"Mr. Jameson, if we're going to investigate Roderick Kingsley, what exactly is our cover story?" Mary Jane asked, watching the floor numbers tick upward in the elevator. "We can't just knock on his door and accuse him of being a terrorist or a murderer."
There were three of them in the car. Jonah had brought Mary Jane along because she'd meticulously reviewed all the notes and files Ned had left behind. For a high school student, she possessed a razor-sharp intellect and the sheer nerve to hand her organized findings directly to the editor-in-chief.
The third member of their party was Phil Urich, Ben Urich's nephew. Originally an investigative reporter for the Daily Bugle, Phil was tagging along as a freelance photographer, mostly to run interference and assist.
"We're not here to investigate the Goblin case, Watson," Jonah said. He adjusted the collar of his rumpled brown trench coat, his eyes locked on the elevator doors. "We're here to ask for Kingsley's help."
He let out a raspy breath. "Kingsley is plugged into a massive network of politicians, celebrities, and old money. His fashion line used to dress half the American elite. If we're looking into an NYPD political scandal, he's exactly the kind of man who might have the answers."
Mary Jane chewed her bottom lip, the pieces falling into place. If you wanted to investigate a target, you started by mapping their limit. Jonah wasn't going in to interrogate Roderick about terrorism; his sole purpose was to poke the bear and see if Kingsley was actually the bastard who called himself the Goblin King.
Jonah Jameson was here to avenge Ned. All he needed to do was confirm his suspicions, pass the target to the Avengers, and let their high-tech toys handle the heavy lifting. The legal truth could be sorted out in the aftermath.
"Urich, I want pictures of everything in that studio," Jonah growled. "Watson, get your notepad ready."
Jonah took a deep, steadying breath and squared his shoulders. I'm still not used to playing on the same team as Spider-Man, he thought.
Ding.
The elevator doors slid open. Jonah marched out first, Mary Jane and Phil trailing in his wake. As they stepped into the sleek, modern reception area, Mary Jane's eyes caught the studio's silver-lettered logo: Fantasy World.
Wait a minute, she thought. Isn't a fantasy world exactly where you'd find creatures like goblins?
She muttered the thought under her breath, quickening her pace to catch up with Jonah.
Roderick Kingsley was already waiting for them at the glass double doors. He flashed a brilliant, rehearsed smile. "Mr. Jameson! Welcome, welcome. I've been looking forward to this ever since your office reached out."
"You're too kind, Mr. Kingsley," Jonah replied, immediately adopting a slick, fawning persona that made Mary Jane want to roll her eyes.
They made small talk down the hallway until they reached a sprawling conference room. Studio assistants materialized to set down ceramic coffee cups before vanishing just as quickly.
Roderick leaned back in his leather chair, steepling his fingers. "So, you wanted my insight regarding the NYPD..."
The interview kicked off at a blistering pace. Jonah played the part of the ravenous journalist perfectly, leaning over the table and hammering Kingsley with questions about police corruption as if it were the only thing he cared about. He didn't drop a single hint about the Goblin case. Mary Jane's pen flew across her notepad, transcribing the rapid-fire exchange. Phil Urich snapped a few obligatory photos of Kingsley before wandering off toward the studio floor to flirt with a female assistant.
"Come on, Kingsley, you and I both know how many VIPs sit in your waiting rooms," Jonah barked, waving a hand dismissively. "Yet you sit there playing dumb. Salons, luxury car dealerships, high-end tailors—you people always act like you don't hear a word your clients say. It's insulting to my intelligence. I've been in this game too long."
"No, no, Mr. Jameson, I assure you," Kingsley countered smoothly, holding his hands up in a placating gesture. "What you're talking about is ancient history. Think about the sheer number of people who have been dragged down by these scandals. Why would anyone make the same mistake twice?"
Mary Jane kept writing, her brow furrowing. If Jonah just keeps pushing this fake angle, what exactly is he hoping to find?
The answer was simple: Jonah Jameson wasn't hoping to find anything. He was just running out the clock.
He was waiting for Spider-Man.
Outside the glass-paneled high-rise, Peter Parker clung to the sheer vertical drop, the harsh wind whipping against his suit. He was operating on the assumption that Roderick might trigger a desperate, explosive countermeasure if cornered. After watching two Hobgoblin literally self-destruct the previous day, Hank Pym had whipped up a terrifyingly practical solution. It didn't require inventing new tech—just taking a handful of Peter's mass-produced spider-drones, shrinking them down with Pym Particles, and piloting the microscopic bots directly inside the target's body to defuse the internal bombs.
Peter had beaten Jonah's team to the floor. But since he couldn't tell if Roderick was a willing participant in the Goblin nation or just another brainwashed victim of the Goblin King, he held off on smashing through the window. Instead, he deployed the miniaturized drones, sweeping the entire workshop.
He found zero pumpkin bombs hidden in the vents. No gliders. No green masks.
He monitored the feed through his tactical eyepiece, the built-in heads-up display connecting directly to the drones. Peter steered one of the microscopic bots onto the rim of Roderick's coffee cup. When Kingsley took a sip, the drone slipped right down his throat.
Peter grimaced beneath his mask. Gross. But necessary.
Operating purely on visual feedback, he navigated the drone down the esophageal tract and quickly found the payload: a bio-organic bomb wired directly into the man's chest cavity. Since these explosives used human bodies as their shrapnel casing, they didn't have the classic orange pumpkin shell. The remote-controlled fuse, however, was standard wiring.
With a few precise microscopic snips, Peter used the drone's pincers to sever the fuse.
He let out a long exhale, his shoulders dropping a fraction of an inch. Okay. Roderick is definitely compromised. But is he a pawn, or is he the Goblin King? Jameson's wiretap is active, so we'll—
Peter didn't have time to finish the thought.
His enhanced spider-sense flared, feeding him layered, directional information—not just a vague warning, but the exact distance, bearing, and movement vector of an incoming threat.
He kicked off the glass, twisting his body backward into the open air just as a flaming pumpkin bomb plummeted from the sky and detonated against the spot he'd occupied a millisecond prior. The shockwave tossed him higher. He fired a web-line, anchoring it to a nearby gargoyle, and swung himself up to the adjacent rooftop.
He landed in a crouch, his white lenses narrowing as he looked up.
A figure descended from the clouds on a bat-winged glider, howling with maniacal laughter. The jet exhaust screamed, echoing off the concrete canyons of Manhattan.
"Oh, Spider-Man! Long time no see!" The Goblin King cackled, tossing a glowing orange sphere from hand to hand. "Or is it our first formal introduction? Either way, it's me! The Goblin King!"
The masked lunatic hovered fifteen feet away, tilting his head. The horrific, grinning mask locked onto Peter.
"You know what?" The Goblin King sneered, his voice dripping with faux offense. "I was shocked when you snipped my fuse down there. Unbelievable! Just incredibly rude! How do you justify tampering with someone else's property without permission?"
Peter slowly stood up, rolling his shoulders to loosen the tension in his spine.
"You see human lives as property?" Peter asked, his voice deadpan. "I guess I shouldn't expect moral philosophy from a guy who voluntarily dresses like a Halloween clearance aisle."
Peter tightened his fists, feeling the hum of his web-shooters. He didn't care who was under that rubber mask. He was going to put this guy in the ground.