Hank Pym caught the assignment to extract Ned Leeds. He flew into the apartment through a shattered window on the back of a carpenter ant, dismounted, and triggered the Pym Particles in his suit to snap back to full size. He stepped toward the far wall, where Ned was tightly bound in Spider-Man's thick webbing.
"Mr. Leeds, please remain calm," Hank said, keeping his hands visible and his voice perfectly level. "I'm Dr. Hank Pym. I'm here to help you."
Ned thrashed against the webbing. His skin was a sickly, ashen gray. Thick black veins pulsed against his neck as his face contorted in absolute agony. "Stay back!" Ned shrieked, his voice tearing. "Don't come any closer!"
"The Avengers have medical evac on standby. We can flush the serum from your system—"
"There's a bomb inside me!" Ned screamed.
Hank froze, the soles of his boots planting firmly into the floorboards.
"He implanted it," Ned gasped, his lips trembling violently. "It's wired to my pulse. You don't have time to extract it." Ned squeezed his eyes shut, tears cutting tracks through the gray soot on his face. "You're... you're Dr. Pym, right?"
"I am," Hank urged, taking a half-step forward. "Ned, listen to me, we have surgical tech that can—"
"No!" Ned choked out. "Just listen! Please, tell Spider-Man! The Goblin King is hunting him. He won't stop. He won't do anything else until the spider is dead!" Ned's breathing turned frantic and shallow. "I don't remember much through the brainwashing... but you have to stop him. He's coming for Spider-Man."
A beat of terrible silence followed. Then, the blinding flash of a thermal detonator consumed the room.
Minutes later, the smoke cleared. Hank stood behind the raised shield of his helmet, staring down at the charred, unrecognizable remains pinned to the scorched drywall.
"He used his last seconds to warn us," Hank murmured to the empty room. "He could have panicked. He could have stayed silent. But he warned us." Hank clenched his gauntlet into a tight fist. "We are going to end this Goblin King."
January winds battered the frost-covered windows of the Daily Bugle building in midtown Manhattan. J. Jonah Jameson stormed out of his office for his mid-morning prowl across the bullpen. He stopped short at the investigative desks.
Ned Leeds' chair was empty.
Jonah scowled, chomping down on his unlit cigar. He yanked his cell phone from his pocket and dialed Ned's number, fully prepared to unleash a high-decibel tirade about the meaning of punctuality. The call went straight to voicemail.
He aggressively punched in the number for Ned's apartment landline. Before it could ring, Robbie Robertson jogged over, clapping a hand on Jonah's shoulder. He leaned in close.
"Jonah. Spider-Man is here. He's waiting in your office."
"Spider-Man?" Jonah barked, his voice instantly shooting up three octaves. "Why isn't he off playing Avenger? What does that masked menace want in my newsroom?"
Jonah threw his office door open. The web-slinger stood silently in front of the heavy mahogany desk.
"Listen here, web-head," Jonah snapped, marching toward his leather chair. "I don't know what you want. If you're here to sue the Bugle for defamation, hire a lawyer, sign your real name on the dotted line, and serve me properly. If you want an exclusive interview, tough luck. My schedule is booked."
Jonah dropped into his chair, aggressively propping his wingtip shoes up on the edge of the desk to project absolute indifference. He glared at the silent hero. After a long, heavy second, the sheer gravity of Spider-Man's posture registered. Jonah frowned, slowly lowering his feet back to the carpet.
"Make it fast," Jonah grumbled, adjusting his tie. "I'm a busy man."
Spider-Man kept his arms strictly at his sides. "I'm here to deliver bad news, Mr. Jameson. It's about Ned Leeds."
Jonah froze. The cigar slipped from the corner of his mouth and clattered onto the desk. A dozen paranoid scenarios flashed through his mind—was this a threat? But he instantly dismissed the thought. Despite all the ink Jonah spilled dragging the hero's name through the mud, he fundamentally knew the truth. Underneath the spandex, Spider-Man was undeniably, frustratingly decent. He wasn't a killer.
"Ned Leeds was digging into that silent restaurant bombing," Jonah said, gripping his armrests. "Did he uncover something?"
"The mastermind calls himself the Goblin King," Peter explained quietly. "He orchestrated the bombing specifically to cover his own tracks. When Ned got too close, he was abducted and injected with a mind-altering chemical. The Goblin King brainwashed him and rigged his apartment with weapons to frame him for the entire string of attacks."
Jonah squeezed his eyes shut, massaging his temples. If Spider-Man was standing here delivering the report, the frame-job had obviously failed.
"Ned," Jonah rasped, his throat suddenly tight. "He didn't break, did he? He went down like a Bugle reporter."
"He fought the conditioning," Peter confirmed, his voice thick with unshakeable hero guilt. "He used his last few seconds to warn us about the Goblin King's next move."
Jonah exhaled a shaky breath. He picked up his cigar, staring at the ash. "Did you catch this Goblin freak?"
"Not yet," Peter admitted, dropping his gaze. "The trail went completely cold. We cleared Ned's name, but the mastermind slipped the net."
Jonah nodded sharply. He picked up his desk phone, hit a speed-dial button, and barked, "Robbie. Front page obituary. Ned Leeds. Get it done." He slammed the receiver down, grabbed his heavy wool trench coat from the coat rack, and shoved his arms through the sleeves.
"Thank you for bringing this to me personally, Spider-Man," Jonah said gruffly, pulling his fedora down over his brow. "I owe you one."
Peter tilted his head. "Where are you going?"
"Ned's encrypted investigation files are still on his desktop," Jonah said, ripping his office door open. "I'm taking over the beat. Maybe the Avengers hit a dead end. Maybe Ned got caught because he didn't have backup. But I am different."
Jonah paused in the doorway, glaring fiercely at Peter. "One of my people was murdered for chasing the truth. I don't stand idly by while my staff gets slaughtered. Before I sat in this chair, I was the most relentless investigative bulldog in Manhattan. I still am. I'm going to drag this Goblin out into the sunlight and print his face on the front page."
Jonah didn't wait for a response. He walked out, slamming the door shut behind him.
Peter sighed, shaking his head. You had to respect the man's sheer, bullish integrity. He tapped the comms unit in his mask. "JARVIS, did you finish processing the ATM security feeds from across the street of the restaurant?"
"I have, Peter," the crisp British AI replied over the earpiece. "I cross-referenced the pedestrian traffic during the detonation window against known corporate and political databases. I have flagged a primary suspect."
The HUD inside Peter's lenses flared to life, displaying a sleek, high-resolution driver's license photo.
"Roderick Kingsley," JARVIS stated. "Billionaire fashion mogul and corporate magnate. He maintains an executive suite in the exact same high-rise where the victims were employed, albeit on a different floor."
Peter's eyes widened behind his white lenses. Roderick Kingsley. His comic-book knowledge flared. Kingsley was the original Hobgoblin from the classic continuity. The brilliant, ruthless mastermind who manipulated everyone from the shadows. Was the Goblin King using the Kingsley persona as his true civilian identity? Or was Kingsley just another pawn in the Goblin Nation's twisted chess game?
"Log the Kingsley profile, JARVIS," Peter instructed, firing a web-line out of Jonah's window. "Cross-reference it with Dr. Barton Hamilton, Norman's shady psychiatrist. We're paying them both a visit."