"Bang."
The impact came without warning.
Captain America was sent flying out of the room, his body smashing straight through the wall before dropping from the building like a broken projectile. The fall wasn't clean, and even with his enhanced physique, the collision with the ground drove the air out of his lungs.
Dust scattered.
Concrete cracked.
"Cough—cough—"
Steve pushed himself up, one hand pressed against the pavement as pain surged through his body. The usual calm in his eyes was gone, replaced by something far more volatile—anger, sharp and unfamiliar.
"You… Peter," he said, voice tightening as he forced himself to stand. "All we did was try to remove that corrupted suit."
His jaw clenched.
"And you turn on us like this? Have you completely lost your mind?"
"Bang."
Another figure burst out from above.
Hawkeye dropped headfirst toward the ground, his trajectory uncontrolled. Steve reacted instantly, lunging forward and grabbing him mid-fall before the impact could shatter his legs.
"Captain…" Hawkeye exhaled sharply, lingering fear still in his voice as he steadied himself. "That guy's not normal. He's completely unhinged."
His grip tightened on his bow.
"All I saw in him… was brutality."
Steve didn't hesitate.
"We stop him," he said firmly, cutting off any doubt before it could form.
Without wasting another second, the two rushed back inside.
Hawkeye took the stairs, moving as fast as a normal human could manage. Steve, however, was already in motion, his shield slamming against the ground as he launched himself upward, using its rebound to vault between floors.
Each movement was precise.
Efficient.
Relentless.
The lab drew closer.
Momentum built.
"Bang!!!"
Inside, the situation had already collapsed.
Black Widow lay on the ground, her body still from the force of the impact that had taken her out of the fight. Standing in the center of the destruction, Spider-Man suddenly froze.
A sharp pang struck his chest.
Then—
Nausea.
Violent.
Sudden.
The black symbiote coating his body trembled, shifting unpredictably as if reacting to something unseen.
"What… did they do to you?" Peter muttered, forcing himself to stay conscious as the sensation intensified.
There was no time to figure it out.
Instinct took over.
He turned, sprinting toward the nearest window, and without hesitation, hurled himself through it.
Glass shattered.
Wind roared.
He needed distance.
He needed space.
He needed to understand what was happening before it got worse.
"Whoosh!!!"
Black webs shot outward, anchoring to distant structures as his body launched forward at terrifying speed. Buildings blurred past him, the city shrinking into streaks of light as he accelerated beyond anything human.
Over 200 miles per hour.
And still climbing.
But something was wrong.
He didn't notice it.
Couldn't.
Because beneath the surface, the symbiote was changing.
A swelling.
A distortion.
A pulsating mass forming along its surface like a growing abscess.
It expanded.
Stretched.
Reached its limit—
"Bang!!!"
A thin, crimson strand shot outward.
The pressure vanished instantly.
The symbiote calmed.
And what it had expelled…
Was no longer part of him.
It wasn't debris.
It wasn't waste.
It was alive.
A second-generation symbiote.
A newborn.
At that moment, it had no understanding of the world around it. No identity, no purpose—only fragments of instinct and a faint, lingering emotion.
Abandonment.
Confusion.
Something that almost felt like anger.
And beneath it all—
Hunger.
That instinct took over completely.
Without hesitation, it moved.
It needed to feed.
…
By the time April's broadcast spread across the city, the effects were already rippling outward.
It was like dropping a massive stone into still water.
The first wave hit the internet—forums, message boards, early online communities exploding with discussion. From there, it spread into the streets, into workplaces, into conversations between strangers who suddenly had something in common.
Confusion.
Fear.
Debate.
"How did things change overnight?"
"That's not a hero anymore."
"Everything's falling apart…"
The narrative was shifting.
Fast.
…
Deep beneath the city, in the damp darkness of the sewers, a lone figure sat hunched in silence.
It was Spider-Man.
After a long period of stillness, his breathing finally steadied as he forced himself to regain control. The chaos inside his body had quieted enough for him to think, though the unease remained.
He lowered his head slightly.
"How are you feeling?" he asked.
He already knew the answer wouldn't be simple.
Over the past few days, he had come to understand one thing—the symbiote wasn't just a suit.
It was alive.
It could think.
It could feel.
And it could respond.
A voice echoed faintly in his mind.
"I… don't feel good…"
The response was fragmented, unstable.
Peter's expression tightened.
"What happened back there?" he pressed. "What did they do to you?"
The answer came slowly.
"Those people… in white… they injected something… strange…"
A pause.
"I lost control…"
Another pause.
"…and something was born."
Peter froze.
"…What?"
His mind struggled to process it.
"You mean—"
"A child."
Silence.
For a moment, Peter genuinely didn't know how to react.
"A child?" he repeated, disbelief creeping into his voice. "You're telling me… you had a child?"
The absurdity of it clashed violently with the reality he was living in.
"That doesn't even make sense…"
But it was real.
And when that realization settled in—
His expression darkened.
Because he understood something else immediately.
The symbiote was no longer unique.
Whatever advantage it gave him…
Now existed somewhere else.
And worse—
It wasn't under his control.
"…Damn it."
The disgust hit hard, a sinking feeling that refused to go away.
But that wasn't the worst part.
Not even close.
By the time he emerged from the sewers later, the city had already turned on him.
Graffiti.
Signs.
Voices.
"Spider-Man, get out of New York."
The words were everywhere.
Just days ago, those same streets had been filled with cheers whenever he swung overhead. People waved. Kids smiled. Strangers believed in him.
Now—
They looked at him with suspicion.
Fear.
Hatred.
Online, it was even worse.
Accusations.
Mockery.
Condemnation.
It felt like the world had flipped overnight.
Peter stood there, staring at it all, his thoughts spiraling.
"How… did it collapse this fast?"
Nothing made sense.
Until—
A name surfaced.
"Butcher…"
His fists clenched.
"The changes started after I ran into him."
His breathing grew heavier.
"And he's tied to S.H.I.E.L.D…"
The pieces clicked together in the worst possible way.
"This is their doing…"
Anger surged, hot and uncontrollable.
"It's all S.H.I.E.L.D.'s fault!"
His voice rose, echoing through the empty space.
"Damn it… S.H.I.E.L.D.!!!"
"I'll make them pay!"
The roar that followed carried everything with it.
Frustration.
Betrayal.
Rage.
…
On the other side of the city, hidden beneath the surface of Hell's Kitchen, a completely different scene unfolded.
An abandoned factory.
Or at least—
That's what it looked like from the outside.
Inside, a concealed switch revealed the truth.
Lights flickered on.
A fully equipped safe house emerged—living quarters, kitchen, supplies stocked for over half a year. Even if the outside world collapsed, this place would keep running without interruption.
At the center, a large round table led toward a high-tech workstation.
Nine screens.
Constantly updating.
News feeds.
Social media.
Public reactions.
Everything.
"Tick."
Liam set his coffee down, eyes scanning the information with quiet interest as data flowed across the displays. The decline of Spider-Man's reputation was obvious, measurable in real time.
But to him?
That wasn't the main event.
Just a side effect.
Something expected.
Something insignificant.
Another video caught his attention.
He clicked it.
"A mysterious man with incredible punching power—one strike enough to make opponents spit blood!"
The footage played.
A disheveled figure in ragged clothing, looking more like a homeless man than anything else. But the moment he threw a punch—
Everything changed.
The force behind it was undeniable.
Raw.
Focused.
Destructive.
Liam leaned back slightly, a faint smile forming.
"So that's you…"
Iron Fist.
Fresh out of K'un-Lun.
And currently at rock bottom.
No recognition.
No support.
His inheritance stolen.
His identity denied.
If not for his strength, he would've been swallowed whole by the system already.
"But if he gets it back…"
Liam's gaze sharpened.
"Billionaire status."
Not quite Tony Stark.
But close enough to matter.
And more importantly—
Iron Fist had something unique.
He had defeated Shou-Lao.
He had claimed the power.
The living weapon.
Even if he hadn't mastered it yet, that level of strength was already enough to stand toe-to-toe with people like Steve.
That made him useful.
Because Liam wasn't planning to tear the Avengers apart with brute force.
That would be too simple.
Too crude.
No—
He was going to break them at a higher level.
Beliefs.
Ideals.
Convictions.
"Heroes," he murmured softly, eyes narrowing.
"They love talking about justice."
They avoided killing.
Avoided crossing lines.
Wrapped themselves in morality while pretending it made them better.
"Hypocrites."
His voice carried a faint edge now.
"You won't dirty your hands… even when you have the chance."
He leaned forward slightly, gaze fixed on the screens.
"You let them live."
"And then they come back."
His tone dropped.
"And how many innocent people pay the price for that?"
The answer didn't need to be spoken.
Liam's expression hardened, something cold settling into place.
"I'll rip those masks off," he said quietly.
His eyes flicked to the Spider-Man footage.
"Starting with you."
A pause.
"It won't take long."
He leaned back again, calm returning just as quickly as it had left.
"For now…"
His fingers tapped lightly against the table.
"…let's gather a few like-minded people."
.....
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