Frank checked his watch. It was barely past four in the morning. He grabbed the half-empty bottle of Stark's whiskey, poured two fingers into a glass, and downed it in a single swallow.
"Normally, I'd tell guys like you to go to hell," Frank said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "But I met a guy in Hell's Kitchen. Wears all red. He tried to teach me how to handle your type."
Peter took a slow sip of his coffee. "Daredevil. I've heard he's a good guy."
"He's a pain in my ass. I fought him twice because he wouldn't let me put a bullet in some scumbag." Frank scratched his heavy stubble. He looked Peter up and down. "When you disarmed me on that roof, I figured you were gonna give me the same speech. 'Once you cross that line, you can't go back.' All that self-righteous garbage. You didn't. I respect that."
"I just needed to know if the Chameleon could be stopped by the system," Peter said softly. "And if he was truly beyond saving."
"He's a rabid dog. The law doesn't work on rabid dogs." Frank leaned heavily against the marble bar. "You asked if I had a personal grudge. Yeah. I do."
Frank stared down at his empty glass. "He kidnapped a guy. A father. Kept him locked in a basement for weeks. I breached the building and got the guy out. But the Chameleon... he set the board. He dressed up. He manipulated the extraction." Frank's jaw tightened, the muscles ticking under his skin. "The guy's wife and kid were having a picnic in Central Park. They watched their father—a man who had just survived hell—get gunned down right in front of them. In a hail of bullets."
Frank slammed the heavy crystal glass down on the counter. The loud crack echoed sharply through the penthouse. "Fuck!"
"Frank—"
Frank swatted Peter's hand away. He dug into his tactical vest, pulled out three separate amber pill bottles, and popped the caps. Painkillers, neural blockers, sedatives. He threw a handful of pills into his mouth and swallowed them dry.
"It's a vendetta, kid," Frank rasped. "Red tells me killing them won't bring me peace. That it just leaves you empty. Maybe he's right. But some people are better off dead. Don't you think?"
Frank pulled a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his pocket and lit one. "Like your bug problem."
Peter stared at his coffee reflection. "I can't save Carl King. I can't put him in a normal jail. He... he ate his own mother."
The words tasted like ash in Peter's mouth. He set the mug down and walked to the floor-to-ceiling windows, looking out over the dark skyline. "I can't bet my family's lives on him suddenly developing a conscience. I have to lock him in a box forever, or I have to kill him."
Frank exhaled a thick cloud of smoke. He picked up his rifle and racked the bolt. "If you can't pull the trigger, kid... leave it to me. It's almost five. Let's go hunting."
At 7:00 AM, Gwen Stacy practically jogged out of the subway station near Midtown High. She gripped her backpack straps tightly. She had the evidence. She knew Peter Parker was Spider-Man.
But Peter hadn't come home last night. Gwen had sat by her bedroom window until dawn, staring at the Parker house. No lights flickered. No figure in red and blue slipped through the attic window. She had texted him twice this morning. He never replied.
As she hit the street level, a massive digital billboard mounted on a nearby building blared the Daily Bugle Morning Show. J. Jonah Jameson's red, furious face filled the screen.
"...an office building owned by Roxxon Energy completely leveled yesterday! While we don't have direct footage, an eyewitness identifying himself as 'Detective Mac' confirms he saw Spider-Man fighting in the rubble! Masked vigilantes tearing down our infrastructure! When will the NYPD step up?!"
Gwen ignored the rant. If Peter were here, he'd be making snappy comments about JJJ's mustache. But he wasn't here.
She stopped at the edge of the crosswalk. The fine hairs on the back of her neck stood up. A cold, heavy sensation settled in her stomach. Someone was staring at her.
She opened her mouth to scream, but the air was violently sucked from her lungs. Two arms locked around her waist. Her feet left the pavement. The world blurred into a dizzying streak of concrete and glass.
A second later, her sneakers hit solid ground. She stumbled forward, gasping for air. She looked around. She was standing on the roof of Midtown High.
Spider-Man released her waist, taking a half-step back. "Miss, you might not be aware, but—"
"Peter?" Gwen gasped, her heart hammering against her ribs. "What is going on?"
Spider-Man froze. His white lenses widened mechanically. "Who... who is Peter?"
Gwen brushed her wind-blown blonde hair out of her eyes. She glared at him. "Seriously? We're doing this now? You just abducted me. I'm in danger, aren't I?"
"Uh, yes! Yes, you are being targeted by a highly dangerous individual!" Spider-Man backpedaled rapidly toward the ledge. "Do not leave this roof until I give the all-clear!"
"Fine. But we are having a long talk later!" Gwen yelled after him.
Spider-Man dove off the roof. Gwen let out a long, shaky breath. She leaned against the HVAC unit. Honestly, she thought, the swinging actually felt incredible.
Peter free-fell toward the crowded street. He reached into his utility belt and pulled out a small glass vial. He cracked the seal and sprayed the contents over his suit. The synthetic pheromone compound immediately reeked of rotting tropical plants.
"Alright, Carl," Peter muttered. "You don't get to pick a second target today."
He activated the thermal imaging in his lenses. The morning commuters lit up in bright oranges and reds. Peter scanned the crowd near the subway entrance.
There. A man dressed in a loose hippie poncho. His heat signature was completely flat. Dead blue.
Peter fired a web, slingshotting himself forward. He dropped like a stone, driving his fist directly into the hippie's face.
The man's head didn't snap back. It caved in.
The synthetic skin ruptured, spilling a disgusting, chittering black mass of spiders onto the concrete. The commuters screamed, scattering in blind panic.
"Hey, Carl!" Peter yelled. "Trying a new cologne! What do you think?"
Peter fired two thick web-lines, snagging the writhing humanoid mass by its shoulders. He hauled Carl off the pavement, dragging the monster away from the subway station and slamming him into a parked car. "Just you and me today!"
Down on the sidewalk, Eugene Thompson froze. He had just walked out of the subway turnstiles. He blinked. He looked at Spider-Man. He looked at the giant, humanoid cluster of spiders violently clawing at the webbing, while thousands more poured out of the nearby sewer grates to join the mass.
Flash slowly turned his head and looked at the front doors of Midtown High.
"Nope," Flash said aloud. "I'm taking a sick day."