Control
Tap to fire.
c
Swing into action, your Spidey-Senses screaming as the beast lunges—muscles coiled, jaws dripping with hunger. Yank the web-shooter skyward, thrusting yourself vertical just as claws slice the air where your head was. No time to breathe. Fire a rapid burst of silk-strands, sticky lines crisscrossing its limbs mid-charge, but this thing’s no thug in a Halloween mask—it thrashes, tendons bulging, snapping cables like twine. You pivot, boots skidding asphalt, and spot the cracked support beam overhead. One shot. Aim. Squeeze. The web-line hooks steel, and you torque your body into a whip-crack arc, momentum slingshotting you downward. Fist meets scaled hide in a crunch, the follow-up web-blast mummifying its snarling maw. Not enough. It’s still moving. You vault onto a lamppost, perch like a predator, and unleash the full payload—a hurricane of webs engulfing the creature, layer after layer, until it’s a twitching cocoon. Pulse racing, you drop low, grip the last canister. “Night-night, ugly.” The final strand seals it—silent, still. For now.
