Absolute Spider-Man

[Lillie Jones]

He said that line, which Peter Parker SI is fully realizing what sort of Spider-Man he wants to be and capable of trying to protect his loved ones and becoming this world's Absolute Spider-Man.

Peter Parker SI has made own personal leap of faith here, people and I'm here for whatever happens next for our unlikely Spider-Man.
Continue on
Cheers!

 

[SpectreOfChaos]

Peter isn't Peter without his smarts

 

[Arsenal597]

I've never claimed to be the smartest person in the room. It's why I was nervous about waking up as Peter Parker. There was no way my brains could ever match up to his. The guy is a certifiable genius and master of improvisation. But it's like I told Toomes — I'm a sore loser. Beat me down all you want. I'm willing to take the hits, because as long as I can get back up, I know there's a chance to come out on top. We've been duking it out for what felt like an hour of hell. The building is burning, emergency services are here, and I'm fighting Toomes high above it all, where the wind howls loud enough to drown out everything except the sound of blood rushing through my ears..

Spider-Man isn't invincible. He's never been that way. What makes him different from so many other heroes is that despite overwhelming odds, he always gets back up. He'd stand and fight till there wasn't a single breath left in his body. I'm a lot like that, except while he becomes more determined, I just get angrier. My anger helps me focus—I realize that now.

It's why my training sessions with Smythe irritated me. I felt like I couldn't do anything without being angry. No… it makes me focus on the fight. Each hit is a lesson beaten into my skull.

That's what Toomes doesn't get. He thinks I'm fighting a losing battle—that I can't win. He's grown overconfident, and that's going to be his downfall. Sure, his regeneration is a problem… but I know something Toomes might not.

I saw the DNA results from the feather I grabbed. He's dying. His cells are damaged. Regeneration doesn't work like most people assume in cartoons or anime. There's a reason why people like Deadpool and Wolverine are still kicking after hundreds of years. Their healing factor allows it, because their ability to regenerate isn't negated over time. Until something stops it, they're effectively immortal. Guess what, Toomes?

Your regeneration isn't permanent. The more you use it, the worse your body becomes. So all I gotta do is put pressure on you until your body can't keep up. This is a last man standing match, and for once in my life, I'm the guy who can afford to drag this out.

That's what's keeping me going right now—the thought of being able to take him down once and for all. As I land on the side of the building, sliding across the glass, tiny fractures spiderwebbing under my feet, I have to keep the smile from forming. Don't get me wrong, I'm angry. Scratch that, I'm pissed. I'm pissed to the point that nothing else matters right now, and I know how wrong that is. But at least I know what's at stake. I'm not going to play into his hands. I can make myself look reckless while putting myself in a better position.

He cackled again, enjoying himself far too much as he dove toward me at breakneck speed. There's something wrong with the sound of it—too sharp, too wet, like it's tearing its way out of a throat that wasn't built to make it anymore. I tried to leap over him, but he managed to snag my foot at the very last second. I'll give Jackal credit where it's due. I don't know what the hell he put in Toomes, but it made him a lot faster. Toomes was fast as hell before, but I was at least able to react.

My spider-sense could tell me when he was about to attack, but right now it felt like it was lagging behind. The warning comes a fraction too late, like my body's still catching up to my brain.

My body lurched as we went crashing through the window and into one of the now-empty corridors. Glass exploded around us in a violent spray, shards catching the firelight as they scattered, followed by the splintering crack of drywall and the dull, heavy impact of desks shattering under our combined weight. Papers burst into the air like a flock of startled birds, some already catching embers as they drifted down.

The pain of crashing through it all is there, but it's almost a second thought. That's what I've noticed since I woke up in the car. It doesn't hurt like it used to. Maybe that poison screwed with my nerves, who knows? I'm thankful for it, personally. It makes it easier to keep going.

We hit the ground hard, momentum carrying us through another desk before we finally separated. I rolled twice, shoulder clipping a toppled chair, forcing myself back to my feet with a flip. From a few feet away, Toomes unfurled his wings, using them to prop himself onto his knees, claws screeching faintly against the tile. I'd be impressed if his existence didn't piss me off.

Though, I noticed something as he tried to get up. He rose slower than before. It wasn't by much. Most people wouldn't even notice it—but I did. There was a hitch in the motion, a slight delay before his wing flexed fully, like the joint didn't quite want to cooperate.

"Still standing?" he rasped, tilting his head at an angle that made something in my spine tighten. "I was starting to think you'd finally learned when to quit."

I rolled my shoulder as I squared up again.

"What can I say? I'm a slow learner."

He laughed again with that same broken, jagged sound, and lunged.

This time I was ready. I moved before he closed the distance, dashing to the side. I let his momentum carry him past me as my hand shot out, firing a web point-blank into the side of his face. I yanked as hard as I could, spinning him around midair just enough for me to plant my foot straight into his ribs.

I felt them give under the impact. He definitely felt that—even if it was going to heal.

Toomes skidded across the floor, claws digging into tile to stop himself, leaving deep grooves behind him, wings flaring wide and smashing into the walls on either side of the corridor hard enough to shake loose chunks of plaster. He breathed heavily as he rose to his feet this time. His wings were shuddering, legs wobbling. Sweat mixed with soot as it ran down his face.

"Getting tired, old man?" I asked, a little more amused than I meant to sound. "I could take you back to the retirement home. It's Bingo night."

"Your jokes…" he wiped his lip. "—they're getting worse."

"I save my best for those who've earned it."

"Why won't you just give up?"

"Your hearing aids die on you? I told you, Toomes. I'm a sore loser." I held my arms out to the side. "Should've figured that out the night you killed May Parker."

Toomes' head twitched at that. Just a flick, but it was there. Good. That meant there was still enough of a man in there to feel it. He didn't say anything this time—just a low, wet snarl.

His wings snapped wide and he launched forward, claws scraping sparks off the tile as he pushed off.

The corridor shrank in an instant, his silhouette blotting out what little light filtered in through the broken windows. My spider-sense screamed—late again—but I was already moving.

My foot hit the wall and I ran up. Three steps, then four, my body angling sideways as dust shook loose beneath each impact. His claws tore through where my chest had been a split second earlier, gouging deep lines into the drywall, wires snapping and sparking behind it. I twisted mid-stride, planting a hand against the surface and kicking off hard, flipping over him as he barreled past.

He didn't stop.

Before, he would've corrected—snapped around, adjusted, stayed on me. Now he committed all the way through. His wing clipped a support beam with a dull, meaty crack that echoed down the corridor.

I landed light behind him, already turning, firing a web into the base of his wing and yanking hard.

There it is again.

His body twisted—but the wing lagged. Just enough.

It bent wrong.

The wing snapped into an unnatural angle, and he screamed—raw, animal, loud enough to cut through the crackle of the fire creeping in from the far end of the hallway.

"You son of a—"

Web to the beak.

"Baw-kaw!" I gasped mockingly, clasping a hand over my mouth. "Big Bird using language like that is unbecoming! That's the kind of thing that'll get you cancelled on PBS!"

He tore the webbing apart and spread his wings, the injured one snapping back into place in a way that made my stomach twist.

"This is growing tiresome!"

"Heh," I placed my hands on my hips. "I'm having a pretty good time. Don't know what your problem is."

"Are you trying to make me angry?"

"I wouldn't say that. More like I'm trying to ruffle your feathers."

I've made enough bird jokes by now that it's getting a bit stale—even for me—but if it makes Toomes angrier, why not? In a weird way, I'm actually enjoying this.

"Huh… guess that's why Mand used to ragebait me all the time," I muttered under my breath— right before Toomes spun like a tornado.

Feathers ripped free from his wings and shot outward, embedding into the walls like jagged metal spikes, some punching straight through filing cabinets and into the concrete behind them.

"That's new."

I flipped through the barrage, twisting between the projectiles as they whistled past, grabbing two of them with webs mid-air and ripping them back toward him. He squawked as they punched into his chest, staggering him just enough.

His eyes weren't on me.

That's all I needed.

I closed the distance in a blur, boots skidding slightly on broken tile before I hooked an arm around his neck, locking him into a headlock.

"What's—" Toomes clawed at my arm, talons scraping against the suit as he tried to tear free. "What's this going to do?! You can't kill me!"

"We'll see about that!" I tightened my grip, dragging him back a step as his wings flared unevenly behind him. "You still need air, jackass!"

Toomes didn't panic like I expected. Even with my arm locked tight around his throat, crushing his windpipe with my forearm… there wasn't that wild, desperate flailing you'd expect.

No blind scrambling or wasted movement.

No, the fucker instantly adapted.

His claws came up at my side. Hate to admit it, but it's smart. He couldn't pry me off cleanly, so he's gone for damage instead. Talons dug in, scraping across my ribs, biting just enough to make my muscles twitch.

Pain flared as I could only tighten my grip.

"Yeah—" I grunted, teeth clenched as he raked across me again, "-not happening."

I bashed my fist into his side. Once, twice…

The third hit actually landed harder than the first two combined, knuckles slamming into the same spot I'd already cracked. I felt something give again, albeit weaker this time. His body jerked in my hold, breath hitching — at least, what little he could manage of one.

His legs buckled, taking us both down. He hit the ground first, while I rode the fall and kept the choke locked in as my back slammed against the tile hard enough to fracture it beneath us. Dust puffed up around us, mixing with the smoke creeping in from the hall.

He thrashed desperately now. His wings beat against the floor, unevenly — one strong, the other lagging just enough to throw off the rhythm. Thank God, because I'm not sure I'd be able to hold on if his wings were working correctly. I could feel him starting to give as I squeezed harder.

"You're—" he choked, voice shredding itself apart under the pressure, "-not… strong enough…"

"Funny," I muttered, hauling him up just enough to slam him back down again. "I was just about to say the same thing about you!"

His claws came up again, this time catching my shoulder. They dug in deeper, drawing a sharp breath out of me, but I didn't let go.

If it had been that night, when we first fought in Queens… I think it would have turned out differently. I could feel the difference. I would have won that fight, long before he hurt May. If only I had been where I was now…

No. I'm not blaming myself right now. If I slip, even for a second, he's going to get back up. I'm not letting this fucker go again.

Toomes hissed as he managed to roll us onto his stomach. His wings snapped wide, slamming into the floor with a heavy, concussive thud.

"What the-"

Then he launched straight up. The force of his wings ripped us both off the ground, debris scattering beneath us as we shot toward the ceiling. My grip tightened instinctively, forearm digging harder into his throat as the world blurred past in a rush of broken lights and exposed wiring.

I saw it coming a split second before impact — the ceiling. It was already cracked and weak, damaged from the fire above. He was trying to smash me into it and knock me loose.

"Hell no!"

I shifted, bringing my legs up to brace against his torso as we closed the last few feet. My body twisted with the motion, turning with him instead of against. We hit hard, the ceiling giving with a violent crack, chunks of concrete and plaster raining down as we crashed through into the next level.

The impact rattled through my bones, teeth clacking together, but I refused to let go.

I felt it then. That hesitation. A split-second where he expected me to be gone, but wasn't. I shifted my weight forward, releasing the choke just enough to reposition, my hands sliding — one grabbing his shoulder, the other hooking under his arm. My legs planted against his midsection, using his own momentum again.

Then I pulled with everything I had, flipping him. His back hit first, sending us both crashing through the floor. Then the next, and the next, and the next after that.

Each level gave way in a chain reaction of shattered concrete and splintering beams, the building practically collapsing around us as we tore straight through it. Dust swallowed everything, turning the world into gray static as chunks of debris slammed into my back and shoulders.

After seven floors, we finally came to a stop. The floor crated slightly, a violent shockwave kicking up dust and debris in every direction. The air left my lungs in a harsh burst, my grip finally loosening as the momentum died.

For a second, there was nothing.

No movement. No sound. Just ringing in my ears.

I stayed there on top of him, chest heaving, one hand still gripping what was left of him.

Toomes, at long last, didn't move.

His wings were splayed out beneath him at wrong angles, one giving a weak twitch before going still. His chest was barely rising. Slow and shallow.

I almost wanted to let out a chuckle. He was out finally.

I pushed myself up, boots crunching against broken concrete and glass, my body finally starting to register everything it had just been through.

"Do us both a favor…" I coughed weakly, pointing at the unconscious creature. "...Stay down, you bitchhhh."

Finally, just for a second… I think it's over. The urge to fight the tired giggle that crept its way in isn't there. It bubbles up anyway, slipping past my teeth in this broken, breathless sound that doesn't feel like it belongs to me. I let my shoulders drop as I stand there, trying to catch my breath, all the while wheezing this pathetic giggle. I don't know whether it's because Toomes is down, or the fact I'm still standing… but it felt amazing. Wrong, maybe—but amazing.

My chest rises sharp and uneven, every inhale catching halfway like my lungs forgot how to do their job. It feels like I'm breathing through soaked cloth, thick and resistant. Heat presses in from every direction, suffocating and alive, the fire above us crackling through the floors we just tore apart. The wood groans somewhere deeper in the building, a low, splintering sound that threatens to give way at any second. Embers drift down like slow, lazy snow, some landing against my suit and dying out, others biting just enough to sting through the fabric. My ears are still ringing from the impact, that high-pitched whine sitting right behind everything else, like it's carved into my skull.

Toomes isn't moving, but it doesn't stop me from keeping my eyes on him anyway. I don't trust it. I don't trust him.

It's reminding me of that night in the rain. When I finally collapsed, and in the blink of an eye Toomes managed to disappear into the night. I'm not taking my eyes off him until I know for a fact he's not getting up and walking away. His wings are twisted out under him, one bent at a wrong angle that makes my stomach turn if I look at it too long. The feathers there twitch slightly in the heat, curling in on themselves like they're trying to shrivel away.

His chest barely rises. If I didn't know better, I'd say he was already dead. He's not, though. But he's close enough that it almost doesn't matter. Close enough that the line between the two feels… thin.

"...Yeah," I mumble under my breath, voice coming out rough and dry, scraping on the way out. I didn't even realize I was still pointing at him until my arm started to shake from the effort, muscles burning from holding it there too long. "How's that for a losing battle?"

Any extra retort is lost as I kneel down, joints protesting the second I bend. I pulled my mask up to my nose so I could breathe easier. Sure, not the brightest idea to do in a burning building, but it's too late now. The air hits my face—hot, thick, laced with smoke and ash—and I suck it in anyway like it's the best thing I've ever tasted. I lower my head, looking at my person. If I looked awful before I got here, now I don't know what the word would be.

My clothes are shredded, blood-stained, and where my skin is showing, it's bruised, dirty, and glistening with sweat that refuses to cool. There's grime worked into every crease, every tear. Embedded in my right shoulder is one of Toomes's feathers. I don't even know how I didn't feel that. Maybe I did, and everything else just drowned it out. I reach up, fingers brushing against it, and even that light contact sends a sharp, delayed sting through the area.

I rip it out and hold it in my hand. The motion sends a fresh line of pain down my arm, hot and immediate, blood welling up where it had been lodged. What the hell is this thing made of? It's so light and flimsy that it shouldn't work like shrapnel. It turns slightly between my fingers, catching the firelight—too clean for something that just came out of him.

Wonder if there's some element of bone in the fibers that allowed it to do that? Eh, fuck it. I can science it out when I'm not half-dead.

I pull my mask back down and stumble back to my feet, legs threatening to give out before I fully straighten. My balance feels off, like the ground isn't quite where I expect it to be. Now as I stand there, something sneaks its way into the back of my mind. It's so small, so subtle it nearly doesn't register.

Felicia.

The name hits softer than anything else in this entire fight, and somehow that makes it all the worse. My head tilts slightly, eyes flicking away from Toomes for the first time since we hit the ground. Where the hell is she? The last time I saw her, she was going to look for Smythe. Hopefully she found him and got him and—

A faint shift in the air brushes across the back of my neck. Not heat. Not smoke. Something else. Something's wrong. My spider-sense doesn't go off, and that's the problem.

It should be screaming. After everything that just happened, something should be lighting it up. The fire, the building potentially collapsing, hell even Toomes… something should be.

But there's nothing.

My fingers twitch slightly at my side, slipping the feather into my back pocket for further examination. My chest feels tighter for no clear reason, like something's wrapping around it from the inside. I go to move, only for every cell in my body to scream.

Every muscle locks up at once, my eyes widening as something primal digs its claws into the back of my skull and yanks hard.

MOVE.

I don't even get the chance to turn.

Something slams into me from the side like a truck going full speed, and for a split second I don't understand what just happened—only that I'm not standing where I was a second ago.

The world flips.

My shoulder hits first, then my back, then everything else as I'm driven across the rubble-strewn floor, concrete and glass tearing at my suit and skin, biting in and dragging along with me. The air is knocked clean out of my lungs in a violent, choking burst that leaves my throat burning.

I try to grab onto something, anything… but there's no traction. My fingers scrape uselessly against broken concrete and loose debris that shifts and slides under my grip. No time, no— I hit the wall. Hard enough that something cracks behind me, the impact exploding through my spine and up into my skull. My head snaps to the side, vision flashing white, then black at the edges.

Oh fuck…

The window gives way behind me with a deafening crash, glass erupting outward in a spray of jagged shards that catch the firelight for half a second before disappearing into the dark. The sudden rush of open air hits like a slap, heat instantly replaced by cold wind that howls past my ears, stealing what little breath I had left. My stomach drops as the realization that there was nothing below me hits…

Nothing but empty space and the distant, dizzying blur of the ground far, far below. Too far. Way too far.

My hand shoots out on instinct, web-shooter firing on reflex—

THWIP.

The line catches on the jagged edge of the broken window frame just as my body clears it completely. The web goes taut instantly, yanking hard against my wrist, nearly ripping my shoulder out of its socket from the sudden stop.

"Ghk—!"

The sound tears out of me as I swing violently, momentum carrying me downward before the web line finally holds. My body jerks to a stop mid-air, one arm extended above me, the other scrambling uselessly for balance as my boots kick against open air that gives nothing back.

For a second, I just hang there, breathing. At least, trying to…

My arm shakes under my weight, the web line creaking slightly as it stretches, thin strands pulling tight under the strain. Wind howls past me, tugging at my body, twisting me slightly with each passing gust, making the whole situation feel even more unstable than it already is. My shoulder's on fire, pain radiating down my arm in sharp, pulsing waves that sync up with my heartbeat.

"...Oh-kay," I wheeze, blinking hard as I try to get my bearings, vision still swimming. "Okay, not ideal…"

I tilt my head up slowly, because I already know I'm not alone. Whatever hit me was big and fast—too fast. Toomes wasn't moving, so it couldn't have been him. So, what the hell was it?

The hole in the wall looms above me, jagged edges silhouetted by the flickering firelight inside. Smoke spills out into the open air in thick, rolling waves, curling and twisting as it gets pulled away by the wind, leaving streaks of black that smear across the night.

Then, something steps into view, blocking the light.

I can't make it out at first. Tall, crooked, and wrong. That's about it. It doesn't move like a person—it settles into place, like something that doesn't quite understand the shape it's supposed to hold.

The figure steps onto the frame, leaning out just enough for the light to catch it. My stomach drops immediately at the sight.

It's the Red Vulture, but man… he looks awful. Whatever happened during the span of my fight with Toomes did him in, because it looks like he's been ravaged by the flames and then put back together without care for how it should've worked.

His skin is blackened and split, raw in places where it looks like it should've healed but didn't. Feathers are gone in patches, replaced with charred stubs and blistered flesh that clings to bone in a way that makes bile rise to my throat. One side of his face looks like it melted and then tried to set again—his features pulled into something uneven and jagged, like wax that hardened too soon. There are places where the heat is still eating at him, faint wisps of smoke curling off his body.

Nothing is regenerating the way it should, if he's got the same ability as Toomes. Wonder if the fire did that to him?

He just stands there, staring down at me. Not just looking—tracking. Following every small shift, every breath, like he's taking something apart piece by piece and figuring out how it works. Breathing erratically. Each inhale sounds wet and broken, like something's collapsing inside him with every breath he takes, a faint rattle buried underneath it that doesn't sound right.

My grip tightened on the web instinctively.

"...Hey!" I rasp, forcing something that almost sounds like a laugh, even though there is genuinely nothing funny about this. My voice cracks halfway through it. "You know, I think… I think somebody burnt the chicken!"

He doesn't react at all.

Oh… that's, that's not good.

Hell, I don't even think he blinked once in that entire timespan. Somehow, this felt way worse than if he'd rushed me again.

His head tilts slightly, the motion stiff and unnatural, like something inside him doesn't quite line up anymore. I can hear the burnt flesh pulling and tearing as it moves, charred skin cracking free in small, brittle sounds that carry even over the wind. Yeah, this might have ruined chicken for me in the future.

He stepped forward, dropping down. For half a second, my brain tries to process it like a normal human falling. There's that instinctive drop in my gut, that expectation — he's going to plummet, disappear out of view, and maybe circle back around —

His wings snag open. They jerk outward with a violent, bone-cracking motion. The sound hits me a split second after - a wet, tearing snap that shouldn't belong to anything living.

Red doesn't stabilize and hover. No, that'd be too easy. Instead he dives… straight at me.

"Oh, come on!"

Panic hit me fast, my body reacting before my brain could catch up. My arm tightened on the web as I tried to swing out of the way, to get any kind of distance. My shoulder gave as a sharp, sickening pop rippled through my arm, sending white-hot pain screaming through my veins.

"AA—!"

My grip failed instantly. The web snapped free from my hand, and just like that I dropped. The wind ripped the sound out of my throat as the building shot upward past me, my stomach lurching hard enough to make me dizzy. My good arm flailed, fingers clawing for anything to cling to.

My hand slams into the wall, fingers barely managing to catch a grip. The jolt nearly tears my arm out of its socket as I stop short, boots scraping uselessly against shattered glass and exposed rebar, sparks kicking up where rubber meets broken edges. My nails dig through torn fabric, friction burning against my palm as I cling there like an idiot, chest heaving, vision shaking.

"—Shit—shit—!" is all I can say as my other arm hung at my side, shoulder screaming in retaliation, completely out of place. There's no time to fix it right now. I dragged myself sideways along the wall, far too clumsy and desperate as I tried to get out of its path.

A blur of red tore past where I was. The impact hit the glass like a bomb going off. The concrete and steel frame explode outward in a violent burst that pelts against me, stinging through my suit. The whole section of the building shuddered, the force of it rattling through my grip.

He doesn't stick the landing. Red dug his claws in, wings flaring out unevenly as his body jerked with the force. He clung there for just a second, head twitching slightly as he turned to look at me.

Then something occurred to me. He wasn't talking… why the fuck wasn't he talking?!

Red makes a noise that almost sounded like a laugh, but there was a cooing element to it that sent chills down my spine.

"Oh, no. No, no, no–" I shove myself off the wall, pushing through the pain as I try to get some distance, swinging low and awkwardly with one arm. Every bit of movement is killing me.

I need to fix my arm, but I need the room and time to get it done. He dropped after me, wings snapping open at the last possible second, angling himself straight into me like a missile.

"WOULD YOU JUST—"

He hit me mid-swing.

Claws tore into my side, knocking the air out of me as we're sent spinning together, the web line snapping loose. I can't see anything as we go spiraling towards the ground below. I use my good arm to hit him with everything I've got. My fist connected to the side of his head, but he didn't react the way I expected. There was no give, no inclination that it hurt… nothing.

"Seriously?!"

I can feel it through the suit, his claws digging in just enough to promise they could go deeper if he wanted them to. His face is close now, way too close, and oh it's so much worse. I can see the way the skin pulls when he moves, the way one eye doesn't quite sit right in the socket.

"You really need to sue that plastic surgeon of yours!" I twist hard, ignoring the way my shoulder screamed as I slammed my knee into his torso. There's a dull, hollow impact, like hitting something that was already broken, and it's enough to loosen his grip. I rip free, dropping away from him as I fire another web upward.

It catches, and I swing as high as I can. I aim for the broken window above, just two floors when something slammed into my back. The force drove me forward, straight into the wall, the impact rattling through my bones before I could inhale.

My dislocated shoulder explodes into further agony. Fire spreads through my nerves like a wave. The fucker's biting me!

"DAMMIT!" I exclaimed, unable to stop myself. What is with these guys and wanting to eat me? Toomes already took a chunk out of me that night, and now he's trying to get in on the action. Red's jaw clamped down hard enough to make my vision blur. I can feel the fabric of my shirt becoming wet and warm almost immediately. "Fuck — off, already!"

I smack my hand against his head, digging into whatever I can grab as I shove, strike, anything to get him off me. I connect my fist again and again, but it's like I'm punching water. I might as well be hitting nothing at all the way he's reacting.

I gotta do something before I end up armless. I can see the one eye that's all milky and glossed over now. The idea hits me, and I can't say it's one I would have gone for normally… but I don't know if I have the option not to.

I drive my thumb into his eye socket, and dig in as hard as I can. It's the worst sensation I've ever felt, but based on the scream that escapes his maw… it works.

As he jerked back, there was a wet, tearing sound. It felt like something came with my thumb, but I refused to look. He lets go of me entirely, falling backward and out of sight. I shake my hand just to make sure I don't see something that I'll regret, and fire another web.

I ascend to the broken window, and get through onto solid ground. I crash onto the floor hard, rolling across glass shards and debris before slamming into a shelf. The impact knocks what little air I had left out of me, leaving me sprawled there for half a second — my body refusing to move.

The heat hits me again immediately, wrapping around me like a suffocating blanket, but I don't care. It's nice to have something actually underneath me. I got back to my feet after a couple excruciating seconds, glancing at the window just to make sure he doesn't catch me off guard again.

I look at my bloodied, dislocated shoulder. It's gnarly, but I don't think he shattered it like Toomes managed to do in our first fight. I just need to reset it, and I should be back in action. But I need to hurry, I doubt Red's going to be gone for long.

The floor feels uneven under my boots, mostly because my legs can't decide if they want to keep doing this. Each step sends a dull, echoing throb up through my body.

I lean my back against a cracked support beam, the concrete cool in patches where the fire hasn't reached yet, and grab my arm.

"Okay," I mutter, more to keep my brain from spiraling than anything else. "I've been through worse. How bad can resetting your shoulder be? Right?"

My shoulder hangs lower than it should be. Every tiny movement sends a warning shot of pain through my nerves, as though it's daring me to try. I just gotta focus on the fact it'll be fine once I get it reset, that the pain is momentary.

I grip my wrist with my good hand, teeth clenching as I try to remember literally anything about how this is supposed to go.

"Just—" I take a deep breath before pulling. A sharp, violent pop snapped through my shoulder, loud enough that I feel it in my skull more than I actually hear it. The pain—Jesus—the pain is a wave. It crashes over me all at once, blinding and total, ripping a sound out of my throat that I don't even recognize as mine. My vision whites out, knees buckling as I slam harder into the beam just to stay upright, fingers digging into it like it's the only thing keeping me from dropping.

For a second, there's nothing but that. Then it settles, not quite gone, but to a point where I can breathe without it taking me out. I suck in a shaky breath, flexing my fingers, then my arm. It's weak and shaky, but it responded.

"Okay, that's… that's better." I laugh weakly. "So, so much bett-"

My spider-sense goes off.

The warning hits a split second before the sound does, that same gut-wrenching yank at the back of my skull, instinct screaming at me to move.

Red comes through the window like a bullet, glass and flame trailing behind him as his body slams into the room with zero hesitation.

"-Oh you've gotta be kidding me!"

I barely get my arm up in time. His claws slam into my forearm instead of my throat, the impact jarring my entire body as the force drives me back a step, boots scraping against the floor. The newly reset shoulder screams in protest, practically regretting being put back into service.

"Nope—nope, not doing the bite thing again!" My hand shoots out, fingers wrapping around his throat before he can get a second strike in. I feel the way his body jerks at the contact, the uneven tension in his muscles… "Gotcha!"

I slam him down hard, cracking the floor in the process. His wings flared in a broken, jerking motion that scraped across the ground. The sound he makes is wet and furious, that same warped mix of a screech and a coo, like something trying to mimic a bird and getting it horribly wrong.

"Stay—down!"

I fire webs point-blank, coating his chest, his arms, his wings—anything I can hit. The strands splatter and spread, sticking fast against charred flesh and torn feathers, pinning him to the ground in thick layers. He thrashes immediately, body convulsing as he tries to tear free, the webbing stretching and creaking under the strain.

"Yeah, no, we're not doing round three of you eating me, I'm drawing a hard line there—!"

The words barely leave my mouth before it hits again.

MOVE.

"Oh, come on—!"

The ceiling explodes.

There's no warning beyond the sense this time—no sound, no crack, just sudden violence as concrete and steel give way all at once. The entire section above me caves in, debris raining down in a storm of shattered material, chunks of ceiling and twisted beams crashing into the floor with enough force to shake the entire room.

I throw myself to the side, rolling hard as something massive tears through the space I was just standing in—

Toomes.

He crashes down like something dragged straight out of a nightmare, talons first, the impact sending a shockwave through the floor that rattles up my legs. Dust and debris billow outward, choking the air even further as he lands in a crouch that looks less like control and more like something barely holding itself together.

I scramble back, heart hammering, eyes locking onto him as everything just… stops. The room goes still in a heartbeat, and it's hard for me to process what I'm seeing. Toomes's talons are buried deep in Red.

They've punched straight through his face, or rather what's left of it, pinning his head to the ground beneath him. The webbing is still holding the rest of his body in place, but it doesn't matter.

Red goes completely still without a single sound. I watch as his chest lowers one last time, and a pool of blood spreads out around him.

"...Oh."

That's all I can say.

Toomes doesn't react to it at first. He just stands there, hunched slightly, talons still embedded where they landed. It almost looks like he doesn't realize what he just did.

Then he shifts, pulling his foot free. There's an awful wet sound as it comes loose. Red's body doesn't come with it. He just laid there, completely lifeless.

Toomes stepped off of him, and turned toward me. There's something in his eyes that wasn't there before. Far thinner than the bloodthirsty rage, fraying at the edges. It looked like he was barely holding on.

"We're—" he dragged in a breath, and it sounded like it hurt him to do it — his chest hitching as if the air itself was fighting him, "we're not done."

I blink at him, still halfway crouched, body coiled to move even though I'm pretty sure I've got nothing left in the tank.

"Can we call time out for a second?" I offer, lifting my hands just slightly, a weak, crooked smile pulling at my face despite everything. "Water break, maybe?"

It's not funny.

I know it's not funny.

But it's either that or admit I'm one bad hit away from folding, and I'm really not in the mood for that conversation.

"I told you…" Toomes's voice is rough, uneven, like he's forcing each word out past something lodged in his throat. He takes a step forward, and there's a slight stumble in it, quickly corrected, like even his body isn't fully listening anymore. "You should have killed me when you had the chance."

Another step.

Closer.

"While I still have control of myself…" his jaw tightens, something flickering across his expression—pain, maybe, or something worse. "Finish the job…"

I let out a slow breath, lowering my hands slightly, my stance shifting without me really thinking about it. Every part of me aches, my shoulder throbbing in time with my pulse, my side still burning where Red dug in, but none of that really matters right now.

Because the way Toomes is looking at me? It's exactly the way he did that night when I stopped myself at the last second from killing him. When the man beneath the monster was back at the helm.

"What?"

"Peter Parker…" Toomes wheezes, "-if you're a good man, you'll kill me."

---

Sorry about the wait on this chapter. So, one month ago today my account on AO3 was suspended for "commercial promotion violations" on all of my main stories. Absolute Spider-Man, Umbra Mortis, and Omni-Blood being the main victims here. I was suspended for 30 days, and my stories hidden until "they were edited properly according to their policies." As far as I can tell, barring the possibility of the fics being removed because it's still "not in line with policy" they should be available once again. If not, the stories will be removed off of AO3, and I will begin searching for a new site to call home for my fics. As I do like having roughly four sites that I post on for reach and visibility.

But that being said, we are nearing the end of book 1 now. I plan on releasing 1 to 2 chapters a week, either Mondays or Wednesdays to get us there quicker. The weekly releases will continue either to the end of the book, or I run out of backlog, whichever comes first.

Today is the exception.

Once book 1 is finished, I will be taking the time to go through and edit each chapter that's already been posted prior to now and get up to my own personal standard. I've gone back to writing with pencil and paper completely as the start, so I'd prefer to have the entire story redone in that form to get us where it needs to be.

Hope you enjoyed the chapter, and I will catch you all next weekend on 9/21/2026 with Chapter 48.

Council Members:

Bunkeeroe
Seren
Links

 

[Arsenal597]

Peter isn't Peter without his smarts

Click to shrink...

I do agree with you. Which is why I've gone about the plot in the manner I have without making it the focal point. His intellect is there, just not the knowledge. There's other variables at play, but if you're going to read this... I'd rather you find that out yourself.

 

[Arsenal597]

Chapter 48: The Man Beneath The Feathers
​

---

​

Adrian Toomes had imagined this moment a thousand different ways, but none of them had looked like this.

The boy in front of him — because that's what he was, no matter how his costume and build tried to frame him, no matter how his 'master' whispered his name like he was something larger than life — was just a kid Fourteen, if he remembered correctly. Too young for the weight pressing into his shoulders. Too young for the way he stood there like he'd already seen too much of the world's horrors.

Far too young to be the one asked to make this decision.

Peter's mask came off with trembling fingers, peeling back just enough to reveal the truth Adrian hadn't truly accepted yet. Blood smeared across his mouth, streaked along his jaw where it had dried and cracked. His lip was split, one eye swelling, exhaustion etched deep into every line of his face. And still, he was standing after all of it.

Adrian let out a dry, broken chuckle at the sight of him. It hurt. Everything hurt... His chest, his lungs, the slow grinding pull of breath that never quite felt like enough. But none of that compared to the sharp, quiet realization settling in his mind.

This was who had been fighting him.

This was who had been holding him back.

"Please…" The word came out weaker than he intended, catching halfway in his throat. He sank to his knees before he could stop himself, the strength simply not there to keep him upright anymore. Not now… not like this. "I—I don't want to hurt anyone else."

Peter didn't move at first. He just stared, confusion cutting through the anger on his face so cleanly it almost looked painful.

"Now you're feeling remorse? NOW?" His voice cracked — not just with anger, but something else. Something raw and disoriented. "WHY NOW?!"

Adrian flinched, not from the volume, but from the truth buried in it. It was a fair question. A well-deserved one.

"Because…" He swallowed, his gaze dropping for a moment before forcing itself back up. The boy deserved that much at least. "You've helped bring me back."

That's what seemed to make the boy see the truth. He blinked, the firelight flickering across his face as something shifted behind his eyes. He wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand, smearing the blood further across his skin, and took an unsteady step forward. Then another. Each movement looked like it cost him something, as though his body was one bad motion away from giving out entirely. Yet he kept going.

He stopped just in front of Adrian, then lowered himself down, knees hitting the fractured concrete with a dull sound. He was close enough to see the way his hands shook, the way he tried to hide it by clenching them into fists.

"So I was right…" Peter said quietly, searching his face like he was trying to find the man beneath everything else. "You weren't always in control."

Adrian shook his head solemnly.

"No." The word felt heavier than it should have. "I never wanted to hurt anyone," he continued. There was no defense in it, no attempt to soften what had already been done. Just the bare and ugly truth of it all "But the hunger…" His jaw tightened, a tremor running through him as something flickered behind his eyes — something darker. He forced it down with visible effort. "It's too strong."

Peter's expression shifted again, tension creeping back into his shoulders, his body angling ever so slightly like he was ready to move at a moment's notice. Ready for the switch when the monster came back.

Adrian couldn't blame him.

"The Vulture…" he said, the name sounding wrong even now, because it should have never been attached to him. "It's got a mind of its own. Even now, I can feel it." His fingers curled slightly against the ground, nails scraping faintly against broken concrete as his breath hitched. "Itching its way back in."

There were tears in his eyes before he realized they'd started, blurring the edges of his vision. His voice followed, cracking under the weight of something he didn't have the strength to hold back anymore.

"I don't want to die as that thing, Peter…"

The words hung between them, softer than they should have been, but heavier for it.

Peter didn't respond right away.

All he did was look at him; at the way Adrian's shoulders sagged under a weight that had nothing to do with injury; at the way his breathing stuttered, uneven and fragile; at the way his eyes — tired, worn, human — fought to stay present despite what was clawing at the edges of them.

Peter's jaw tightened. His gaze flickered, just for a second, down to Adrian's hands—those same hands that had torn through steel and flesh without hesitation not minutes ago—before lifting back to his face.

"You realize what you're asking me, right? You're asking me to-" He stopped himself, the words catching before they could fully form. "Are you sure?"

Adrian didn't nod.

Somewhere in the building, something collapsed, the sound echoing through the structure in a low, distant rumble. The fire crackled and shifted, embers drifting through the air like dying stars. Time was running out.

Peter let out a slow breath, dragging a hand down his face, smearing sweat and soot together in a frustrated motion. He actually looked his age for once. He didn't look like a man fighting for his life anymore. He just looked like a kid being asked to do something he shouldn't have ever needed to consider.

"Since that night, all I have thought about…" Peter shook his head, lowering it slightly. His voice dropped, quieter now. "All I have thought about is finding you, and killing you for what you did to May. I expected you to fight me with everything you had. To resist… Why are you asking me?"

"Because you're the only one I trust to do this."

Peter's expression didn't change immediately, but something behind his eyes did. Something that tightened like a wire being pulled just a little too far.

"Trust?" he repeated, almost in a whisper, like he's testing the word and already finding something wrong with it. His brow furrowed, confusion bleeding back in through the anger. "You don't get to—" He stopped, jaw clenching as he exhaled through his nose. "You don't get to say that."

Adrian didn't argue, or even try to defend it. He knew that right was forfeited long ago.

"I know," he replied, voice rough and fragile. "I know I don't."

Another tremor ran through him, sharper this time. His shoulders hitched slightly, breath catching as the Vulture stirred within.

Peter saw it… of course he did.

His posture shifted instantly, weight adjusting, muscles tightening despite the obvious strain it put on his already battered body. He didn't step back, but he was ready now.

Adrian could feel it too. That itch… the pull of the hunt.

His fingers twitch against the ground.

He forced them still.

"You felt it, didn't you?" Adrian mutters, a weak, humorless breath escaping him. "Every time it slipped… every time I hesitated." Peter didn't answer, but he didn't need to. Adrian knew. "Those weren't accidents," he continued, voice fraying at the edges. "That was me." His throat tightened slightly. "Or what's left of me."

There's no pride in it. No relief.

Peter's gaze dropped again, just briefly, to Adrian's hands — then to the blood, the destruction around them, and the body that hadn't had time to cool yet. Everything this "control" had failed to stop.

When he looked back up, it was different. Harder.

"But it wasn't enough." Peter said tartly.

"No." Adrian gave a ghost of a nod. "Which is why I'm asking you to do this…"

He pressed down onto his forearms, almost lying his head on the floor. There was something nagging at the back of his mind, a child's giggle that he'd almost forgotten. Adrian fought to hold the tears in.

"I tried not to," he muttered.

Peter's brow tightened.

"Tried not to… what?"

Adrian didn't answer right away. His jaw set, like he regretted even letting that much slip. For a second, it looked like he was just going to leave it there. Like he should have.

"I just wanted to be there for my granddaughter… I didn't want to make that choice. I swear…"

---

2023.

One Year Earlier


​

---

Life was rarely fair for Adrian, but he knew how to roll with the punches it threw at him. He'd lost his parents at the age of five in a car accident. His older brother, Marcus, took the responsibility of raising him. Adrian flourished in school, excelling in all of his subjects. His teachers praised him, pushed him, and told him he was going somewhere… and he believed them.

Marcus did what he could. Two jobs, sometimes three, always tied but never letting Adrian see just how bad it got. There were nights where dinner was whatever they could stretch. Mornings where Marcus looked like he hadn't slept at all, but he still showed up. Still made sure Adrian had what he needed. That stuck with him more than anything else. Not the struggle, but the effort.

So when Marcus ended up in that hospital bed — motionless from the waist down after a motorcycle wreck — it didn't feel like a question. Adrian stepped in the same way Marcus had. He did it quietly and without a complaint. It was just what you did for your family.

He carried that mindset into everything else.

By the time he graduated, Adrian already had a reputation. Sharp, focused, the kind of mind that didn't just understand how things worked, but how to make them work better. Faster. Smarter. Oscorp noticed. They brought him in young, dropped him into their Bio-Mechanical Division, and for the first time in his life, it felt like things were lining up instead of falling apart.

He kept his head down and worked.

Years passed that way. Projects stacked on top of projects, breakthroughs that didn't always make headlines but pushed things forward all the same. Aerodynamics became his space. His language. If something moved through the air, Adrian could make it cut cleaner, faster, more efficiently than before. Oscorp benefited. He benefited. It wasn't glamorous, but it was stable.

And somewhere in the middle of all that, he met Chery.

She wasn't part of that world. Didn't care about the jargon or the late nights or the way he'd get lost in his own head when something wasn't working. She grounded him without trying to. Made things feel… lighter. Like there was more to life than deadlines and designs and the next problem waiting to be solved.

He married her not long after.

For a while, things were good in a way that felt almost unfamiliar. Not perfect—nothing ever was—but good. The kind of good you don't question too much because you're afraid if you look at it too closely, it might disappear.

They built a life. A home that didn't feel temporary. Laughter that didn't feel forced.

Their kids grew up faster than Adrian expected. They always did. One minute they were small enough to carry, the next they were making choices of their own, building lives separate from his. That part stung more than he liked to admit, but Chery always reminded him that it meant they'd done something right.

Then Tiana was born.

Adrian didn't think he'd feel it like that again—that sense of something new, something fragile and important all at once—but the first time she wrapped her tiny fingers around his, something shifted. She became his entire world.

"Papa," she called him, before she could even say his name properly.

From then on, no matter how busy things got, Adrian made time. Real time. Not the kind you half-commit to while your mind's somewhere else. They had their routines. Coney Island became a tradition—two, maybe three times a year if he could manage it. Rides, games, cheap prizes that she treated like treasure. He'd let her drag him from one thing to the next, pretending he wasn't already worn out halfway through.

"Day with Papa," she'd say, like it was the most important event in the world.

To her, it probably was.

To him… it wasn't far off.

Even on the bad days—the ones where work dragged, where Marcus needed more than usual, where things just felt heavier than they should—he had that to look forward to. That small, steady light at the end of it.

And then Chery got sick.

There wasn't a moment where everything stopped. No clear line where life split into before and after. It crept in slowly. Doctor visits that turned into more visits. Conversations that got quieter, more careful. Words people chose too deliberately, like saying the wrong thing might make it worse.

Adrian threw himself at it the only way he knew how. Research. Solutions. Late nights spent chasing anything that looked like an answer. He had resources most people didn't. Connections. Access. If there was a way to fix it, he was going to find it.

He didn't.

By 2015, she was gone.

The house felt different after that. Not empty—never empty, not with family still coming and going—but wrong. Like something had been pulled out of it that couldn't be replaced, no matter how much time passed. Adrian adjusted the same way he always did. Quietly. He kept moving. Took care of Marcus. Showed up for his kids. For Tiana.

Especially for Tiana.

If anything, he held onto those moments tighter. The trips, the laughs, the way she'd talk his ear off about things that didn't matter to anyone else but somehow mattered to him because they mattered to her. He memorized it without realizing he was doing it. The sound of her voice. The way her eyes lit up when she got excited. The way she'd grab his hand without thinking about it.

He told himself he'd see it all.

Her graduation. Her wedding. The life she'd build for herself, the family she might have someday. He didn't need much else. Not really. Just time. Enough time to be there for it.

That was the deal he thought he had.

But life didn't work like that.

It never had.

And somewhere along the way, without him fully noticing when it started, that quiet, steady hope he'd been holding onto began to feel… fragile. Like something that could slip through his fingers if he didn't do something about it.

Then again, everything falls apart when you least expect it.

Nobody expected Marcus to pass away the way he did in 2020. There was no drama, no final conversation, or some kind of warning that the phone call would come and ravage their lives again. Marcus's heart gave out in his sleep.

Adrian remembered standing in the doorway to Marcus's room after it happened, unable to accept that his brother was gone. He didn't even know Marcus was gone. Adrian had woken up that morning, and went to work as he always had. Marcus's caretaker was coming in at six-thirty, so he didn't think to try and wake him. If he had thought of it, Adrian would have never gone to work. Instead, he got the call about an hour later.

The emptiness that followed never sat right with him afterward. The family stopped coming by like they used to. Tiana's parents were busy and rarely had the opportunity to swing by. He was the one that had to make the effort to go see them on the weekends. Adrian's kids became harder to stay in contact with. His daughter moved to Norway when she graduated college. Hadn't heard much from her once Chery passed.

Adrian stayed in that apartment because it was easier than leaving. Leaving meant admitting that there was nowhere else that still felt like home.

By 2022, there wasn't much left of the life he'd built. Just a small apartment that never quite felt lived in, even when he was there. Work had thinned out. Contacts changed. Oscorp wasn't what it used to be for him, or maybe he wasn't what he used to be for them.

Either way, he was still moving.

Just… lighter in all the wrong ways.

And then came early 2023.

The park had been her idea.

Tiana, ten years old and still bright in that way kids were when the world hadn't had the chance to dull them yet, had tugged at his sleeve that morning with the same stubborn excitement she'd always carried. Fresh air, she'd said. Just a few hours. Nothing big – just a day with her Papa.

He'd said yes before she even finished asking.

Adrian remembered the sky more than anything else. A clear, endless blue stretched out above them. No clouds, no haze. Just that gorgeous baby blue sky.

Tiana had run ahead of him at one point, sneakers scuffing against the pavement as she darted toward a set of swings that creaked with every movement. She laughed at something — he couldn't remember what; it was probably something small that wouldn't have mattered to anyone else. He'd been listening. He knew he had, but the sound hadn't quite stuck the way it usually did. It slipped past, half-heard like his mind was drifting somewhere else.

He'd been tired lately, more than usual. He told himself it was just his age catching up to him, or work, or that he'd been having trouble sleeping lately. There was always an explanation if you wanted one bad enough.

"Papa, look!"

He remembered that. The way she called out to him, like she always did when she wanted his attention fully. He turned, a small smile already forming, ready to give her that moment—

And then something went wrong. Oh, how it had gone wrong so quickly.

There wasn't a build up. No warning sign that his body gave him time to process. It was just a sudden, violent shift that took the wind out of him. His chest tightened, breathing catching halfway through as a sharp, invasive pain cut through him from the inside out. It was everywhere… not a single location that he could have pointed out.

His vision blurred at the edges first, the bright blue sky warping into something harsher, too bright to look at. The ground beneath his feet didn't feel steady anymore. It tilted, just slightly, but enough that his balance didn't make sense. His hand twitched at his side, fingers curling like he could grab onto something that wasn't there.

"Papa?"

He tried to answer her. He knew he did. His mouth opened, the word forming somewhere in his throat, but it never made it out. The pain spiked again, sharper this time, dragging a broken sound out of him that didn't resemble speech in the slightest.

Then his legs gave out.

The world dropped out from under him before he even registered the fall. The last thing he caught was Tiana's face—confused, scared in a way that broke his heart—before everything went dark.

The next thing Adrian remembered clearly was the light.

Harsh, artificial, and far too close. It pressed down on him from above, white and unforgiving, filling his vision the second his eyes managed to open. For a moment, he didn't understand where he was. The transition was too abrupt, too disjointed. One second the park, the next… this.

The hospital ceiling came into focus slowly, tiles blurring together before sharpening into something real. The smell hit him next—sterile, clinical, laced with something faintly chemical that sat heavy in his lungs.

Then the pain followed.

It came back all at once. Not the same as before—this wasn't sharp and sudden. This was deep. Rooted. It settled into his bones, into his spine, spreading outward in a way that felt… wrong. Like it had been there longer than he'd realized.

Adrian sucked in a breath, and even that felt like work.

His body didn't respond the way it should have. Every movement felt delayed, heavy, like something was dragging against him from the inside. He shifted slightly, and it sent a wave of discomfort up his back that made his jaw tighten.

"...Papa?"

The voice was small. Too small.

He turned his head—slowly, because anything faster didn't seem possible—and found her sitting at his bedside. Tiana looked like she'd been there for hours. Her hands were curled into the fabric of his sleeve, like she was afraid he'd disappear if she let go.

"I'm here," he managed, though it came out rougher than he intended. Weaker.

Her grip tightened instantly.

"You scared me," she said, and there was something fragile in it. Not just fear—something deeper. The kind of uncertainty kids weren't supposed to have to deal with yet.

Adrian forced a small smile, the kind he'd used a thousand times before to smooth over things he didn't want her worrying about.

"I'm alright," he told her, even though his body didn't quite agree.

It was a lie. And somewhere, deep down, he already knew it.

The doctors didn't come in right away. It was bad enough when he had to be there with Marcus or Chery for emergencies, but to be the one in the bed? That made it stretch so much longer. He knew hospitals had this way of dragging time to a standstill, but this was a new kind of hell. When the doctors finally did come, they were careful with their words. Too careful.

He didn't process what they were telling him at first, only absorbing fragments. Words like aggressive, advanced… spread.

They told him he had spinal cancer, and three additional forms already taking root elsewhere. It was in his kidneys, lungs, and prostate. Numerous lesions spread throughout his body.

The worst part? They told him he only had a few months at this rate.

Adrian listened. He processed it the same way he processed everything else—quietly, without interruption. He asked questions where he needed to. Clarified what didn't make sense. But there was a point where the words stopped meaning anything.

A few months.

That was the part that stuck.

Not the specifics. Not the terminology. Just that.

Time, suddenly measured in something far too small.

Tiana wasn't in the room when they said it. Someone had taken her out at some point—he didn't remember when. That almost made it worse.

When the doctors finally left, the room felt too big.

Too quiet.

Adrian sat there, staring at nothing in particular, the weight of it settling in a way that didn't feel real yet. It would, eventually. He knew that much.

He just hadn't caught up to it.

The door opened again.

He was expecting one of the doctors. Maybe a nurse.

It wasn't.

The man who stepped inside didn't belong there. That was the first thing Adrian noticed. Not because of anything obvious—he wasn't dressed out of place, didn't move in a way that drew attention. But there was something… off about him. His face wasn't fully visible. Shadows caught it at the wrong angles, obscuring just enough that Adrian couldn't quite place him.

"Hello, Mr. Toomes." The man greeted calmly in a way that didn't quite fit the situation.

"Can I help you?" Adrian asked, raising an eyebrow.

"I hear you've been given rather unfortunate news," he replied. Adrian fought the urge to roll his eyes.

"I'm not interested in sympathy," Adrian said after a moment, tone even despite everything.

The man chuckled dryly, as though he'd been expecting Adrian to react this way from the get-go.

"Good, because that's not what I'm here for. I'm certainly not going to offer sympathy for someone with your background. It'd be unbecoming of your stature."

That got Adrian's attention. The man stepped further into the room, sitting down in the chair on the opposite side of the room.

"I'm here because there are opportunities available to you," the man continued. "Opportunites that extend beyond what conventional medicine can provide."

Adrian's brow furrowed slightly.

"You're talking about experimental treatment?"

"I'm talking about survival."

Adrian exhaled slowly, his gaze drifting—not to the man, but to the empty chair where Tiana had been sitting. To the place where her small hand had held onto him like he was something that wouldn't break.

A few months.

That wasn't enough.

It wasn't enough to see anything he'd promised himself he would.

"...What's the cost?" he asked, because there always was one.

The man smiled faintly, the light barely catching it.

"Far less than what you stand to lose."

Adrian closed his eyes for a brief moment.

He didn't want this. Whatever it was, he didn't want it. He'd lived his life without cutting corners like this, without gambling on things he couldn't control.

"I understand this might be troubling to consider, but this can give you time. This can be a second chance for you… for your loved ones."

But this wasn't about Adrian, and it hadn't been for a long time.

When he opened his eyes again, the answer was already there.

"Alright," he said quietly.

"I'm glad to hear it."

The man reached up and pulled his hood back, the motion slow and deliberate, like he wasn't trying to startle him. The shadows gave way just enough for Adrian to finally see him clearly. He looked… normal. Clean-cut, composed, the kind of face that would've blended into a boardroom without drawing a second glance. Brown hair, neatly kept, sharp features softened by an easy confidence that didn't quite cross into arrogance. There was a calmness to him that felt practiced, like he'd stood in rooms like this before and walked out with exactly what he came for.

He extended his hand.

"My name is George Tarleton, and I represent Advanced Idea Mechanics."

Adrian didn't take it right away. His eyes flicked down to the offered hand, then back up to George's face, studying in that quiet, analytical way he'd always had. Even now, laid up in a hospital bed with a diagnosis hanging over his head like a countdown, that part of him hadn't gone anywhere.

"A.I.M.?" Adrian let out a dry, breathy chuckle, the sound catching slightly in his chest. "You mean that Stark wannabe startup everyone was talking about a few years ago?"

George laughed at that — actually laughed. Not the polite kind that people used to smooth over tension. No, it was open and genuine, as if the comparison was more amusing rather than insulting.

"I assure you," he said, lowering his hand without offense, "we have nothing to do with Stark Industries. We'd much rather stay out of that mess."

Adrian watched him carefully, the gears in his mind turning despite the dull ache settling deeper into his spine.

"That doesn't exactly answer the question."

"No," George admitted easily. "But I think the answer matters less than what we can offer."

He moved a step closer, not enough to crowd him, but enough to lower his voice slightly—like the conversation itself was something meant to stay contained within the room.

"We've made significant strides in medical advancement over the last few years," George continued. "Breakthroughs that haven't been made public yet. Not because they aren't viable, but because the world isn't quite ready to understand them." His expression shifted, just a fraction more serious. "What we're capable of now would put Frost, Stark and Oscorp to shame."

That got a reaction, even if Adrian didn't show it outright.

Oscorp.

He'd spent years there, building a career off the back of its resources and reach. He knew exactly what they were capable of — or at least, what they were willing to show. For someone to claim they'd surpassed that… it wasn't a small statement.

"I truly believe that we can help you, Adrian."

Adrian shifted slightly against the bed, the movement sending a low, grinding discomfort through his back. He ignored it, focusing instead on the man in front of him.

"What's in it for you?"

It was one of the few times in his life where Adrian was upfront and willing to pry beneath the ulterior motives. He'd always been fine with people having their own agenda as long as he could be left out of the fallout, but this was his life they were discussing.

George didn't hesitate.

"Merely the satisfaction in knowing that you get to spend more time with your family," he said simply. "That's it."

Adrian stared at him. If the answer had been rehearsed, it didn't feel like it. But that didn't make it believable either.

"Sounds too good to be true," he muttered, the skepticism slipping through despite the exhaustion weighing on him.

George's lips curved slightly again, not quite making it to a smile, but something close to it.

"Most dreams do," he replied. "But that doesn't mean they have to stay that way. We're simply… in the business of making them reachable."

Dreams. Adrian's gaze drifted again, unbidden, to the empty space beside the bed. He could still picture Tiana sitting there, legs swinging slightly because they didn't quite reach the floor, hands wrapped around his sleeve like it anchored him in place. He thought about the things he'd promised himself he'd be there for. The things he hadn't said out loud because he'd assumed there was time.

'A few months.' The words repeated in his head, making his jaw tighten faintly.

George reached into his coat and pulled out a card, holding it between two fingers before offering it out.

"You don't have to decide anything right now," he said. "In fact, I'd prefer you didn't. This isn't the kind of choice that should be made under pressure."

Adrian hesitated for only a second before taking it.

The card was simple. Clean. No unnecessary design, no attempt to dress it up into something more than it was. A name. A location. Contact information. That was it.

"You can meet me there when you're back on your feet, just give me a call." George added. "If you decide this is something you want to pursue."

If.

It was a small word, yet carried so much weight.

Adrian turned the card slightly between his fingers, eyes scanning over it without really reading. His mind was already somewhere else, running through possibilities he didn't want to consider.

"What happens if I say no?" he asked quietly.

George didn't answer right away.

When he did, his tone hadn't changed.

"Then you go home," he said. "You spend what time you have left the way you see fit. And when that time runs out…" He let the sentence trail off, not finishing it. He didn't need to.

Adrian exhaled slowly, the sound heavier than he intended.

That was the reality of it. Stripped down, unavoidable.

Time… or no time.

"I'm not telling you what to choose. This is your life. Your choice…" George stepped back slightly, giving him space again. "Whatever you choose," he said, "I just hope it gives you what you're looking for."

Adrian let out a quiet, humorless breath.

"That makes one of us."

George didn't rise to it. He just gave a small nod, like he understood more than he was letting on.

Then he turned, heading for the door without another word. His hand rested on the handle for a brief second before he paused, glancing back over his shoulder.

"For what it's worth," he added, "you don't strike me as the kind of man who lets things end before they have to."

And then he was gone.

The door clicked shut behind him, leaving the room exactly as it had been before—quiet, sterile, too large for one person.

Adrian sat there for a long moment, the card still in his hand.

He looked down at it again, this time actually reading what was printed there.

It was an isolated location offshore, some island that most tourists passed without a second thought when they were on the ferries. His thumb traced over the edge of it absentmindedly.

He thought about Tiana. About the way she'd looked at him in the park when he fell. The way she'd held onto him like he wasn't something that could break.

His grip on the card tightened.

"...Yeah," he muttered under his breath, though there was no one there to hear it.

Because at the end of the day, it had never really been a choice at all. He'd do whatever it took to be there for his family.

A week later, Adrian still hadn't decided whether he believed any of it. That was the problem. Not the offer itself — he understood what was being put in front of him well enough. Time. More of it, if George was telling the truth. Enough time to see things through that he'd already started to lose.

No, the problem was that it made just enough sense to be dangerous.

He'd spent that week going back and forth, turning the idea over in his head from every angle he could think of. Late nights sitting in the quiet of his apartment, the card resting on the table in front of him like it was waiting. He'd picked it up more times than he cared to admit. He put it down just as many.

Because there was always that voice in the back of his mind, telling him it was too easy or convenient. Nothing worked like this. Not in his life. Most certainly not for him.

And yet…

Tiana had come by twice that week. The second time, she'd brought a drawing she'd made—something bright and uneven, colors bleeding into each other where she'd pressed too hard. It was of the two of them at the park. He recognized it immediately, even if the proportions were off, even if his face was little more than a circle with a smile.

"See? You're not sick there," she'd said, like it was that simple.

He hadn't known what to say to that.

So, after the longest week of his life… Adrian said yes to the offer.

---

The ferry ride was quieter than he expected.

Adrian stood near the railing, one hand resting against the cold metal as the water stretched out around them in dark, restless waves. The wind carried that sharp, briny edge to it, biting just enough to keep him aware of where he was.

He felt so distant from everything he knew, despite only being less than a couple miles away from Long Island.

George stood beside him, hands tucked loosely into his coat pockets, posture relaxed despite the chill. He didn't speak right away, giving Adrian the space to take it in. That, more than anything else, made him harder to read.

"You know, you're not the first to hesitate." George said eventually, glancing out over the water rather than at him. "Most people don't say yes right away."

"I didn't," Adrian replied flatly.

George smiled faintly.

"No. But you're here now."

Adrian didn't respond to that. His attention had shifted forward, toward the structure rising out of the water ahead of them.

The Raft.

From a distance, it didn't look like anything meant to heal people.

It rose out of the water like a relic—cold, gray stone and reinforced steel, built with a kind of permanence that didn't invite comfort. High walls, narrow windows, the kind of architecture that felt more like containment than care. It reminded him of old photos he'd seen of Alcatraz, something meant to keep people in just as much as it kept others out.

"Doesn't exactly scream 'medical facility,'" Adrian muttered.

"That's intentional," George replied easily. "Privacy is important. So is security."

"Security from what, exactly?"

George's gaze flicked toward him briefly, something unreadable passing through his expression before it smoothed over.

"From a world that isn't always kind to things it doesn't understand."

That didn't answer the question. When George saw that the answer left Adrian dissatisfied, the man merely smiled brighter.

"Look at the world as it is, Adrian." George motioned toward Long Island. "The news is nothing but death, war, pestilence, and fear. Mankind often fears what it doesn't understand. Take Mutants for example."

"What about them?"

"Despite what many would like to claim, they're the new race war. It's no longer just discriminating against someone because of the color of your skin. It's discrimination for what you can do… your genetics."

"I don't know what you're getting at," Adrian raised a brow.

"A.I.M. wants to advance the human race, to bring forth a better, brighter future. Mutants are a naturally occurring evolution that are meant to push us to new heights. But those who don't have that… what's the term for it? X-Gene? They're powerless in comparison."

"I'm still not understanding the correlation here, Mr. Tarleton."

"The men and women genetically chosen to become the next step in human evolution, the proclaimed 'Homo Superior', they're going to be fought against. Change is often ridiculed and feared. Imagine if we could help bring about yet another jump in our evolution?"

Adrian finally seemed to understand what George was saying, but it did not help the weight settling into his stomach.

"You want security because A.I.M. is doing genetic modification?"

"Don't make it sound so horrific." George sneered. "We're always pushing into new frontiers. When we wanted to traverse the ocean's depths, we created the submarine. When we wanted to soar high above the clouds, we created the airplane. It's only natural to push forward. What's the difference between us and Oscorp or Stark working on Cross Species Genetics?"

"Then you understand that it's a pipe-dream you're trying to achieve."

"It would be if we were looking to follow in their footsteps. But I don't believe that our future lies in that realm. I believe it's within us."

"This is starting to sound like a mistake."

The ferry docked with a low, grinding sound, metal meeting metal as they were guided in. Adrian stepped off with a quiet exhale, his shoes hitting solid ground again as he took in the structure up close. It loomed overhead, even more imposing at this distance.

And then they walked inside.

The shift was immediate.

It wasn't gradual. There wasn't a slow easing into something more comfortable. One step through the main entrance, and it was like walking into an entirely different place.

Light.

That was the first thing.

Not the harsh, sterile white of a hospital, but something warmer. Natural. Large windows lined the interior walkways, letting sunlight spill in across polished floors and clean, open spaces. The air didn't carry that usual clinical sting—it felt fresh. Controlled, sure, but not suffocating.

And the people…

That was what didn't make sense.

Patients moved through the space freely, some in wheelchairs, others walking with assistance, a few even laughing quietly among themselves. There were IV stands, monitors, subtle reminders of what this place actually was—but they didn't dominate the space. They blended into it.

A woman sat near one of the windows, reading a book with a soft smile on her face. A man further down the hall was playing some kind of card game with a nurse, both of them focused in a way that made it feel less like treatment and more like… life.

Even the staff moved differently. There was no rush. No tension. Just quiet attentiveness, like they actually had the time to care.

Adrian slowed slightly, his eyes moving over everything with a growing sense of unease.

"This is…" He trailed off, not quite sure how to finish it.

"Not what you expected?" George offered.

"No," Adrian admitted. "It isn't."

Because it looked… good.

Too good.

George gestured lightly as they continued walking.

"Unlike Stark, who chooses to utilize militaristic approaches, or Oscorp's focus on biomeds, A.I.M. brings together the brightest minds on the planet to capitalize on the ingenuity of the human body. By utilizing every route, allowing there to be room to explore options rather than maintaining one singular route." His tone shifted slightly, just enough to suggest he'd said this before. "We want to help heal the world while pushing it forward into the future. This is just one of the ways we're—" he paused, coughing lightly into his hand, a faint hint of embarrassment crossing his face, "'aiming' to do that. Sorry. It's… unfortunately part of the speech I have to give."

Adrian let out a quiet breath through his nose, something just short of a laugh.

"I still stand by this sounding too good to be true."

"Fair," George said, not missing a beat. "Words are one thing. Results tend to speak louder."

They turned down another corridor, this one quieter, more controlled. The open warmth of the main area gave way to something more clinical—glass panels, secured doors, subtle shifts in lighting that leaned back toward that familiar sterile edge.

"Come on," George added, motioning ahead. "I'll take you to the lab to begin preliminary screening."

Adrian's brow furrowed slightly.

"Preliminary screening?"

"Blood tests, physicals, vitals. That sort of thing." George glanced back at him with a small, reassuring smile. "Don't worry. It won't take long."

Adrian followed, but the feeling hadn't left him.

If anything, it had settled deeper.

---

The preliminary screening moved faster than Adrian expected, which somehow made it worse. He'd been through enough hospitals in the past year to know how these things usually went—forms, waiting rooms, the slow crawl of time as doctors shuffled between patients like they were rationing attention. This wasn't that. Blood drawn, vitals taken, scans run—each step flowed into the next with an efficiency that bordered on rehearsed. No wasted motion. No idle chatter. Even the machines felt different, sleeker and quieter, like they were doing more than they let on. The usual beeps and hums were muted here, replaced with soft, almost imperceptible tones that blended into the background like white noise. By the time Adrian was guided into the next room, it felt less like he'd been examined and more like he'd been… processed.

He didn't like that thought. It lingered longer than it should have, sticking somewhere in the back of his mind.

The room itself was dimmer than the rest of the facility, the lighting pulled back just enough to make the massive display at the far wall stand out. It wasn't a screen in the traditional sense. It curved slightly, wrapping around the space in a way that made whatever it displayed feel immersive, almost palpable, like it existed in the room with him rather than on it. Lines of code, layered imaging, and something far more intricate than any medical scan Adrian had ever seen flickered across it in shifting patterns. The light from it painted the walls in faint, shifting hues—blues and whites that moved like something alive.

It was his data. He could recognize it instinctively, even if he couldn't immediately parse all of it. There was a structure to it — a language. DNA sequencing, cellular mapping… but taken to a level of clarity that felt invasive. Like it wasn't just showing him what he was made of, but everything that was going wrong with it in real time.

"Impressive, isn't it?"

George's voice came from just off to the side, calm as ever. Adrian didn't look at him right away. His attention stayed on the display, eyes narrowing slightly as he stepped closer without realizing it, drawn in despite himself.

"It's… something," he muttered.

"Mr. Toomes."

The new voice drew his attention. Adrian turned slightly, eyes settling on the woman standing near the console. Monica Rappaccini didn't look like most of the doctors he'd dealt with over the past year. There was no softness to her presence, no attempt to make things feel easier than they were. She stood straight, composed, her expression neutral in a way that didn't feel cold so much as… precise. Dark hair pulled back, sharp features, eyes that didn't miss much of anything. She looked like someone who lived in this world of data and results, not bedside conversations. Even the way she held herself—hands relaxed but deliberate—felt controlled, like every movement had a purpose.

"Dr. Rappaccini," she introduced herself, though it didn't feel like something she needed to say. "I'll be overseeing your case moving forward."

Adrian gave a small nod.

"And here I thought that Mr. Tarleton was going to be taking the reins the whole time."

"Your results came back quickly," Monica continued, already turning back toward the display. With a few controlled movements, the data shifted, reorganizing itself into something more focused. The image zoomed inward—past layers of tissue, past cells, deeper still—until it settled on something that almost didn't look real anymore.

A lattice of structure. Intricate. Fragile.

Damaged.

Even without her explaining it, Adrian could see it. The irregularities. The breakdown. It wasn't just one place—it was everywhere. Threads unraveling, sections collapsing in on themselves like something eating away from the inside. Tiny fractures branching outward, multiplying faster than they should have.

"The damage is very concerning," Monica said evenly, her voice cutting cleanly through the quiet of the room. "But reversible."

Adrian let out a short breath through his nose, something humorless sitting behind it.

"That's a bold claim."

He stepped closer now, arms crossing loosely as he studied the display. It was strange, looking at himself like this. Detached. Clinical. Like the problem wasn't him, just something he was examining. Like if he stared at it long enough, he might find the fix on his own.

"How?" he asked.

Monica didn't hesitate. Another gesture, and the display shifted again. The DNA mapping slid to the side, replaced by recorded footage—lab environments, controlled settings. Test subjects. The lighting changed with it, harsher now, more sterile. Less inviting.

"In 2019, we acquired research on nanomeds from a lab in San Francisco," she explained. "Dr. Banner and Dr. Ross theorized that nanotechnology, when paired with specific radiation types, could stimulate accelerated cellular regeneration. In theory, this would allow the body to rebuild itself at a molecular level—repairing damage once considered irreversible."

The footage played out in silence, save for the faint hum of the display.

A close-up of a starfish in a containment tank. Sections of it missing—clean cuts, deliberate. Then the introduction of something… unseen. No visible injection. No obvious change at first.

Then it started to move.

Adrian's brow furrowed slightly as he watched the tissue begin to regenerate. Slowly at first, then faster. Limbs reforming, structure rebuilding. It should've been impressive.

It was… for about three seconds.

Then it kept going.

The growth didn't stop. It expanded—unnatural, uncontrolled. The shape distorted, cells multiplying too quickly, the structure losing integrity as it tried to keep up with itself. It didn't look like healing anymore. It looked like something trying to outpace its own death.

And then—

The footage cut just before the moment of failure, but the implication was clear enough.

"That," Monica said plainly, "is what we want to avoid."

Adrian stared at the frozen frame for a moment longer than he meant to. Something about it stuck with him—not just the failure, but how close it had been to working. How easily it had crossed that line.

"What the hell?" he muttered under his breath, more to himself than anyone else. Then, louder, sharper: "You want to put that in my body?"

There was no panic in his voice. Not quite. But it was there, under the surface. Controlled. Held in check the same way everything else had been since the diagnosis.

Monica finally looked at him fully then.

"Gamma radiation is too volatile," she replied. "It accelerates the process beyond controllable limits. It destroys more than it heals."

Adrian's jaw tightened slightly, his gaze flicking back to the screen, then to her. He wasn't stupid. He understood what he was being shown.

"You're telling me you found a way around that."

A small pause. Just long enough to feel intentional.

"Which is why," Monica continued, her tone unchanged as she shifted the display once more, "we looked to the past work of the esteemed Dr. Erskine."

"Vita-rays are the key," George said, stepping in just enough to take hold of the conversation without interrupting its flow. His voice carried that same calm confidence as before, but here, in this room, it felt more deliberate. "Unlike Gamma, which destroys… Vita radiation produces a stabilizing effect. It reinforces rather than overwhelms. It's actually believed—if you subscribe to the story of America's first 'Super Soldier'—that it played a critical role in the creation of Captain America."

Adrian let out a short, dry chuckle, the sound scraping slightly against the tension that hadn't quite left his chest.

"Captain America?" he echoed, glancing between the two of them. "You're kidding, right?"

George didn't miss a beat.

"What's more believable, hmm?" he asked lightly, one brow lifting as he gestured vaguely toward the screen, toward the data, toward everything Adrian had already seen. "A super soldier brandishing a shield with our flag on it… or men and women who can manipulate the very elements?"

Adrian held his gaze for a moment, then huffed out something that almost resembled a laugh. Not because it was funny—because it wasn't—but because the logic didn't leave him much room to argue.

"Touche."

His eyes drifted back to the display, to the layered complexity of his own body breaking itself down piece by piece. It was strange how quickly the impossible started to feel… negotiable. A week ago, he would've walked out the second someone mentioned radiation treatments based on theories that sounded like they belonged in a comic book.

A week ago, he hadn't been watching a clock tick down inside his own body.

Monica stepped a little closer then, resting her hand against his arm. Her touch was steady, deliberate—not comforting, but grounding.

"Adrian," she said, her voice softening just slightly—not losing its edge, but easing it enough to meet him where he stood. "I can understand your hesitation. You should be hesitant. What we're proposing isn't… conventional."

That was one way to put it.

"But we have living proof that it works."

His head turned toward her at that, something sharper slipping back into his expression.

"You've already done this?"

"Yes," she answered simply. "Not this exact configuration, but similar procedures. Variations of the same principle. Controlled applications."

"No complications?" Adrian pressed, his tone flattening slightly. "No… starfish incidents?"

A faint flicker crossed her expression—not quite amusement, not quite dismissal.

"Nothing of that nature," she replied. "Every subject has responded within expected parameters."

Adrian's gaze shifted briefly to George, like he was looking for something there—doubt, hesitation, anything that might suggest this was being oversold.

He didn't find it.

George just met his look evenly, hands still tucked into his coat, posture relaxed in a way that didn't feel forced.

"We wouldn't have brought you here otherwise," he said. "This isn't guesswork. It's progress."

Adrian looked back to the screen one last time, studying the damage mapped out in front of him. It didn't feel like looking at himself anymore. It felt like looking at an expiration date dressed up as data. Lines fraying, systems failing, everything slowly giving out in ways he couldn't fix—not with what he knew, not with what he had.

He'd spent his entire life solving problems. Breaking things down, finding the flaw, building something better.

This was the first one he couldn't outthink.

His jaw tightened slightly, breath pulling in slower this time. He didn't speak right away. Didn't look at either of them.

Because the answer wasn't here.

It hadn't been since the moment he woke up in that hospital bed.

"…Alright," Adrian said finally, his voice quieter now, but steady in a way it hadn't been before.

Monica didn't react outwardly, but there was a subtle shift in her posture, like something had just clicked into place. George, on the other hand, allowed himself the smallest hint of a smile.

"Good," he said simply.

---

The first thing Adrian noticed when he woke up wasn't what hurt. It was rather what didn't.

There was no slow crawl back into his body. No stiffness, no ache buried in his bones, no dull constant pressure sitting behind his ribs like something waiting to get worse. He lay there for a moment, staring up at the ceiling, expecting it to come rushing in once his mind caught up, but it didn't.

The air felt… light. Easier to breathe. He drew in a slow breath, testing it, half-expecting that familiar resistance—the tightness that had become second nature over the past month.

Nothing.

His chest rose, fell, smooth and uninterrupted.

Adrian frowned slightly, shifting where he lay. Even that felt wrong in its own way. Not painful—just unfamiliar. His body responded without hesitation, muscles moving the way they were supposed to instead of dragging behind like they had been.

For a moment, he just stayed there, trying to make sense of it.

Then he sat up.

The motion was instinctive, almost careless—and it didn't punish him for it. No sharp protest, no wave of nausea or dizziness threatening to knock him back down. He planted his feet against the floor.

It felt like waking up in someone else's body.

Or maybe… like waking up in his own again.

The room around him was quiet, softly lit in a way that didn't feel clinical. Clean lines, muted tones, everything arranged with a kind of intentional simplicity that made it easy to forget where he was if you didn't think about it too hard. The faint hum of equipment blended into the background, subtle enough that it didn't demand attention.

He rolled his shoulders once, testing the movement. There was absolutely no pain.

A quiet breath left him, something caught between disbelief and something he didn't quite want to name yet. Hope felt… dangerous.

The door slid open not long after.

Dr. Rappaccini stepped in, her presence as composed and controlled as it had been the day before. She didn't rush, didn't react to the fact that he was already sitting upright. If anything, it seemed expected.

"Mr. Toomes," she greeted evenly, eyes already scanning him in that same precise way. "You're awake."

"Yeah," Adrian replied, voice quieter than he intended. He cleared his throat slightly, straightening a bit. "I am."

She moved closer, setting a tablet down beside the bed before reaching for the monitoring equipment. Her movements were efficient, practiced—each action flowing into the next without pause.

"How do you feel?" she asked, though it didn't sound like small talk. It sounded like data collection.

Adrian hesitated.

How did he feel?

He flexed his hand slightly, watching the way his fingers moved. No tremor. No stiffness.

"…I feel like the last month didn't happen," he said finally, the words coming slower than expected, like he didn't fully trust them yet.

That got a reaction.

Subtle—but it was there. A slight shift in her posture, the faintest lift at the corner of her mouth.

"Really?" Monica said. "That's excellent to hear."

Her eyes flicked down to the readings, scanning them quickly. Whatever she saw seemed to confirm it.

"We're going to keep you here overnight," she continued, adjusting something along the side of the bed. "Just to make sure there are no complications that might arise."

Adrian nodded, almost automatically.

"Okay."

He didn't argue or question it. Not when his body felt like this. Not when, for the first time in longer than he could remember, he wasn't bracing for something to go wrong.

Monica gave a small, satisfied nod of her own before stepping back.

"Get some rest," she said simply. "We'll reassess in the morning."

And then she was gone.

Adrian sat there for a while after that, alone with the quiet and the absence of pain. He laid back on the bed and stared at the ceiling for a while, until sleep came to take him away.

For the first time since Chery had died, he had a good night's sleep.

---

AN: Hey guys, hope you're all doing well. So good news: AO3 is back up and running for all of my stories. Things are running smoother now, and I'm trying to get back on track with everything. As I mentioned last chapter one month ago my account on AO3 was suspended for "commercial promotion violations" on all of my main stories. Absolute Spider-Man, Umbra Mortis, and Omni-Blood being the main victims here. I was suspended for 30 days, and my stories hidden until "they were edited properly according to their policies." Yesterday, those stories were thankfully unhidden and are back in the public reach.

I plan on releasing 1 to 2 chapters a week, either Mondays or Wednesdays to get us there quicker to the end of book 1 of Absolute Spider-Man. The weekly releases will continue either to the end of the book, or I run out of backlog, whichever comes first.

However, let's just focus on the chapter at hand because this was a massive shift in POV and speed compared to what we've been dealing with the last couple of chapters. I might have mentioned previously that I had started writing Toomes's origin and found it growing into something I wasn't expecting. Admittedly, almost everything in the last ten to fifteen chapters have been utterly insane to deal with, as my plan for the story blew up into what we have now. Toomes's story will be told from Chapters 48 to 52, marking the longest stretch without Peter's direct involvement. I know a lot of people hated Toomes's guts for what he's done through the story, and I was one of them. But once I started writing his backstory, I began to feel for him, and I truly hope you guys can feel a part of that emotion too, even if you can't forgive him.

Now, I am going to address the elephant in the room that just won't quit.

The AI allegations. I've had to address this a million times on other sites, but I'll reiterate for one final time, and any other comments moving forward will be basically ignored because I'm frankly tired of explaining it again and again. Never wrote in first person before the start of this fic. I am not someone who went to college to get a degree in writing. Everything I have written has been by my own hand, no matter how utterly shite it might be at times. This story was my first real attempt at writing in first person, and that first person narrative reflected how I would personally describe things if I were talking. I was hella depressed when this story started in June of 2025, as I had just broken my wrist and found out it might need surgery. I couldn't go to work because bumping it wrong would cause the broken bones to move. I was isolated from my friends and family for the most part because my mental health took a decline among other things that I will not explain for obvious reasons. The only ones who I was able to talk to and not feel like a burden was those I communicate with on Discord.

They are the ones who helped me get Absolute Spider-Man created. Now, I don't believe I've read AI content to the point it's effected my writing style fundamentally, but that is a claim from someone recently. The way you see me typing here, the way I write SI Peter's POV, that is genuinely how I talk when I dive into details and trying to get the image across. I know it's hard for people to deal with at times, and I understand that. The third person scenes are easier, but admittedly still not up to par with my writing voice.

That is why I mentioned last chapter that I'm going to take the time to go through and edit each chapter that was already posted once book 1 is finished and get up to my own personal standard. I'm writing with pencil and paper now, and this story is getting cleaned up to reflect this change. There will be new scenes, tighter storytelling, and some other surprises that I hope if you ever go back and reread will be happy to see. I have genuinely never used AI to write, whether generative or otherwise.

Now onto some great news: those who want more from the world of Absolute Spider-Man, or rather the Absolute Marvel-verse that I've inadvertently created and expanded a lot more than I thought would... there is a new fic set in that universe. My dear friend, TheZod, who has helped me write MJ's storyline in this story and even a good chunk of my Resident Evil fic, Umbra Mortis, has decided to join the fray by making an Emma Frost story set in this universe. It is a "Semi-SI" with Emma still being the primary person. I can't explain it well, but if you read it, you'll understand. The story is located here on QQ, Spacebattles, FF, and AO3. QQ link will be at the end of the AN.
His writing style is a lot more classical and he has been very open with his ideas for the story and how it ties in to the greater Absolute Marvel universe we are weaving together.

So, if you're excited to see more of the Absolute Marvel-verse and how the X-Men are involved with this, I highly suggest you check it out. I am super excited for the future of this, even knowing some of what Zod has planned.

Once book 1 ends for Absolute Spidey, Absolute Frost will be filling the void it leaves while I focus on getting book 1 cleaned up and start on book 2. However, don't worry. If you want more from the Absolute Marvel-verse beyond Spidey and Frost... there is a new story being brewed in the background.

Absolute Weapon X is going to be a side story set in the universe giving us our first look at some iconic characters. What you might be expecting will not be the case, and honestly... I wish I could tell you more and show you more. When the final chapter for book 1 is posted, I shall give a sneak peek to Absolute Weapon X.

But that's about all I have to say today, hope you all enjoyed the chapter, and I will see you next Monday, 9/28/2026 with Chapter 49.



Council Members:

Bunkeeroe
Seren
Orion



Links



This story is cross-posted on AO3, FF, QQ, and Royal Road.

Absolute Frost:

 

[Lillie Jones]

Absolute Masterpiece
Thanks for the update and the messed up AI allegations hodpodging your stories, which I thought I already had Absolute Spider-Man book 2 in the bag during your sabbatical.
Absolute Frost I might check it out when Absolute Spider-Man book 1 one ends, which Adrian Toomes Tragic backstory explains how Jackal got his clutches into Adrian Toomes cancer situation and killing Aunt May doesn't excuse his actions either Also Jackal's evil fine print by threatening his granddaughter for saving his life .This is what I infer from the backstory and background of the Absolute Marvel verse.
Jackal comes looking for his investment for the cure and the price of being the Vulture.
Looking forward to more of Peter Parker SI choice of killing Vulture or not is a mercy or ending painlessly for the man who made Spider-Man.
As it won't bring back Aunt May but this is definitely testing Spider-Man Peter flexible moral to the highest level.

Continue on
Cheers!

 

[Arsenal597]

Absolute Masterpiece
Thanks for the update and the messed up AI allegations hodpodging your stories, which I thought I already had Absolute Spider-Man book 2 in the bag during your sabbatical.
Absolute Frost I might check it out when Absolute Spider-Man book 1 one ends, which Adrian Toomes Tragic backstory explains how Jackal got his clutches into Adrian Toomes cancer situation and killing Aunt May doesn't excuse his actions either Also Jackal's evil fine print by threatening his granddaughter for saving his life .This is what I infer from the backstory and background of the Absolute Marvel verse.
Jackal comes looking for his investment for the cure and the price of being the Vulture
Continue on
Cheers!

Click to shrink...

Absolute Frost I do suggest checking out. It's not directly tied in to Spidey at the moment. Technically it's starting wayyyy before it, and will tie in only once we get deeper into book two. Toomes's origin is going to be explained a lot more in the next few chapters, so stay tuned!

 

[Heavenly Mark]

Nice

 

[Arsenal597]

The alarm hadn't gone off yet.

Adrian laid still for a moment, staring at the ceiling, waiting. It was automatic at this point — the morning inventory, that slow internal check that had become as routine as breathing over the past month. Chest. Spine. Lungs. He catalogued without thinking, bracing for the familiar weight of it all.

It didn't come.

He turned his head toward the window. Morning light pressed through the gap in the curtains in a thin, pale bar that fell across the foot of the bed. He watched the dust moving through it — slow, aimless, going nowhere in particular. He wasn't sure how long he laid there doing that. Long enough for the light to shift slightly, the bar of it stretching further across the blanket.

Then he sat up.

There was no cost to it. No punishment. His body just moved, the way it was supposed to. The way it hadn't in longer than he wanted to think about. He sat on the edge of the bed and pressed his feet flat against the floor and breathed in, slow and full. His chest rose without complaint. He held it for a second, then let it go. Then he did it again, just to be sure.

The room around him was quiet. It was small and clean, just the way one would think a hotel room would look like. Though this wasn't a hotel room, it was a 'hospital' room. He didn't know what to call this place, but the word 'hospital' didn't sit right, that was for sure.

There was a chair in the corner with his folded clothes on it. A narrow table with a glass of water he hadn't touched. The equipment along the wall was muted now, its work apparently done, just a faint hum that had blended into the background sometime during the night. Through the window, the water caught the early light in flat grey pieces, broken apart by the chop of the wind.

He stood up.

That was all — he just stood, one motion, no hesitation — and something about the simplicity of it stopped him where he was. He hadn't stood up like that in months. Hadn't gone from sitting to upright without that half-second calculation, that brief negotiation with his own body about whether the movement was worth it. He'd forgotten what it felt like to just stand.

Adrian looked down at his hands. Turned them over once. The tremor that had started showing up in his fingers around the same time as everything else — that small, persistent betrayal — was gone. His hands were steady. He pressed them together, feeling the pressure, the warmth, the solid reality of them.

He got dressed, and that was unremarkable, and unremarkable had never felt so good.

The Raft's corridors were quieter in the morning than they'd been the day before. A few staff members moved through them with that same unhurried attentiveness he'd noticed on arrival, nodding as he passed without breaking their pace. He followed the corridor toward the main atrium, where the large windows let the morning come in properly — wide and clean and full of sky. A handful of other patients were already out, moving slowly through the space or sitting near the glass, and the whole thing had that particular quality of a place still waking up. Unhurried. Soft around the edges.

He felt like he could have run laps around every single one of them.

That thought almost made him laugh, which surprised him. Not the laugh itself — he was in a genuinely good mood in a way that felt unfamiliar enough to be slightly disorienting — but the ease of it. The absence of that low, grinding undertone that had colored everything for the past month. Even on the days he'd managed to seem fine, to show up for Tiana and hold things together, there had always been that undercurrent. The awareness of the clock. The sense that every moment of normalcy was borrowed.

This morning, for the first time, he couldn't hear it.

He found the courtyard through a set of glass doors at the far end of the atrium — a narrow outdoor space between the inner and outer walls of the facility, more functional than beautiful, with a few benches and a strip of pale stone running along the edge. The water was visible beyond the outer wall, dark and restless in the morning wind. The air hit him when he stepped out, sharp and cold and carrying that briny bite off the water, and he stood there for a second just breathing it in.

Footsteps behind him.

"You're up early."

George Tarleton fell into step beside him without ceremony, hands finding his coat pockets, posture easy against the chill. He looked at Adrian with an expression that was carefully neutral — measuring, in that quiet way he had — before something in it shifted.

"You look different," he said.

"I feel different," Adrian replied. He glanced over at him, then back out toward the water. "Twenty years younger, give or take."

George smiled at that — not his usual restrained version, something fuller. Something that reached his eyes.

"Good," he said simply. Then, after a beat: "Tell me."

Adrian wasn't sure where to start.

"I'd forgotten what it was like to just breathe. To wake up without that rattle in my chest, the ache that traveled into my arms. To not feel like I'd run a mile without moving a muscle." Adrian chuckled dryly, a slight sniffle catching as he pursed his lips together. "I don't hurt, George. I'd forgotten what that was like."

George didn't respond immediately. He walked beside him with his hands still in his pockets, looking out toward the water, letting Adrian's words settle upon the waves.

"I'd started doing this thing," Adrian continued, quiet now, like he was admitting something he hadn't meant to. "Every morning, I'd start the same way. Going through everything that hurt before I even got out of bed. Chest first, then my back, then whatever new thing had decided to announce itself overnight." He paused. "I didn't even realize I was doing it until this morning; when I woke up and went through the whole routine and there was nothing to find."

He exhaled through his nose as George finally glanced his way. There was something refreshingly warm in his expression.

"And your mobility? How is it?" he asked.

"I stood up this morning," Adrian explained. "Just stood up. I didn't need to support myself on anything to do it either."

They walked the length of the courtyard slowly, the stone pale and damp beneath their feet, the wind coming off the water in steady, unhurried pulls. Adrian kept his hands loose at his sides. He was aware of them in a way he hadn't been yesterday — aware of the steadiness in them, the absence of that low persistent tremor he'd been managing for weeks. He'd gotten good at hiding it. Keeping his hands occupied, or still, or out of frame entirely. He hadn't realized how much quiet effort that had cost him until the effort was gone.

"I feel like I could work," he said. "Actually work. Not push through it for a few hours and spend the rest of the day paying for it." He glanced over at George. "I used to spend entire weekends doing nothing because I'd used everything I had just getting through the week. I thought that was just getting old." A dry beat. "Turns out I was a little more wrong about that than I'd like to admit."

George made a sound that wasn't quite a laugh but carried the warmth of one.

"Well, my friend… You're not wrong to feel what you're feeling," he said. "What you're describing — that recovery of baseline function — it's exactly what the procedure was designed to restore."

"Restore." Adrian turned the word over. "That's one way to put it." He looked out toward the water, grey and wide and catching the light in pieces. "I feel better than I did ten years ago, George. That's not restoration. That's something else."

George didn't argue the point.

He just smiled, and this time he let it stay.

George slowed slightly as they reached the far end of the courtyard, where the outer wall met the corner of the building and the wind came through sharper, unbroken. He turned to face Adrian with that same composed ease he carried everywhere, though there was something behind it this morning that felt less like professionalism and more like genuine satisfaction.

"We will want to keep you for a couple more days," he said. "Just to monitor. Make sure everything continues tracking the way it should." He tilted his head slightly. "Dr. Rappaccini covered this with you yesterday, I believe."

"She did," Adrian confirmed. He wasn't bothered by it. A couple of days was nothing. A couple of days was the kind of thing he could afford now, and the awareness of that — of time being something he had again rather than something he was rationing — still felt new enough to catch him off guard when he thought about it directly.

"Of course," he nodded. "I just can't wait to go home."

Something shifted in George's expression. The professional warmth that had been there all morning gave way to something simpler, less constructed. He reached out and put a hand on Adrian's shoulder — a brief, solid weight.

"Make sure when you do, you hold that granddaughter of yours tight." His smile was broader than Adrian had seen it. Unguarded, almost. "Enjoy it, Adrian."

Adrian looked at him for a moment. Then he nodded, once, and turned back toward the water.

He intended to.

---

The apartment smelled like time standing still.

Adrian noticed it the moment he pushed the door open — that particular staleness that crept into a space when nobody was really living in it anymore. Not dirty, exactly. Just settled. Undisturbed in the way that things got when the person moving through them had stopped having the energy to disturb them. He stood in the doorway for a moment with his bag in hand, taking it in.

He'd been gone less than a week.

It had apparently been longer than that in every way that mattered.

The curtains were drawn the way he'd left them, pulling the room into a dim, flat grey. A mug sat on the kitchen counter with a dried ring inside it where the last of something had evaporated rather than been finished. A stack of mail on the table that he'd stopped bothering to sort. Shoes by the door at an angle that suggested they'd been kicked off by someone too tired to straighten them. Every surface had that look of things put down temporarily and never picked back up, weeks of small surrenders adding up into something that had its own quiet weight.

He set his bag down and stood there in the middle of it.

His illness had been in these rooms the same way it had been in his body. He could see that now with a clarity he hadn't had before — how it had moved through the apartment the same way it moved through him, dulling things, narrowing things, reducing the whole space down to whatever was strictly necessary. The couch because he needed to sit. The bed because he needed to sleep. The kitchen only as far as the counter, and only when he had to. Everything else had simply contracted around him, and he'd stopped noticing because he was contracting too.

He opened the curtains first.

Light came in hard and immediate, throwing the room into relief in a way that made the neglect more visible rather than less. Dust on the windowsill. A film on the glass that softened everything beyond it. He unlatched the window and pushed it open, and the air that came through was cold and carried the smell of the street below — exhaust, pavement, the faint green edge of the small trees lining the block — and it moved through the apartment like it was clearing something out.

Then he got to work.

He wasn't sure what time it was when he started. He wasn't sure what time it was when he finally stopped, either, because time had done that thing it occasionally did when the task in front of you was clear enough and your hands were busy enough — it had simply ceased to be relevant. He cleaned the way he used to clean, back when the apartment was a home rather than a place he endured. Properly, completely, without stopping halfway through because his back had decided it was done for the day. He moved furniture. He scrubbed surfaces until they reflected.

He found a cloth and worked it across the windowpanes until the glass gave back an honest view of the sky outside. He dealt with the mail, sorted and stacked and two envelopes directly into the trash. He washed the mug and every other dish that had accumulated in the quiet resignation of the past months, and he put them away in the right places.

He found a candle in the cabinet above the refrigerator that Tiana had given him two birthdays ago — something vanilla, he thought, though the label had rubbed off — and he lit it and put it on the table, and the smell of it moved through the kitchen in a way that made the room feel inhabited again.

By the time he heard the knock at the door, the apartment looked like itself. Or maybe like a better version of itself — the version that existed before everything got so heavy. He pulled the door open and found Frankie with his hand still raised to knock again, Lenora just behind him with Tiana at her side, and all three of them went through the same sequence in the space of about two seconds. Eyes moving past him into the apartment. Then back to him. Then into the apartment again.

Frankie said nothing for a moment.

"Dad," he managed finally, and the word came out carrying more than he'd probably intended it to.

He looked good — Adrian knew that, could feel it in the straightness of his own posture, the absence of that grey, carved-out quality that illness gave a face after long enough. He'd caught his reflection in the bathroom mirror earlier and barely recognized it. Not because he looked young, exactly, but because he looked present. Like someone who was actually occupying his own face rather than just making use of it.

Lenora's hand found Frankie's arm without her seeming to notice she'd done it.

"Hi, sweetheart," Adrian said, and crouched down slightly as Tiana came forward.

She hit him at a run, the way she always did, like the distance between them was something that needed to be closed as fast as physically possible. He caught her without thinking, arms coming around her easily, and the weight of her was so familiar and so grounding that he had to take a breath just to stay level. She smelled like the outside — cold air and something faintly sweet, whatever Lenora had put in her hair that morning — and she held on with that particular intensity kids had when they'd been worried about something and hadn't known how to say so.

He held her back just as tight.

"You look better, Papa," she said into his shoulder, muffled and matter of fact, like she was reporting something she'd observed rather than expressing relief.

"I feel better," he told her. He meant it simply, the way she'd said it. No weight to it, no undercurrent. Just the plain truth of it.

He straightened up and stepped back from the doorway, and Frankie and Lenora came inside. Frankie moved through the apartment the same way Adrian had that morning — taking stock, processing, trying to reconcile what he was seeing with whatever version of this place he'd been carrying in his head. He stopped near the kitchen doorway and looked around with his hands in his jacket pockets, and something in his jaw worked quietly for a moment before he got it under control.

"You cleaned," he said finally.

"Spent most of the day on it," Adrian replied.

Frankie nodded slowly, like that information was doing something complicated inside him. He was his father's son in the way that mattered — he didn't spill things easily, kept whatever was moving through him somewhere below the surface where it couldn't inconvenience anyone. Adrian had watched him learn that growing up and had never been entirely sure whether to feel proud of it or sorry for it.

Lenora was warmer about it, the way she'd always been warmer about most things. She put her arms around Adrian properly, a real embrace rather than the careful, tentative ones he'd been getting lately — the kind people gave when they were afraid of hurting something fragile. This was different. This was just her actually glad to see him, and he appreciated it more than she probably knew.

"You look wonderful," she said, pulling back to look at him with both hands still on his arms. Her eyes were bright in a way she wasn't trying to hide. "Adrian, you genuinely look wonderful."

"Monica Rappaccini apparently knows what she's doing," he said.

Lenora laughed — short and relieved and real — and the sound of it loosened something in the room that Adrian hadn't fully registered was still tight. Frankie's mouth moved into something that was almost a smile, and he glanced away toward the window like he needed a second with the view.

Tiana had already migrated to the kitchen, apparently satisfied with her assessment of the situation and ready to move on to more pressing concerns. She was standing on her toes trying to see what was on the counter, the way she always did when she arrived anywhere, performing a quiet inventory of whatever space she'd entered.

"Is there food?" she asked.

"There will be," Adrian said. "Give me an hour."

She accepted this and dropped back onto her heels, wandering instead toward the small shelf near the window where he kept the handful of things that had accumulated there over the years — a photograph, a small ceramic thing she'd made him at school the year before, a few books stacked without much order. She touched the ceramic piece and straightened it slightly, then moved on, apparently satisfied.

Frankie drifted toward him while Lenora followed Tiana, and for a moment it was just the two of them standing in the kitchen doorway with the candle burning on the table between them, the vanilla smell of it filling the space quietly.

"We should have been coming by more," Frankie said. He wasn't looking at him when he said it. His eyes were on the table, on the candle, on nothing in particular. "Before all of this. We should have—"

"Frankie."

His son looked at him.

"You're here now," Adrian said simply.

It wasn't absolution, and he didn't intend it as such. It was just the truth of it, the thing that mattered most when you stripped everything else away. The past stayed where it was. The people in front of you were the ones you could actually do something about.

Frankie held his gaze for a moment, then nodded once. That was enough. That was how they'd always worked, the two of them — efficiently, without making a production of the things that didn't need one.

"You said something about food," Frankie said.

"I did."

"You need help?"

Adrian looked at his son — at the steadiness of him, the way he was already rolling up his sleeves slightly like the question was already answered — and felt something settle in his chest that had nothing to do with the procedure or the Raft or any of it.

"Yeah," he said. "Come on."

---

Adrian couldn't remember the last time he'd cooked with Frankie. The rhythm of working together in the kitchen was slow. They struggled to work around each other in the small kitchen without having the routine figured out. When Marcus was alive, Frankie and him would whip up five star meals every Sunday. The whole family would come together.

When his daughter, Valeria was still in town, she'd bake something for the weekly meal. She made some of the best brownies he'd ever tasted. While he couldn't replicate the same level of cuisine, Adrian would do what he could to make this a night to remember.

Frankie took the counter by the stove without being asked, because he'd always gravitated toward the heat, and Adrian worked beside him prepping whatever needed prepping, and after a few minutes of quiet adjustment they stopped bumping into each other and it started to feel natural.

Tiana had been relocated to the living room with the understanding that the kitchen was not a spectator sport, a ruling she'd accepted under protest. Her voice drifted in periodically — something she'd found interesting on the shelf, a question directed at Lenora that answered itself before Lenora could respond — and the sound of it moved through the apartment and made the whole place feel different. Fuller. Like the rooms had been waiting for exactly this volume of noise and had finally gotten it.

Adrian was slicing vegetables when he noticed the smell of the onion.

Not in the way he usually noticed it — that vague, functional awareness that something sharp was nearby. He actually smelled it. The full complicated layers of it, the bite and the sweetness underneath and the faint earthiness of the skin still on the cutting board. He stopped what he was doing for just a second, struck by it, which was an absurd thing to be struck by.

"You alright?" Frankie asked.

"Fine," Adrian said. He set down the knife and picked up a piece of the pepper he'd cut earlier, turning it over once before eating it, and the taste of it was so immediate and clean that he almost laughed. "Everything tastes different," he said, mostly to himself.

Frankie glanced over at him.

"Different how?"

"Uh, I don't know. Just… better." Adrian shook his head slightly, reaching for the knife again. "I don't know how else to put it. It's like I'd been eating everything through a layer of something and I didn't realize it. The food at the Raft, the first morning — I thought they were just good cooks." He paused, looking at the pepper. "I don't think it was the cooking."

Frankie watched him with that careful, measuring expression he'd inherited from his mother's side of the family. Chery had looked at people the same way — like she was running quiet calculations before she committed to a response.

"What else?" he asked.

Adrian chuckled softly. It would track that Frankie would be able to tell there was more under the surface.

"To be honest? Everything." He said simply. He moved to the sink to rinse his hands and stood there for a moment, looking out the small window above it at the slice of street visible from this angle. A woman walking a dog. A cab moving too fast through the intersection at the end of the block. Two kids on the corner doing nothing in particular with great commitment. He could see all of it with a sharpness that felt almost rude, like he was intruding on details that were meant to stay in the background.

"My sinuses must have been worse than I realized for years. I can smell the candle from here. I could smell this apartment the second I walked in — really smell it, not just notice it." He turned off the tap. "And my vision. I haven't needed my glasses since I woke up at the Raft."

Frankie had gone still beside the stove.

"Dad."

"I know."

"That's not — that's not how procedures work."

"I'm aware." Adrian dried his hands and turned back to the counter, picking up where he'd left off with the easy practicality of a man who'd decided not to spiral about something he couldn't currently explain. "I've thought about calling Monica about it. I probably will. But right now I feel better than I have in twenty years, and I'm choosing to have dinner with my family before I start asking complicated questions."

Frankie stared at him for another moment, then exhaled through his nose and turned back to the stove.

"Fair enough," he muttered.

They cooked in a comfortable quiet for a while after that. Adrian found himself tracking sounds he wouldn't have caught a week ago. The specific sizzle of the oil hitting the pan. Lenora turning a page in the living room. Tiana's feet against the floor when she shifted position — a soft, rhythmic sound, barely there.

"You're not wearing your hearing aids," Frankie said, surprise laced in his voice.

"Nope," Adrian replied, without looking up from the cutting board. "Haven't worn them since the procedure." He glanced over at his son then, and something in him felt like smiling properly for the first time in longer than he could remember. "You're crystal clear, buddy."

Frankie looked at him.

For a second his face did something complicated and fast that he didn't quite manage to get ahead of — something that moved through his eyes and pulled briefly at the line of his mouth before he got it back under control. He turned toward the stove again and picked up the wooden spoon and stirred something that didn't need stirring.

"Good," he said, after a moment. His voice came out slightly rougher than usual. "That's — yeah. Good."

Adrian let it sit there without comment, because that was the right thing to do with Frankie, had always been the right thing to do with Frankie. You gave him room and you didn't make it bigger than it needed to be, and eventually he found his footing again.

By the time Tiana declared from the living room that she was starving and that dinner was taking an amount of time that she considered unreasonable, they were both laughing, and the kitchen smelled like something warm and good, and Adrian stood in the middle of it feeling so entirely like himself that it almost scared him.

Almost.

---

Dinner was loud in the way that meals only got when Tiana was involved.

She had opinions about everything — the way the food was plated, the fact that Adrian had gotten a different brand of juice than the one she preferred, the ongoing and apparently unresolved debate about whether the window should be open or closed during dinner given that it was, in her words, very cold outside and also very cold inside and she didn't understand why those two cold things needed to be connected. Lenora talked her down from the window argument with the practiced patience of someone who had been navigating Tiana's particular brand of logic for a decade. Frankie ate and said little and occasionally looked up with the expression of a man who had made peace with the chaos around him and found it agreeable enough.

Adrian sat at the head of the table and watched all of it and didn't say much either.

He didn't need to. It was enough just to be in it — the noise and the warmth and the specific, irreplaceable texture of his family taking up space around him. He'd sat at this table through enough quiet dinners alone over the past couple of years that the contrast was something he felt physically, the way you felt the warmth of a room after coming in from the cold. He hadn't realized how much he'd missed the weight of other people until they were here filling it in.

Tiana caught him looking at her at one point and narrowed her eyes.

"What?" she said.

"Nothing," Adrian said.

She studied him with deep suspicion for another second, decided he wasn't up to anything worth investigating, and went back to rearranging her plate in whatever configuration she was currently working toward. He watched her and felt something in his chest that was so simple and clean it almost didn't have a name. Just — this. Just her, here, at his table, with food getting cold because she was too busy talking to eat it properly.

He'd almost missed this.

The thought arrived quietly, without drama, and he let it pass through without holding onto it. There wasn't any use in dwelling on the almost. The almost hadn't happened. He was here, she was here, Frankie was refilling his glass and Lenora was trying to explain to Tiana that the food would taste the same regardless of how it was arranged on the plate, and the candle on the table had burned down about a third of the way and the apartment smelled like dinner and vanilla and the cold air coming through the window that Tiana had eventually, grudgingly, accepted.

After they'd eaten, Tiana migrated to his side with the inevitability of a tide coming in. She leaned against his arm while Frankie and Lenora talked across the table, heavy in the way kids got when the evening was winding down and sleep was making its first quiet arguments. He shifted slightly to accommodate her without interrupting anything, and she resettled and went still, one hand wrapped loosely around his forearm.

"Papa," she said, in the low, unhurried voice she used when she was mostly talking to herself.

"Mm."

"I'm glad you're better."

He looked down at the top of her head. The small, familiar part in her hair. The way she was already listing slightly toward sleep without quite giving in to it yet.

"Me too, sweetheart," he said quietly.

Lenora caught his eye across the table and smiled — the soft, uncomplicated kind that didn't need anything attached to it. He nodded once, and that was enough, and Frankie was already saying something about the drive home and the time, and the evening had that gentle downward slope to it now, winding toward its end the way good evenings did.

Later, after they'd gone — after the hugs at the door and Tiana's prolonged goodbye that involved several return trips for things she'd forgotten and one final, fierce squeeze around his middle that he felt long after the elevator doors had closed — Adrian stood in his apartment in the quiet and looked at the table.

Four plates. Four glasses. The candle still burning low.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd had four of anything on that table.

He cleared up slowly, without rushing it, and washed the dishes the way he had that afternoon — present, unhurried, his hands doing the work while the rest of him simply existed in the moment without pulling toward anything else. The water was warm. The kitchen was quiet. Outside, the city moved through its evening at its own pace, indifferent and constant.

He dried his hands, turned off the kitchen light, and stood for a moment in the dark of the apartment.

Then he smiled before making his way to the bedroom.

---

He hadn't planned on going back to Oscorp that week.

It wasn't something he'd thought through consciously — the decision had been more instinctive than that, the way old habits reasserted themselves when the conditions that had disrupted them were finally gone. He'd simply woken up on the third morning after Frankie and Lenora's visit, felt the clarity of the day settling in around him, and found himself thinking about the flight suit.

Not in an urgent way. Just the way unfinished things had a tendency to resurface when your mind had room for them again.

He took the subway, which he hadn't done in months. The stairs at the station had become something to manage toward the end — something to time correctly, to take one at a time with a hand on the railing and his breathing measured. He went down them that morning without thinking about it at all, and only realized what he'd done when he was already at the bottom. He stood there for a second on the platform while people moved around him, and then he kept going.

The Oscorp building had that particular evening quality it got after seven — quieter in the lobby, the daytime rhythm of it wound down to something more skeletal. The security guard at the desk was a man named Curtis who'd been there longer than most of the researchers and acknowledged Adrian with a nod that said he remembered him without making a thing of it. Adrian signed in and took the elevator to the engineering floor and walked the corridor to his lab with his hands in his pockets, and the whole building felt familiar in a way that was almost startling after so long away.

His lab was exactly as he'd left it.

That was both reassuring and slightly embarrassing. The suit was where he'd spread it across the secondary workbench three months ago — partially assembled, the primary and secondary wing joints laid out in sequence, the electromagnetic coupling array still waiting on a calibration he'd never gotten back to. He'd covered it with a drop cloth before things got bad enough that he couldn't come in anymore, and the drop cloth was still there, exactly as he'd left it, undisturbed.

He pulled it back and stood looking at the suit for a moment.

Then he sat down, pulled the coupling array toward him, and got to work.

Time moved the way it used to when a problem had its hooks in him properly. He wasn't watching it. His hands were steady and certain, moving through the calibration with a sureness that hadn't been there before — or maybe had been there before the illness and he'd simply forgotten what it felt like to trust them. The electromagnetic tolerances that had been giving him trouble for weeks resolved themselves in under an hour. He sat back and looked at what he'd done and felt the quiet satisfaction of something finally clicking into place.

He was deep into the wing joint assembly when he heard the door.

He knew the footsteps before he looked up. Norman Osborn had a particular way of moving through a space — deliberate, unhurried, the walk of a man who had never needed to rush because the room had always been willing to wait for him. Adrian had known that walk for the better part of thirty years. He looked up anyway.

Norman looked older than the last time he'd seen him.

It had only been a few months, but the illness had been at work in that time in ways that a few months had no business producing. He was thinner through the face, the sharp angles of it sharper now in a way that had crossed from distinguished into something else. He moved without a cane, but there was a carefulness to how he carried himself — a slight conservation of effort that wasn't quite disguised. He was dressed well, the way he always was, jacket and open collar, his silver hair sitting exactly right. Norman Osborn was not a man who let his appearance go regardless of circumstance. But the effort behind it was visible now in a way it hadn't used to be.

His eyes, though. Those were the same. Still sharp, still present, still carrying that particular quality of attention that had always made conversations with him feel like being looked at rather than looked past.

They moved over Adrian now, and stopped.

"You're here late," Norman said with a chipperness that surprised him.

"Could say the same about you, old friend."

Norman's mouth moved into something that was almost a smile. He came further into the lab, moving between the benches with the ease of a man who had spent enough time in rooms like this that they all felt like his. He stopped at the edge of the workbench and looked down at the suit, taking in the spread of components with the particular attention he gave to anything that represented a significant engineering problem.

"You made progress," he said.

"Couple hours of it." Adrian set down the tool he was holding and leaned back in his chair, looking at his old friend properly for the first time. "I hadn't planned on coming in. Just couldn't stop thinking about the coupling array."

"That's how you know it's worth solving," Norman said. He reached out and touched the edge of the primary wing joint — not handling it, just the fingertip contact of someone who understood what they were looking at. "The electromagnetic variance issue?"

"Resolved."

Norman looked at him then.

"In one sitting?"

"In one sitting."

Something moved through Norman's expression — appreciation, maybe, or recognition. He pulled a stool from beneath the adjacent bench and sat down without ceremony, settling into it with a careful ease that he probably hoped wasn't noticeable. Adrian noticed and said nothing.

"You look well," Norman said.

"I feel well."

"Better than well." Norman studied him with that direct, undecorated attention he'd always had. "You look the way you looked fifteen years ago, Adrian. What did they do to you over there?"

"Something that worked," Adrian said. "I'm still trying to understand the specifics."

Norman accepted this without pushing, which was one of the things Adrian had always valued about him. He understood the difference between curiosity and interrogation, and he chose accordingly. He looked back down at the suit instead, his eyes moving over it with a slow, genuine interest.

"Walk me through where you are with it," he said.

So Adrian did. He talked through the assembly the way he always had with Norman — without simplifying, without translating, straight into the engineering of it because Norman had always been able to follow and had always wanted to. The electromagnetic coupling, the wing geometry, the variable resistance problem he'd been trying to solve in the joint assembly that would allow the suit to adapt dynamically to wind resistance rather than fighting it.

Norman listened and asked the right questions in the right places and made two observations that Adrian turned over and found genuinely useful, and the conversation moved the way their best conversations always had — like something with its own momentum, each exchange building on the last without either of them having to work at it.

At some point Norman picked up one of the smaller components from the bench — a secondary stabilizer housing, lightweight alloy, about the size of his palm — and turned it over in his hands while Adrian talked, the way he did when he was thinking. His hands were slightly unsteady, Adrian noticed. Just slightly. Norman either didn't notice or had decided not to.

"The lift-to-drag ratio on the primary wing configuration," Norman said, setting the component back down. "If you increased the sweep angle by eight degrees—"

"Eleven," Adrian said.

Norman paused. Then he laughed — a short, genuine sound, the kind that came out when something actually caught him off guard.

"Eleven," he repeated. "Show me."

Adrian pulled a sheet from the stack beside him and sketched it out, and Norman leaned forward over the bench to look, and for a while the lab was just the two of them and the problem in front of them and the quiet of the building around them, and it felt like thirty years ago when they were both younger and the future was something they were building toward rather than something that had already started happening to them.

Eventually Norman straightened. He did it slowly, one hand briefly on the bench edge, and then he was upright again and composed and looking at the suit with an expression that had gone somewhere quieter.

"It's good work," he said. "It's always been good work."

"It'll be better when it's finished."

"It will." Norman looked at him. "I'm glad you're back."

There was more in it than the words. Adrian heard it and let it sit there without making it into anything it didn't need to be.

"Wasn't planning on going anywhere permanently," he said.

Norman smiled at that — small, real, the kind that didn't ask for anything back. He straightened his jacket and moved toward the door, that careful deliberateness back in his step. He paused at the threshold and looked back at the suit one more time, and something in his expression was difficult to read. Thoughtful, maybe. Or something adjacent to it.

"You know, at this rate we might be able to make this have an appearance at the next expo."

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves. Still got some kinks to work out."

"Come on, Adrian. A little optimism doesn't hurt every now and then."

Adrian scoffed at that.

"I wasn't saying that. I was just saying let's slow down and make sure we do this right."

"Take it easy, okay? I'll see you tomorrow?"

"Absolutely."

Norman nodded once, and left.

Adrian sat in the quiet of the lab for a moment after the footsteps faded. Then he turned back to the bench, picked up his tool, and kept working.

---

The first time Adrian noticed the strength, he was moving a bookshelf.

It was a Saturday morning, three weeks after the procedure, and he'd decided the shelf needed to go to the other wall because the light hit it wrong and he'd apparently developed opinions about that sort of thing now that he had the energy to have them. He'd braced himself the way he always did with heavy furniture — weight forward, knees bent, already calculating how many breaks he'd need — and then he'd lifted it, and it had come up like it was empty.

It wasn't empty. It had never been empty.

He stood there holding it for a moment, recalibrating, then carried it to the other wall in one smooth motion and set it down without breaking his breathing. He stepped back and looked at it and then looked at his hands, and the feeling that moved through him was somewhere between exhilaration and something he didn't have a word for yet.

He started running the following week. Not because anyone suggested it, not as part of any plan — he'd simply been walking through the park one morning and something in him had wanted to move faster, so he had. Two miles passed before he thought to check. He wasn't winded. His legs weren't burning. He slowed to a walk and stood on the path watching other joggers pass him with their faces red and their breath coming in visible clouds, and felt completely separate from the effort that was costing them.

He called Monica on a Tuesday.

She ran a remote consultation, asked him to describe what he was experiencing in specific terms, and listened without interrupting. When he finished, the pause on her end lasted long enough that he noticed it.

"I'm not seeing anything in your bloodwork that would indicate an abnormal response," she said finally. "Your cellular regeneration has stabilized. Everything is tracking within expected parameters."

"Monica, I moved a bookshelf that I couldn't have lifted ten years ago."

"Residual improvement isn't unheard of," she said. "The procedure was aggressive. There may be some overcorrection in certain areas that normalizes over time."

He relayed the same information to George two days later and got a warmer reception and essentially the same answer. They'd monitor. They'd run additional panels. They weren't concerned.

Adrian thanked them and hung up and sat with the fact that he was, apparently, on his own with this.

The hunger had crept in so quietly that he genuinely couldn't locate when it had started. That was the thing that bothered him most when he tried to examine it — there was no clear point of origin, no morning he'd woken up and noticed it for the first time. It had arrived the way weather arrived, something that was simply there when you finally paid attention to it. A low, persistent grumble in the pit of his stomach that food addressed without solving.

He ate well.

He ate more than he used to, actually, his appetite larger and more insistent than it had been in years, and every meal sat fine and nourished him the way it was supposed to and left the craving sitting exactly where it had been before. He couldn't name the craving. Couldn't point at something and say that was what he was hungry for. It just stayed there, quiet and constant, like a frequency he couldn't tune out.

He didn't mention it to Monica or George.

He wasn't sure why. Partly because he couldn't describe it in terms that felt clinically useful. Partly because the rest of it — the strength, the energy, the way the world had sharpened around him into something almost uncomfortably clear — still felt so good that he didn't want to hand anyone a reason to look at it sideways.

Tiana had requested Coney Island three times in two weeks before he finally set a date, which was exactly the kind of persistence he'd raised her father to recognize and respect, even if Frankie had apparently forgotten to pass the lesson along. They went on a Saturday in late April, when the weather had turned just warm enough to make it reasonable without the summer crowds that made the whole place feel like a different animal. He picked her up at nine and she was already in her jacket and waiting by the door when he got there, which Lenora said was unprecedented.

It was a good morning.

That was the clearest way to put it — it was a good morning in the way that some mornings simply were, without requiring anything specific to make them so. Tiana moved through the park the way she always did, with that particular ten-year-old energy that treated the entire world as something personally arranged for her investigation. She had opinions about which rides they went on first and which ones were overrated and which one the two of them were doing together whether he liked it or not, and he followed her lead and didn't argue and felt the specific, uncomplicated happiness of a man exactly where he wanted to be.

His hearing had sharpened again in the past week. He noticed it in a concentrated way here, where the sounds layered on top of each other in the open air — music from the carousel, the mechanical grind of a ride somewhere to their left, conversations bleeding into each other from every direction. He could separate them if he tried. Pick one voice out of the noise and follow it, the way you could focus on a single instrument in a full orchestra. He tried not to do that. It felt like something that wasn't meant for him.

The hunger was manageable through the morning. He'd eaten before they left — more than enough, deliberately — and the food stands they passed held nothing that made it worse. He bought Tiana a hotdog around noon and something for himself and ate it standing up while she narrated a detailed account of something that had happened at school that week, and it tasted good and went down fine and left the grumble sitting where it always sat.

Then the afternoon crowds came in.

It wasn't dramatic. The park filled up the way it did on decent Saturdays, gradually and then all at once, and he was in the middle of it before he fully registered the change. They were waiting in line for something Tiana had decided was essential when it started — a warmth at the edges of his senses that wasn't temperature, something that pressed in from the people around him in a way he couldn't immediately categorize.

Then he understood what it was and his stomach dropped.

They smelled good.

Not in any way he had language for — not cologne or soap or any surface thing he could point at. Something underneath that. Something that came through the warmth of bodies in close proximity and hit the hunger like a key in a lock, and the hunger answered in a way it hadn't before, loud and sudden and entirely different from the low grumble he'd gotten used to managing. He kept his face still. Tiana was saying something beside him and he nodded at the right intervals and kept his eyes forward and tried to locate the edges of the sensation and found that it didn't have any. It was just there. Everywhere.

The man directly in front of them shifted his weight and turned slightly, and Adrian caught something — a sound, almost, or the memory of a sound — a rhythm beneath the general noise of the place that was too steady and too specific to be anything ambient.

A pulse.

He could hear the man's pulse.

He moved them out of the line with a calm he manufactured from nothing, telling Tiana he thought he'd seen the game she liked on the way in and they should double back. She redirected without complaint, already moving, and he followed her and put the crowd behind him and stood in a slightly clearer stretch of the path and breathed through it until the sound receded to something he could push beneath the afternoon.

Tiana looked back at him from a few steps ahead.

"You coming, Papa?"

He looked at her — her bright, uncomplicated face, the jacket she'd zipped all the way up to her chin, the absolute certainty in her expression that he would be right behind her — and felt the hunger go quiet in a way it hadn't in weeks.

Just for a moment. Just for as long as he held her in his sight.

"Right behind you," he said.

And he was.

---

Frankie opened the door before Adrian could knock.

That was Frankie — he always heard the elevator. Some parental reflex that had never switched off even after Tiana stopped being small enough to need it. He took one look at Adrian standing in the hallway and his expression did something careful and controlled that Adrian recognized as his son deciding not to say what he was actually thinking.

"Hey," Frankie said. "You look tired."

"Long day," Adrian replied. "Good day. Just long."

Tiana pushed past her father's legs before he could respond, already unwinding her scarf, narrating the highlights of the afternoon to no one in particular and everyone in general. Lenora appeared from the kitchen and caught Adrian's eye over Tiana's head and gave him a smile that warmed slightly with relief — the same relief he'd been seeing in her face since he came back, still not fully faded.

"You should stay for dinner," she said.

"I ate at the park," Adrian told her, which wasn't entirely true but wasn't entirely false either.

He stayed long enough for Tiana to finish her account of the day, which required his participation at several key points to verify the accuracy of her retelling. He confirmed that yes, she had in fact beaten him on the ring toss. Yes, twice. He stayed long enough to drink half a glass of water at their kitchen counter while Frankie watched him in that quiet, measuring way he'd inherited from Chery, and long enough for Tiana to hug him goodbye with that same fierce, unhesitating grip that always made his chest ache in the best possible way.

"Same time next month?" she asked into his jacket.

"Same time next month," he confirmed.

Frankie walked him to the door. In the hallway, with Lenora and Tiana out of earshot, he stopped him with a hand briefly on his arm.

"You sure you're alright?"

"I'm tired, Frankie."

"I can drive you."

"It's four blocks."

Frankie studied him for a moment with that expression that meant he knew he was being managed and had decided to allow it.

"Call me when you're home," he said.

Adrian told him he would and took the elevator down and stepped out into the evening.

The cold hit differently than it had that morning. It had a weight to it now, pressing against him from the outside while something pressed from the inside, and the combination made the four blocks feel like a negotiation he wasn't sure he was winning. He kept his pace steady and his hands in his pockets and told himself it was just the day catching up with him. He'd been on his feet for hours. He'd eaten, but not enough, and the hunger had been working on him since afternoon, and the body had limits, even a recovered one, and all of this was explainable and fine.

He turned off the main street two blocks from his building.

The alley was the shorter route, the one he'd taken a thousand times — a narrow service corridor between two older buildings that let out onto his block and saved him half a minute he'd never once actually needed to save. He took it out of habit, the way you did with familiar paths, without thinking about whether it was the right choice.

By the time he was halfway through, his legs were wrong.

It came on fast and from everywhere at once — a muscle fatigue that didn't feel earned, that had no relationship to the walking he'd done, like something had reached into his body and turned a dial down. His thighs felt loaded. His calves were pulling tighter with each step, the sensation traveling upward and inward until his lower back joined it, and the dizziness arrived right behind, a slow tilt in his vision that he tried to blink away and couldn't. The sweat came next, cold and immediate across his forehead and the back of his neck, and he put a hand against the alley wall and stood there for a moment breathing through it.

The hunger wasn't a grumble anymore.

It was a sound, almost — a hollow, resonant thing that lived behind his sternum and radiated outward, and it had stopped being something he could manage around and had become the primary fact of his body, the thing everything else was organizing itself in response to. He pressed his back against the wall and closed his eyes and tried to find the edges of it.

"Sir."

The voice came from his left, maybe eight feet away.

Adrian opened his eyes.

The man was young — mid-twenties, maybe, hood up, shoulders forward in the way people stood when they were trying to take up less space and more space simultaneously. The gun was a dark shape at the end of an outstretched arm, pointed at Adrian's face with a steadiness that suggested either experience or desperation, and Adrian had been in this city long enough to know that desperation was the worse of the two.

"Your wallet," the man said.

Adrian looked at the gun and then at the man behind it and felt something in his chest that was almost — not quite, but almost — relief. A problem with a solution. Something he could talk his way through.

"Okay," he said, keeping his voice level, his hands coming up and out from his sides in the slow, visible way that meant I'm not a threat. "Okay, son. Take it easy." He moved one hand toward his jacket pocket, deliberate, nothing sudden. "I'm getting it out right now. You can have whatever's in there. I'm not going to fight you."

He had the wallet in his hand when the man stepped forward.

"Faster," he said, the steadiness in his arm slipping just slightly.

"I'm moving," Adrian said. "Here—"

He held it out.

The man snatched it with his free hand and looked at it for half a second and then looked back at Adrian with something flickering in his expression that hadn't been there before — calculation, or fear, or the specific volatility of someone who had crossed a line and was now deciding how far past it they were willing to go.

He brought the gun up and pistol-whipped him across the left cheek.

The impact snapped Adrian's head hard to the side, his shoulder catching the wall, a sharp crack of pain radiating from the point of contact outward through his jaw and up into his temple. He tasted copper before he understood where it was coming from — warm and immediate, tracking down from where the gun's grip had split the skin above his cheekbone and running thin across his lips.

He smelled it a fraction of a second later.

The world stopped.

Every sensation that had been tearing him apart in that alley — the fatigue, the dizziness, the weeks of grinding hollow hunger — collapsed inward and then exploded outward as something else entirely. Something that recognized the smell the way a key recognized a lock, immediate and total and without any input from Adrian Toomes whatsoever. His vision sharpened to a point. His legs, which had been failing him thirty seconds ago, were solid. His hands were steady. The cold was gone. The sweat was gone. Everything that had been wrong with his body was suddenly and completely gone, replaced by a singular and overwhelming clarity of purpose that had no language and needed none.

The robber saw it happen.

That was the part Adrian would never be able to think about directly afterward — the way the young man's expression changed in that fraction of a second. The aggression drained out of his face so fast it was almost architectural, like a structure losing its supports, replaced by something raw and animal and very, very young. His mouth opened. The gun hand dropped without him seeming to decide to drop it. His back found the opposite wall as Adrian moved toward him, and his eyes — wide now, whites showing fully — tracked Adrian's approach with the particular focus of a person whose brain had just finished delivering a very clear and very final piece of information.

He tried to speak.

Adrian's hand closed around his throat before the sound arrived.

The gun hit the ground somewhere. The robber's hands came up and found Adrian's wrist and forearm and pulled with everything he had, his sneakers scraping against the alley floor as he tried to find purchase, tried to create distance, tried to make any of the things his body understood how to do function the way they were supposed to. They didn't. Adrian held him against the wall with one hand and felt the man's pulse hammering against his palm — rapid, desperate, the heart doing everything it could — and the hunger recognized that too and became something beyond hunger, beyond any word Adrian had for what was moving through him.

The robber made a sound. High and broken and terrified, the sound of someone who had run out of options and knew it.

Adrian's teeth found his throat.

The scream that should have come out didn't. There was a wet, tearing sound instead, immediate and enormous in the narrow space of the alley, and the robber's hands stopped pulling and started convulsing, fingers opening and closing against Adrian's arms with a rapidly diminishing strength. His legs buckled.

Adrian went down with him, the hunger pulling him forward and down, his hands and mouth working with a mechanical and terrible efficiency that had absolutely nothing to do with the man who had spent the day at Coney Island with his granddaughter earlier that afternoon.

The robber's eyes stayed open.

That was the thing. They stayed open and they stayed present for longer than Adrian would have believed possible, tracking with a fading, glassy desperation — looking for something, some exit, some reversal of the last sixty seconds that wasn't coming. His lips moved once. No sound. His hands had stopped moving entirely.

The light in his eyes dimmed the way light dimmed in rooms when someone cut the power, not all at once but in stages, and then it was gone, and the alley was quiet, and Adrian was still there over him and couldn't stop.

He didn't stop.

The hunger was a living thing and it demanded and he answered and answering was the most horrifying relief he had ever experienced in his life — total and complete and nauseating in its totality, weeks of that grinding hollow want finally silenced, his body flooding with a warmth that started at his core and moved outward through his limbs like something spilling. He was present for every second of it. That was the part with no mercy in it.

There was no darkness that took him, no gap he could locate afterward where Adrian Toomes had simply not been there. He watched himself from somewhere just behind his own eyes and he was aware and he was conscious and he could not stop.

When the hunger finally released him, the alley was very quiet.

Adrian straightened. His breathing was even — completely, obscenely even — and his legs held him without effort and the dizziness was gone and the cold had stopped mattering. His cheek had already closed. He raised two fingers to it and felt smooth skin where the cut had been, the blood already dried and flaking at the edges, his body having handled the wound the same quiet way it had been handling everything for a month.

He looked down at the body, and then away.

He stood in the alley with his back to what was behind him and his hands held slightly out from his sides; the euphoria moved through him like a tide he had no way to stop or redirect or refuse — warm and total and completely disconnected from what he believed or valued or had spent sixty-three years being. His body was satisfied in a way it hadn't been since before the procedure, maybe longer. Every cell of him settled and quiet and replete.

He wanted to be sick.

His body wouldn't let him. There was nothing wrong. That was the message coming from every nerve and muscle and system — nothing wrong, everything correct, this is what you needed. He stood there receiving that information and hating every word of it.

His wallet was on the ground nearby. He looked at it for a moment, then crouched and picked it up and put it in his pocket. The gun was further down the alley, half in shadow. He didn't touch it. He straightened and looked at the strip of sky visible between the rooflines — narrow, dark, a handful of stars fighting through the light pollution — and he held onto that view for a while because it was the only thing available to him that had nothing to do with what was behind him.

He thought about Tiana.

Same time next month, she'd said, with that complete and total certainty.

He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes and stayed like that until his legs told him to move.

He walked the two remaining blocks home at a steady pace. His hands had stopped shaking before he reached the end of the alley. He took the stairs instead of the elevator, for no reason he could name, and stood outside his apartment door for a long moment before he unlocked it and went inside.

He did not call Frankie.

---

The bathroom light was too bright.

Adrian stood at the sink with the water running and looked at himself in the mirror and didn't recognize what he saw. Not in the way he hadn't recognized himself after the procedure — that had been a good surprise, the return of something familiar. This was different.

This was a man standing in a bathroom with blood on his face and blood caked into the creases of his fingers and blood dried at the corner of his mouth, and the worst part, the part that sat in his stomach like a stone, was that his body still felt wonderful.

He turned the tap to cold and put his hands under it.

The water ran pink, then clear. He watched it go without moving, his fingers spread against the basin, the chill of it grounding him in a way he needed. His reflection watched him back. The cut on his cheek was gone — smooth skin, dried blood the only evidence it had ever been there — and his eyes were his eyes and his face was his face and everything was fine. Everything was completely fine.

He cupped water in his palms and brought it to his face and washed the blood away in slow, methodical passes, the way he did everything — quietly, thoroughly, without leaving anything half-done. The water dripped from his jaw into the basin. He reached for the towel without looking away from the mirror.

He smelled it before the towel reached his face.

The copper and salt of it, still on his lips, still present beneath the cold water smell, and his body responded before he made any decision about responding — a slow, involuntary movement of his tongue across his lower lip that he felt happening and could not stop and did not stop.

The taste hit him like a current.

His eyes closed for just a second.

Yesssss.

The word arrived from somewhere he couldn't locate — not a voice exactly, not external, but present in the way a thought was present when it wasn't yours. Quiet and patient and deeply, deeply satisfied, threading through the base of his skull like something that had always been there and was only now deciding to make itself heard.

Adrian opened his eyes.

The mirror showed him a man gripping the edge of the sink with both hands.

Knuckles pale. Shoulders up. The posture of someone bracing against something. He made himself release the porcelain and straighten and look at his own face directly, the way he'd always faced difficult things — without flinching, without looking for an easier angle.

The reflection flickered.

It lasted less than a second. A single frame dropped from the reel of the world, there and gone before he could be certain he'd seen it. But he had seen it. He had seen it clearly — the thing in the mirror wearing his face, his height, his hands still raised from the sink's edge, but with eyes the color of open wounds, red and luminous and completely without doubt, looking back at him with an patience and a hunger that the feeding hadn't touched at all.

Adrian stumbled back a step.

His shoulder caught the towel rail and he grabbed it and held on and stared at his reflection — his real reflection, his eyes, his face, his face — and his breathing came faster than it had all night, faster than the alley, faster than anything, because the alley had taken him by surprise and this he was watching happen.

He made himself step forward again. Made himself look.

His teeth.

They were changing.

It was subtle and yet, at the same time, not — the canines descending by degrees, the edges of them sharpening in a way that had nothing to do with anything human, the geometry of his mouth rearranging itself into something older and more terrible.

He watched it happen in real time and felt the panic rising through him like floodwater and underneath the panic, beneath it, running concurrent and unstoppable, the euphoria came back. His body sang with it. The warmth returned to his chest and spread outward and the small, patient voice at the base of his skull purred with a satisfaction that was becoming harder to locate as separate from his own.

He smiled.

He didn't mean to. His reflection smiled first and his face followed, or the other way around, and the smile showed his teeth, those wrong and sharpening teeth, and the man in the mirror looked pleased in a way that Adrian Toomes had never looked pleased in his life.

It looked like something wearing his face and enjoying the fit of it. It looked like something that had been waiting a long time for exactly this and found the wait entirely worthwhile.

The fear and the euphoria moved through him in the same moment, indistinguishable from each other, two currents running through the same water.

Adrian stared at his own smile until the bathroom light seemed to pulse.

Then he reached out and turned the mirror to the wall.

He stood in the small bathroom in the sudden absence of his own reflection, breathing, just breathing, his hands at his sides and the water still running in the sink and the city outside going about its night without him.

The voice said nothing else.

It didn't need to.

It was already home…

---

Hey guys, sorry about not posting this yesterday. I got caught off guard by some stuff and was unable to post in time. Those who are part of my discord server and are of sufficient rank were able to get this chapter at the time of the previous update. This will continue to be so for the future chapters.

Those who support my writing can get up to ten chapters in advance, but as we are approaching the end of book 1, I am dwindling down on the backlog. Once book 2 begins production, a considerable backlog will be made for it then.
Council Members

Bunkeeroe

Orion

Seren



This story is cross-posted on AO3, FF, QQ, and Royal Road.


Next chapter is slated to be posted on 10/4/2026

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[Lillie Jones]

I Definitely see how it goes now , which Jackal didn't have to threaten his family. Adrian Toomes was slowly becoming a Vulture/ human hybrid and the insatiable hunger of eating human flesh cannibalism possiblely ,but he can't even imagine what he becoming something inhuman. And possible even hurting his niece's life.
Damn that sucks.
Continue on
Cheers!