw the chaos in the park.”
Gwen took a breath, playing her final card. “You want the man at the top. Not these bottom-feeders. You want the one who authorized the hit. The Blacksmith.”
“The Blacksmith?” Frank’s head snapped up, his gaze sharpening into something deadly and focused. The mention of the mastermind, seemed to pull him back from the brink of total psychosis and into the mindset of a soldier with a mission. “Yeah. I want him. Even got a name. Colonel Ray Schoonover. Don’t see why I need your help, though.”
“Because we can help you find him,” Gwen promised, her voice unwavering. “We’ll track the shipments, we’ll find his hideout, and we’ll give you the evidence to burn Reyes’s career to the ground. But we do it our way.”
“No killing,” Peter said, his voice gaining a sudden, steel edge. “That’s the deal. We bring him in, we get the truth out, and we do it without becoming the things we’re hunting.”
Frank looked at the two fourteen-year-olds in spandex. He looked at the groaning mobsters on the floor, then back at the dark New York skyline. He was a man who had lost everything, but he wasn’t a fool. He knew he couldn’t win a war against the city and the mob at the same time.
“Fuck it,” Frank finally rasped, his voice like grinding stones. “We do it your way. But if Schoonover slips through the cracks... if the lawyers start talking... I’m finishing it. Deal?”
Gwen looked at Peter. It wasn’t a perfect victory—it was a stay of execution. But in a city that felt like it was falling apart, a temporary peace was the best they could hope for.
“Deal,” Gwen said. “Let’s get to work.”
…
The interrogation room was exactly as depressing as it looked on TV, only smaller, colder, and smelling vaguely of floor wax and stale coffee. Mark Allan sat with his hands folded on the metal table, trying to keep them from shaking—or worse, from glowing. The golden-liquid heat was still humming just beneath his skin, a reminder of the “gift” that had turned his life into a waking nightmare.
Captain Stacy sat across from him, looking tired. He didn’t look like a villain, which almost made it worse. He looked like a guy who wanted to go home but had a job to do.
“Mark, look at me,” Stacy said, leaning forward. “We have the wire. We have you on record discussing the terms of your... employment with Mr. Lincoln. If you cooperate now, I can talk to the DA. We can talk about witness protection, about getting you and your sister somewhere safe.”
Mark stayed silent. Every instinct he had was screaming at him to blab, to tell the Captain that Tombstone had threatened Liz, that he’d been forced into the suit. But he wasn’t an idiot. He’d seen enough Law & Order to know that “cooperation” usually meant a one-way ticket to a cell where Tombstone’s reach was even longer than it was on the street. He didn’t have a lawyer. He was just a fourteen-year-old kid in over his head, waiting for a miracle he was pretty sure wasn’t coming.
The heavy door creaked open, and the rhythmic tap-tap-tap of a cane echoed against the linoleum.
“I believe my client has already exercised his right to remain silent, Captain. I’d appreciate it if you stopped trying to persuade him otherwise.”
A man in a sharp gray suit stepped into the room, guided by a sleek white cane. He wore round, red-tinted glasses that hid his eyes, but he moved with a strange, fluid confidence that didn’t quite match the “blind lawyer” vibe. He looked like he knew exactly where the table, the chairs, and the hidden microphones were without even trying.
“And you are?” Stacy asked, standing up.
“Matthew Murdock,” the man said, pulling out a chair next to Mark. The scent of rain and old paper followed him. “I’m representing Mark Allan pro-bono.”
Mark blinked, his jaw dropping slightly. “I didn’t call anyone.”
“A mutual friend mentioned you might be in a bit of a bind,” Murdock said, his voice calm and incredibly steady. He didn’t look at Mark, but he tilted his head slightly, as if he were listening to the rhythm of Mark’s panicked heart. “You’re doing fine, Mark. Just take a breath.”
Stacy sighed, dropping a file onto the table. “Mr. Murdock, I don’t know who your ‘mutual friend’ is, but we have a recording of your client admitting to being the individual the press is calling ‘Molten Man.’ He was caught on the scene of a gang war.”
“A recording provided to you by whom, Captain?” Murdock asked, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips. “L. Thompson Lincoln? A man whose reputation for integrity is, shall we say, non-existent? In a legal sense, that’s what we call ‘fruit of the poisonous tree.’ The recording was obtained through illegal extortion and handed over by a known criminal element. Any halfway decent judge would throw it out before I even finished my opening statement.”
Stacy gritted his teeth. “We have eyewitnesses.”
“Who? Criminals who were busy shooting at each other in Central Park?” Murdock leaned back, his ‘gaze’ fixed somewhere in Stacy’s direction. “And as for the ‘Molten Man’ allegations... Captain, I’ve been sitting next to this young man for two minutes. I’m blind, not oblivious. If I were sitting next to a human torch, I’d think I’d at least notice the heat. Mark here seems like a perfectly normal, albeit terrified, teenager.”
Mark felt a weird chill. Murdock was lying for him—or at least, he was using the law to dance around the truth. He felt the heat in his veins subside, the panic replaced by a flicker of hope.
“You can’t hold him, Captain,” Murdock continued, his tone turning clinical. “You have no physical evidence linking him to the suit, no testimony from anyone who isn’t a felon, and a recording that was clearly staged to frame a minor. Unless you’re prepared to charge him right now, I’m taking my client home.”
Stacy looked from Murdock to Mark, his expression a mix of frustration and a strange kind of relief. He knew Murdock was right. The paperwork was a mess, and the DA would have a heart attack trying to prosecute a kid based on Tombstone’s “charity.”
“He’s released pending further investigation,” Stacy finally muttered, signaling the officer at the door. “But don’t leave the city, Mark. And stay away from Lincoln.”
“We’ll be in touch, Captain,” Murdock said, standing up and placing a hand on Mark’s shoulder.
As they walked out of the precinct and into the cool night air, the weight of the handcuffs felt like it had been replaced by something even heavier. Mark looked at the man beside him. “Who sent you? Was it Harry?”
“Like I said, a mutual friend,” Murdock replied, his cane clicking rhythmically on the sidewalk. “You’re free for now, Mark. But Tombstone isn’t going to let a debt like yours just vanish. You need to be careful.”
“I know,” Mark whispered, looking at his hands in the glow of the streetlights. He was out of the cell, but he was still a social pariah, a kid with a price on his head and a debt that felt like it was burning him alive from the inside out. He wasn’t in jail, but he wasn’t free either.
…
The air in my father’s study always felt five degrees colder than the rest of the penthouse, preserved in a vacuum of mahogany and high-stakes ambition. Norman was behind his desk, silhouetted by the Manhattan skyline, looking less like a father and more like a monarch deciding which provinces to burn. My mother, Emily, sat in the armchair nearby, her presence usually a buffer, but tonight she just looked tired.
The tall one smells like judgment and expensive cologne, Venom whispered, his voice a low vibration in my jaw. We should knock over that vase. The one that costs more than a liver. It would be funny.
‘Focus, V,’ I snapped internally. I kept my face neutral, trying to channel the “Proper Osborn Son” persona I’d been failing at lately. “I’m here because I need a favor. Oscorp’s legal department is the best in the world. I want them to look into a... friend’s case. Someone who’s being squeezed by some pretty bad people.”
Norman didn’t even look up from his tablet. “You don’t have to be coy around your mother, Harry. Emily knows everything about Mark Allan. I told her.”
I felt the blood rush to my face, my pulse quickening. ‘Deep breaths. Don’t let the suit react.’ “And how do you know about Mark Allan?”
“I stole surveillance of you from that fiasco in Central Park,” Norman deadpanned, finally looking at me with eyes that were terrifyingly sharp. “It wasn’t a strong leap. Unlike the one your ‘mentor’ performed earlier tonight. By the way, please tell Ms. Jones that if she breaks into my home again, I’m calling the police. I don’t care how many mutants she’s ‘saved.’”
The fact that he knew about Jessica’s window-shattering entrance, let alone our mutant rescue, shouldn’t have surprised me, but it still felt like a physical slap. He was always watching. He was always three steps ahead, and I was playing checkers while he was playing four-dimensional chess.
“Forgive and forget?” I tried, forcing a smirk that felt like it was made of lead.
“I never apologize. And I have a very long memory, Harry,” Norman replied, his voice dropping into that dangerous, melodic register he used when he was about to dismantle someone’s argument.
“At least you have something long...” I muttered. It was petty, childish, and exactly the kind of thing that usually got me sent to my room for a week.
“Harry!” My mother gasped, her eyes widening in a mixture of shock and weary disappointment.
Norman didn’t explode.
He just tilted his head, a thin, mirthless smile touching his lips. “It’s fine, dear. He’s just upset. It’s understandable, really. His ‘friend’ was recently brought in for questioning on being a supervillain. It’s a rather frightening experience, isn’t it? Realizing that the world doesn’t care about your intentions, only your impact?”
I took a step forward, my hands gripping the edge of the mahogany desk. “Does that mean you’ll help? One call from your office and the department backs off. Mark is a victim, Dad. He was coerced.”
“No,” Norman said. The word was a guillotine.
“No? Just like that?” I felt the heat rising in my chest—half my own anger, half the symbiote’s protective hiss. “He’s a kid. He’s my age! If we don’t help him, Tombstone is going to chew him up and spit him out.”
“Then let him be chewed,” Norman said, standing up. He leaned over the desk, his shadow stretching over me. “This is a teaching moment, Harry. You chose to involve yourself with these people. You chose to play hero. Now you get to watch what happens when you fail. Oscorp’s resources are for the family and the firm, not for cleaning up the messes of a delinquent with gambling debts.”
“He’s not a delinquent, he’s—”
“He is a liability,” Norman cut me off. “And since you’ve proven that you cannot be trusted with the ‘responsibilities’ of your position, I’ve instructed Nolan to freeze your discretionary funds. You will have no access to your trust until you prove you are no longer ‘delusional’ about your place in this city. You want to save the world? Do it on your own time. But you won’t do it with my money.”
I looked at my mother, searching for an opening, a hint of the woman who used to hide my comic books so Dad wouldn’t burn them.
She looked away, her hand trembling slightly as she smoothed her skirt. “Harry, your father is just trying to protect you. You’re fourteen. You should be worrying about acne, voice cracks, and body odor, not... gang wars.”
He is small and cold, Venom growled, the black sludge of his consciousness pressing against my mind. We do not need his paper money. We can take what we want. We can take his teeth.
‘Not now,’ I thought, the bitterness coating the back of my throat like bile. I realized then that the “Harry Osborn” route was a dead end. I couldn’t use the name, I couldn’t use the lawyers, and I couldn’t use the trust. As long as I was my father’s son, I was as trapped as Mark was.
“I get it,” I said, my voice coming out colder than I intended. “Message received, loud and clear.”
Why couldn’t I be reborn as Bruce Wayne?
He’s so lucky. His parents are dead… okay, I meant that as a joke, but that was really messed up. I do not mean it! I love my mom and dad, even if one of them is a potential supervillain! And… how long have I been standing here? I should go.
I turned and walked out of the study without looking back. I didn’t head for the kitchen or the living room. I headed straight for my bedroom. I still needed to find a way to save Mark, and if the “Good Son” couldn’t do it, maybe it was time to listen to the “chaotic devil” on my shoulder.
‘Hey, V… got any ideas?’
Oh, so many, Harry. Sooo many…
…
“All of these ideas are terrible,” I said, pacing the length of my bedroom carpet until I’d probably worn a groove into the fibers. My mind was a tangled mess of legal statutes, gambling debts, and the crushing memory of my father’s cold refusal.
Harry, I’m giving you gold here, Venom rumbled, his voice a low vibration that seemed to originate from my very marrow. Pure, unadulterated, 24-karat gold.
‘Everything you gave me involves cannibalism!’ I snapped back, stopping by my desk and gripping the back of the chair. ‘Eating the problem is not a solution, V. It’s just... a different, messier problem.’
You know, it’s not technically cannibalism if we eat them, he countered, a strand of black goo briefly manifesting as a tiny, mock-thoughtful face on my shoulder. You’re the human, not me. Not my species, ergo, not cannibalism. Now can we please stop stifling our creativity? Let’s try less ‘no’ and more ‘yes, and.’
I rubbed my temples, feeling a headache brewing. ‘Fine. We need to come up with a plan to get Tombstone off of Mark’s back. A real plan. One that doesn’t end with us in the Raft.’
Yes! And we should get Tombstone off of Mark’s back by eating Tombstone!
‘No!’
Trust the process, Harry!
I rolled my eyes so hard it actually hurt. I needed air. Real air, not the recycled, climate-controlled atmosphere of the penthouse. I marched toward the balcony, sliding the glass door open and stepping out into the biting New York night. I leaned against the railing, looking out at the city I was supposed to be saving.
“You know, for such a popular guy, you sure do spend a lot of time talking to yourself, V.”
I nearly leaped out of my skin.
Perched on the edge of the stone railing, looking entirely too comfortable for someone sitting fifty stories above a concrete sidewalk, was the Black Cat. Her white hair caught the moonlight, and that smirk... it was the kind of smirk that usually preceded a lot of expensive things going missing.
She was wearing the mask, and the suit. And she’d just called me ‘V.’ My heart did a slow, heavy roll in my chest. How the hell did she even know?
Stupid question. She must have been spying on me. Naturally.
I’m getting real sick of people doing that.
Agreed. We should eat her eyes! Venom hissed, the suit beneath my skin surging with a sudden, predatory heat.
‘No,’ I thought firmly, keeping my hands visible and away from my sides.
You don’t really get improv, do you?
“Hey kitty kat. Didn’t notice you there. Remind me to get you a bell,” I said, my voice flat. I didn’t shift into the suit—not yet. If she knew who I was, the cat was already out of the bag. Literally. “So, how long have you been stalking me?”
“Stalking is such a middle-school word,” she purred, hopping down from the railing with the grace of... well, you know.
She landed silently, stepping into the pool of light from my bedroom.
“I prefer ‘market research.’” She said, and validated my suspicions of her being evil. “I tailed you after you bought that adorable little piece of bait with Turk yesterday. Followed you all the way to that charming little Italian place, Stan’s Subs. Watched you retract your costume into your skin. Cool gimmick, by the way. Way better than spandex.”
I leaned back against the railing, trying to look bored while my brain raced through a dozen different exit strategies. She’d seen me change. She’d seen the symbiote. The secret wasn't just compromised; it was shredded.
“Don’t look so panicked, Osborn,” she said, sensing the tension. “I’m not interested in outing you. Your secret is safe with me... provided you show me how to use those Microbots I borrowed from your lab.”
I let out a sharp, dry scoff. “Borrowed? You mean the ones you stole while I was trying to stop you from becoming a permanent stain on the sidewalk? Forget it. You’re not getting a manual for Oscorp tech, Felicia.”
The smirk faltered for a fraction of a second. She went still, her blue eyes narrowing. “What did you call me?”
“Felicia Hardy,” I said, crossing my arms. If we were playing for keeps, it was time to put my own cards on the table. “You see, I did a little digging into Walter Hardy after he shot me in the shoulder. Turns out, the legendary cat burglar had a daughter my age. One with very distinctive white hair. And wouldn’t you know it, a girl with that exact description, using her father’s old alias, broke into my home and robbed me.”
Wouldn’t it be so much cooler if this was the truth and not a cover story? I’d like to think I can be a pretty good detective when the situation calls for it. Then again, there was my plan to wire Mark… you know what, it’s not spiral.
I took a step closer, letting a bit of the Venom-induced coldness seep into my tone. “It’s a standoff of mutual destruction, Felicia. You tell the world I’m the black-suited freak, and I tell the police exactly where to find the girl who’s been hitting high-end tech labs. Only difference is, I have a fleet of lawyers, and you have a rap sheet.”
Felicia didn't look intimidated. If anything, she looked amused. She let out a soft, melodic laugh and took a step toward me, closing the distance until I could smell her perfume—something expensive and sharp.
“That’s a cute speech, Harry. Really. But from what I just eavesdropped on in your father’s study, you don’t have a ‘fleet of lawyers’ anymore. You don’t even have a trust fund. Seems like daddy dearest put you on a very short leash.” She tilted her head, her gaze softening into something almost mocking. “Can’t help out your friend Mark Allan. So sad. A hero without a budget is just a kid in a mask getting punched for free.”
I felt the sting of that one. She’d been listening. She knew about the freeze on my accounts.
“How about this,” she continued, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “I’ll help you. For the same asking price as earlier. You teach me how to use the bots, and I’ll help you get the money you need for your friend. I know you need cash, Harry. Real cash. Untraceable cash.”
“I’m not a thief,” I said, though even to my own ears, it sounded a bit uncertain.
“Oh, please. You’re already a vigilante. You’re already breaking laws every time you jump off this balcony.” She rolled her eyes. “I can get you the money. We hit a few jewelry stores, maybe a bank if you’re feeling spicy. We take what we need, Mark gets his defense, and everyone wins.”
“No,” I said firmly. Mostly firmly. “I’m not robbing a bank. I’m not robbing anyone.”
“Think about it, V,” she said, stepping back toward the railing. She reached into a hidden pouch on her suit and pulled out my phone, tossing it to me. I caught it out of reflex, realizing with a jolt that I hadn't even felt her take it. “I unlocked it for you. Check the contacts.”
I swiped the screen open. There, right at the top under ‘C,’ was a new entry: The Cat.
“Don’t be a stranger,” she teased, winking at me. “Mark’s clock is ticking, and we both know you’re too stubborn to let him rot.”
I looked down at the phone for a split second, and when I looked back up, the railing was empty. She was gone, vanished into the shadows of the Manhattan skyline like a ghost. Or Batman.
She is very fast, Venom noted, sounding uncharacteristically impressed. And she has a point about the money. Jewelry has a high caloric value if you sell it for chocolate.
‘Be quiet, V,’ I muttered, heading back inside and sliding the door shut. I looked at the contact in my phone, the weight of the situation settling back onto my shoulders. I wasn't going to become a thief. I wasn't.
But as I looked at the shattered glass on my floor and the frozen accounts on my laptop, I knew Felicia was right about one thing. I was running out of options.
At least… good ones.
…
The smell of the shipyard was a cocktail of dead fish, diesel, and the iron-tang of Frank Castle’s knuckles.
Peter leaned against a rusted shipping container, trying to look brooding. It was harder than it looked when his spandex suit kept riding up in the back. Across from him, dangling by his ankles from a high-tensile web line, was a guy named Miller.
According to Frank, Miller had been a decent scout back in the day. Now, he was just a terrified smear of grease and tactical gear, sobbing quietly as he swayed in the harbor breeze.
“Alright, look,” Peter said, dropping his voice an octave and trying to channel that gravelly, Christian Bale energy. “We can do this the easy way, or we can do this the ‘I-leave-you-for-the-sharks’ way. Where is Schoonover?”
“I don’t know, man! I swear!” Miller shrieked, his face turning a dangerous shade of plum. “He doesn’t tell us the locations until the drop!”
Gwen stepped forward, her white-and-pink hood shadowed by the flickering overhead light.
She shoved her hands into her pockets and kicked a piece of loose gravel toward Miller’s head. “That’s not good enough, Miller. My partner here? He’s the unhinged one. Me? I’m the one who lets him get unhinged. You want to see him unhinged? Because I’m starting to feel like a very permissive enabler today.”
Peter blinked behind his lenses. Unhinged? Was he supposed to do a twitch? He tried to crack his neck intimidatingly, but it just made a loud, wet pop that made him wince.
“She’s right,” Peter added, pointing a finger that shook just a tiny bit from the adrenaline. “I’m a loose cannon! I’ve got nothing to lose! I haven't even finished my homework because of you people! That’s how much I don't care about the rules!”
Gwen shot him a look—or he assumed she did; the mask made it hard to tell. “Homework? Really, Spidey? We’re going for ‘vengeful spirit of the night,’ not ‘truant teenager.’” She turned back to Miller, leaning in close. “He’s trying to say he’s a ticking time bomb. And I’m the only one with the code to stop him. Talk, or I let the clock run out.”
“I’m the Bad Cop, Gwen!” Peter hissed, leaning toward her while Miller blubbered. “I did the gravelly voice! You were supposed to be the sympathetic one who offers him a juice box or something!”
“I’m much better at being intimidating than you are!” Gwen whispered back, her voice rising in indignation. “You look like you’re trying to pass a kidney stone. I’m giving him ‘icy professional who has seen too much.’ It’s a classic archetype!”
“It’s a cliché!” Peter countered. “The ‘Loose Cannon’ is a classic for a reason! It creates a sense of unpredictable danger!”
Miller’s sobbing reached a crescendo. “Please! Just web my mouth shut! I can’t listen to you two anymore! I’ll tell you anything!”
Frank Castle hadn't moved since they’d caught the guy.
He sat on a wooden crate in the shadows, cleaning a knife with a rag that was more grease than cloth. He looked tired. Not the kind of tired a nap could fix, but the kind of tired that came from spending decades staring into the sun. He stood up, the floorboards groaning under his combat boots, and the bickering between the two Spiders died instantly.
Frank didn't do a gravelly voice. He didn't kick gravel. He just walked over to Miller, grabbed the man’s tactical vest, and pulled him level with his own face. The silence that followed was heavier than the shipping containers surrounding them.
“Miller,” Frank said. It wasn't a threat. It was a eulogy. “You remember the valley outside Kandahar? You remember what happened to the guys who lied to the Colonel?”
Miller’s eyes went wide. The sobbing stopped, replaced by a frantic, rhythmic panting. “Frank... Frank, please. I got a kid now. I’m just a driver.”
“Schoonover doesn’t care about your kid. And right now,” Frank said, his thumb pressing into a very specific nerve cluster behind Miller’s ear, “neither do I. You’ve got five seconds before I stop being someone you used to know and start being the last thing you ever see.”
Miller didn't even wait for the count. The words spilled out of him in a desperate, terrified rush—an old farmhouse in upstate New York, GPS coordinates, the frequency for the encrypted comms, even the brand of Schoonover’s favorite scotch.
Frank dropped him. Miller swung back and forth like a pendulum, gasping for air. Frank turned to Peter and Gwen, his expression as unreadable as a tombstone.
“The farmhouse,” Frank said, tucking his knife away. “Move out.”
Peter cleared his throat, feeling suddenly very small in his red-and-blue pajamas. “Right. Yeah. Farmhouse. I was... I was just about to get to the five-second warning. That was my next beat.”
Gwen sighed, her shoulders slumping as she fired a web at a nearby crane to swing away. “Sure it was, Spidey. Next time, maybe leave the homework threats at home.”
He thought it was good…
…
The restaurant was a sea of empty white linen and polished silverware, a ghost of Upper East Side opulence that felt more like a tomb than a dining room. Lonnie Thompson Lincoln sat alone at a center table, a massive silhouette carved from alabaster and charcoal. He wasn’t eating. He was just waiting.
I stepped through the shadows of the foyer, the black suit rippling over my skin, absorbing the dim light. I didn’t bother with a stealthy entrance; I knew he’d cleared the place just for this.
He looks delicious, Venom whispered, a low vibration in the back of my skull. Like a giant, pale marshmallow. Can we toast him?
‘No, V,’ I thought, stepping into the dining room proper.
“Quite nostalgic, isn’t it?” Tombstone said, his voice a deep, resonant rumble that seemed to vibrate the crystal stemware. He didn’t look up as I approached. “Just the other week, it felt like you were coming after me—only for you to turn around and take out Fisk. Eliminating my competition, handing me the keys to the kingdom on a silver platter. Funny how these things all work out for me, isn’t it?”
I stopped ten feet from the table, my white lenses fixed on his pale, unblinking eyes. “I’m not here to talk about the past, Lincoln. We’re talking about the present. You’re going to fuck off and leave Mark Allan alone.”
Tombstone finally looked at me, a thin, mirthless smile touching his gray lips. “I will not, in fact, fuck off. I’ve invested a great deal of time and resources into Mark. The boy has potential. Incredible potential. If only he could shake off those pesky cold feet. You wouldn’t think that would be a problem for a kid with magma for skin, but here we are.”
The casual way he spoke about Mark like he was a piece of proprietary hardware made my blood boil. The symbiote surged under my skin, itching to lash out.
“He’s a kid,” I snapped. “He’s done with your war.”
“Mark getting hauled in for questioning was a warning shot,” Tombstone continued, ignoring my outburst as he smoothed the tablecloth. “A little reminder of what happens when you try to bite the hand that feeds you. He’s lucky I took that lesson out on him, and not his sister. Next time, he might not be so lucky.”
I took a step forward, the floorboards creaking under the weight of my anger. “If you touch Liz—”
“From here on out,” Tombstone interrupted, his voice hardening into granite, “Molten Man will stay in my good graces, or he can start carving shivs in the Raft. And Liz? Liz can spend the rest of her life looking over her shoulder. However long that may be.”
He leaned back, spreading his massive hands.
“Hmm. Quite the incriminating conversation, isn’t it?” Tombstone drummed his fingers. “It’s a shame you didn’t wear a wire. Not that it would make a difference; I have a system that scans for those. It’s how I caught Mark, after all.”
He stood up, towering over the table, the sheer physical presence of the man filling the room.
He walked past me, close enough that I could feel the cold radiating off his skin. “A little bit of advice from the Big Man: if you’re going to do shady shit, it’s important that you keep a tight lid on it. Goodnight, Venom.”
I stood frozen in the center of the empty restaurant, the silence roaring in my ears. He knew. He knew I couldn't touch him legally, and he knew exactly which heartstrings to pull to keep Mark in line. Probably wouldn’t do me any favors to hit him now, anyways.
The ‘system’ had failed. I had failed. And the Big Man was walking away clean.
He is right, Venom muttered, his usual hunger replaced by a sharp, tactical edge. We need a different kind of leverage. Shady shit, as the marshmallow says.
“Shady shit…” I echoed. I hate to even consider it. But Earth-626 was a messy, brutal place, and it was time I stopped pretending I could keep my hands clean.
I pulled out my phone and hit the top contact under ‘C.’ It picked up on the second ring.
“Felicia?” I said, my voice steadying as I looked out at the dark New York streets. “Are you still up for robbing someone with me?”
…
The mud of the farmhouse driveway was cold, but it didn’t compare to the chill in Frank’s chest as he watched the perimeter.
He held the rifle like an extension of his own body, the weight familiar and comforting, even if he was using the butt of it more than the muzzle today. He’d given his word to the kids. No bodies. It was a steep price for everything they’d done—keeping Maria, Lisa, and Frank Jr. out of the dirt in Central Park—but a debt was a debt.
It didn't mean the night had to be pleasant for Schoonover’s hired guns.
A man stepped out from behind a woodpile, raising a submachine gun. Frank didn't give him the chance to find a target. He closed the distance in three long strides, slammed the stock of the rifle into the man's solar plexus, and followed up with a short, brutal hook to the temple. The guard went down into the muck without a sound.
Nearby, the two Spiders were a blur of red, blue, and white. They weren't soldiers, but they were efficient. Spider-Man was currently sticking a man to the side of a barn with enough webbing to cocoon a small car, while Ghost-Spider used a hay bale as a springboard to drop-kick two more.
They were loud, they were flashy, and they were the best cover a man could ask for.
“Clear!” Ghost-Spider called out, her voice muffled by the mask but still carrying that sharp, youthful confidence. “Spider-Man is securing the servers in the basement. Castle, your friend is in the study.”
Frank didn't answer. He just kept moving. He reached the heavy oak door of the farmhouse, kicked it off the hinges, and stepped into the warmth of the foyer. The house smelled of expensive tobacco and treason. He followed the sound of a frantic paper shredder to the back room.
Ray Schoonover looked up from his desk, his face pale but his eyes still holding that arrogant, commanding fire. He stopped shredding and leaned back, smoothing his uniform as if he were about to give a briefing at the Pentagon rather than wait for a reckoning.
“Frank,” Schoonover said, his voice calm and patronizing. “I should have known you’d be the one to make it through. You always were my best soldier. But you have to understand the bigger picture here. What we did... it was for the security of this country. Men like us, we do the things that allow the sheep to sleep soundly. I am a patriot, Frank. History will see me as a hero.”
Frank stared at him, the man who had ordered the hit that almost cost him his entire world. Schoonover looked so small behind that desk. So clean.
“You’re a drug runner with a silver star, Ray,” Frank said, his voice sounding like it was being dragged over gravel. He dropped the rifle and stepped closer, the floorboards groaning under his combat boots. “And you’re talking too much.”
“You won't kill me,” Schoonover sneered, looking at the door as Spider-Man swung into the room, holding a handful of thumb drives. “Not with your new Boy Scout friends watching. I’ll go to trial, I’ll hire the best lawyers, and I’ll be back on a golf course in six months. That’s how the world works, Frank.”
“Maybe,” Frank said. He grabbed the Colonel by the collar, hauling him over the desk until his boots were dangling. “But not with those teeth.”
He buried a fist in Schoonover’s mouth. The sound of breaking bone and the spray of blood was the most honest thing that had happened in this room all night. Frank let him slump to the floor, a groaning, pathetic heap of medals and corruption.
“Got it!” Spider-Man shouted, holding up the drives with a triumphant fist-pump. “Every transaction, every manifest, every name in the Schoonover heroin ring. He’s going away for a very, very long time. Daredevil is already waiting at the precinct to hand this over to the few cops he actually trusts.”
Frank looked at the kid. Spider-Man looked back, his lenses widening slightly as he looked at Schoonover’s ruined face, then back at Frank’s knuckles.
“He’s alive,” Frank said, wiping his hand on his pants.
“Yeah,” Spider-Man said, his tone softening. “He is. Thanks for keeping your word, Frank.”
Ghost-Spider appeared in the window, perched on the sill. “Cops are five minutes out. We should vanish. You coming, Castle?”
Frank looked around the room—at the evidence that would finally end the shadow war, and at the man who had tried to take his life. It was over. The mission was a success, but he didn't feel the rush of victory. He just felt the weight of the silence waiting for him at home. He had spent enough time in the dark for one lifetime.
“No,” Frank said, heading for the back exit. “I’m done. I want to go home. I want to be with my family.”
He walked out into the cool night air, leaving the costumed heroes to their victory. He had a life to go back to, and for the first time in a long time, he didn't have to look over his shoulder to see it.
…
Felicia leaned in close, her breath ghosting against the side of Harry’s mask as she guided his hands.
“Slowly now. You have to feel for the click. Don’t just jam it in there; you have to be gentle. If you’re too aggressive, the whole thing just locks up on you.” Felicia whispered, a playful smirk dancing on her lips even if he couldn't see it through her own mask.
Harry let out a concentrated breath, his fingers twitching under hers. “I’m trying. It’s just… there’s a lot of pressure.”
“That’s because you’re overthinking it. Just follow my lead. Find that sweet spot, apply a little tension, and wait for the release.” Felicia felt the tumbler give way under the pick, a satisfying metallic snick echoing in the silent vault. “There we go! Good job!”
Harry pulled back, shaking out his hands as the heavy reinforced door swung open with a hiss of pressurized air. “That was… actually incredible. I appreciate the lesson. Pretty sure if I’d just ripped the door off, Lincoln’s silent alarms would be screaming right now.”
Felicia stood up, dusting off her knees and letting her gaze wander over the sleek, obsidian-tiled interior of Tombstone’s private sanctuary. “You’re welcome, Handsome. I have to say, there’s something genuinely charming about a ‘virgin’ thief. Most guys in your tax bracket usually just buy what they want. They miss out on the rush of taking it.”
Harry stepped into the room, his white lenses scanning the rows of servers and high-end lockboxes. “Don’t get used to it. I’m only here for a very specific reason.”
“Right, the noble quest.” Felicia trailed a gloved finger along a shelf of cold-storage drives. “So, why are we hitting this particular rich a-hole again? Not that I’m complaining—Lincoln is a bore—but you seemed personally offended by his existence today.”
“He’s the crime lord who got my friend hauled off to the precinct on a framed extortion charge,” Harry said, his voice dropping into that lower, more resonant tone that came with the suit. “And I’m a big believer in karma. I figure it was time the universe balanced the scales.”
Felicia laughed, a low, melodic sound that felt dangerous in the tight confines of the vault. “Karma. How cute. Does that mean you’re going to get me back for ‘liberating’ those Microbots from your dad’s lab? Or am I exempt from the cosmic audit?”
Harry paused, looking at her over his shoulder. “I considered it. But honestly? You helping me out tonight has won you some serious points. Consider your tab temporarily settled.”
“Don’t get mushy on me, V. It’s not like I’m doing this out of the kindness of my heart.” Felicia reached into her belt and pulled out a small hacking device, slapping it onto the primary console. “We have a deal. Once I get you what you need, you’re teaching me how to play with those little toys of yours. I want to know exactly how those bots tick.”
“I know, I know. Don’t worry,” Harry said, turning his attention to the digital display as it flickered to life. “I’m a man of my word. Just keep an eye on the door.”
It didn't take long. Felicia watched the data scroll by—files labeled with code names, offshore accounts, and then, a series of audio logs. Harry tapped one, and Tombstone’s gravelly voice filled the room, cold and clinical as he detailed the exact timeline for planting evidence on Mark Allan.
It was a smoking gun with the trigger still warm.
“Jackpot,” Harry muttered. He didn't stop there, though. He moved to the physical lockers at the back, his fingers moving with a new kind of confidence. He bypassed the secondary mag-locks and pulled out a tray of thick stacks of cash and a velvet bag that rattled with the heavy clink of high-clarity jewels.
Felicia arched a brow. “And here I thought we were just doing the ‘truth and justice’ bit. Taking a little souvenir for the road?”
Harry tucked the bag into a compartment on his suit, his movements deliberate. “Think of it as Tombstone’s ‘last investment’ in Mark’s future. This is going to fund the research to get that molten suit off him. It’s going to give the kid a chance at a normal life that Lincoln tried to steal. It’s only fair that he pays for the medical bills.”
Felicia watched him, feeling a strange flicker of something that wasn't just professional interest. He was a strange one—half knight in shining armor, half shadow-dwelling rogue. It was a chaotic mix, but she had to admit, it made for a hell of a partner.
“Spoken like a true criminal,” she teased, clicking her tongue as the hacking device finished its cycle. “Ready to disappear, Harry? I think we’ve overstayed our welcome.”
…
The handcuffs were a cold, biting reality, but Lonnie Lincoln barely felt the metal against his skin. What he felt was the silence.
Captain George Stacy stood by the open vault door, his face a mask of professional stoicism that couldn’t quite hide the predatory gleam in his eyes. He looked satisfied—the kind of satisfied a man gets when he finally catches the wolf that’s been picking off his flock. Lonnie ignored the Captain, his gaze fixed instead on the empty pedestal where his primary server had sat and the vacant velvet trays that had once held enough diamonds to buy a small country.
The boy had teeth.
It wasn’t just that Venom had taken the evidence; it was the precision. The 'Black Room' was supposed to be a ghost, a myth that only existed in Lonnie’s own mind and a few encrypted blueprints. To find it, to crack it without tripping the thermite failsafes, required more than just mere muscle. It required a mind that understood the architecture of a shadow empire.
“Move it, Lincoln,” Stacy said, his hand heavy on Lonnie’s shoulder as he steered him toward the elevator. “Long night ahead of you. A lot of lawyers to call.”
Lonnie didn't argue. He didn't say a word as he was marched through his own lobby, past the terrified assistants and the stony-faced tactical teams. He didn't even flinch when the flashes of the press corps ignited like miniature stars on the sidewalk. He sat in the back of the cruiser, the vinyl seat sticking to his suit, and watched his penthouse retreat into the skyline.
They thought the Raft was a cage. They thought that by stripping his assets and locking him in a box in the middle of the Atlantic, they were ending the Big Man. Lonnie leaned his head back against the cage wire and smiled, a slow, terrifying expression that made the officer in the front seat check his holster.
The Raft wasn't a prison. It was a boardroom filled with the most talented, violent, and motivated men in the world. Shocker, Rhino, Scorpion, Scarecrow, Electro. Lonnie was going to a place where he didn't have to pretend to be a businessman anymore. He was going to a place where he could finally build an army.
…
The night air on the roof of the Chrysler Building was crisp, cutting through the lingering adrenaline of the heist. I sat on the edge of a stone gargoyle, staring at the bag of diamonds sitting between me and Felicia.
“Fifty-fifty, Handsome,” Felicia said, her eyes bright with a manic sort of glee as she tossed a stack of hundred-dollar bills into her satchel. “I know you said this is for the ‘Mark Allan Fund,’ but let’s be real. Every good cause needs an administrative fee. And I’m a very expensive administrator.”
I looked at the gems, their facets catching the neon glow of the city below. My stomach did a slow, sickening roll. I’d taken down Fisk. I’d fought a Juggernaut. I’d saved lives. But I’d never stood on a rooftop and divided up the spoils of a robbery.
‘We crossed it, didn't we?’ I thought, the weight of the black suit feeling heavier than usual. ‘The line. The one Peter won't even stand near.’
The line is a suggestion for people without bills to pay, Venom grumbled, his voice a low thrum in my ears. The marshmallow had too much. The fire-boy has too little. We are merely the middleman. The hungry, hungry middleman.
I reached out, my gloved hand hovering over a particularly large emerald. Taking this meant I wasn't just a vigilante anymore. It meant I was a player. I was Harry Osborn, heir to a fortune, but I was also Venom, a thief who just crippled the Big Man.
I grabbed the bag, pulling it toward me.
“Right. Administrative fees,” I said, my voice sounding a little too hollow for my liking. “Sure. Just leave enough to pay for Mark’s treatment.”
A sharp, rhythmic thwip echoed behind us, followed by the soft thud of boots hitting the roof’s copper plating. I froze. I didn't need to turn around to know who it was. The air shifted, smelling of that specific, flowery shampoo Gwen used.
“Harry?”
I turned slowly. Gwen was standing there, her white hood pulled back, her mask tucked into her belt. Her eyes went from me, to the bag of diamonds, to Felicia, who was currently lounging back on her elbows with a look of pure, unadulterated mischief.
Gwen’s expression shifted from confusion to a cold, sharp clarity that made me want to jump off the building without a web-line. She pointed a gloved finger at Felicia, her voice dangerously level. “...Who the hell is she?”
I looked at Felicia. I looked at the diamonds. I looked at Gwen, who looked like she was currently calculating three different ways to web me to the spire.
“...It’s not what it looks like?” I said.
Gwen arched a brow, her intensity dial turning up to an eleven. “It looks like you’re splitting a loot bag with a cat-burglar on a Tuesday night, Harry. So please, tell me what part of that I’m misinterpreting.”
Choose your words wisely, Harry.
“Um… I’m pretty sure it’s Wednesday.”
“Excuse me?!”
You have chosen… poorly.