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c
The city’s pulse had flatlined. Spider-Man crouched atop a flickering streetlamp, the amber glow casting jagged shadows across his mask as sirens wailed three blocks east. Another attack. Another body. Same story all week—civilians collapsing mid-stride, skin crackling with that unnatural black veins, then... changing. Not Oscorp’s tech, not magic. Something worse. His spidey-sense prickled as a garbage truck overturned below, metal screeching against asphalt. Three figures emerged—not people anymore. Hulking, twitching things with too many joints, eyes like shattered glass reflecting streetlights. They moved wrong. Fast. Hungry. He launched a web-line, swinging low enough to catch the stench—burnt ozone and rotting meat. “Hey, Ugly Committee! Meeting’s adjourned!” A tendril snapped past his ear, razor-edged. These weren’t Lizard’s failed experiments. These things… they remembered. One wore half a police uniform, badge still gleaming on its distended chest. His stomach lurched. Officer Brantley. They’d shared a coffee last Tuesday. The fight blurred into acrobatics and cracked concrete. Every punch felt off—their bodies gave like wet clay, bones shifting under his fists. By the time he webbed the last creature to a billboard (SALE AT J.JONAH’S! 50% OFF SCOOPS!), his knuckles were bleeding through the suit. The comms crackled. “Spidey.” MJ’s voice, tight. “Get to the docks. Now.” He found the container half-submerged in the East River, water sloshing against its rusted hull. The symbol made his blood freeze—a crimson helix wrapped around a crescent moon. He’d seen it before. Berlin. That failed Roxxon raid. Inside, vials glowed faintly blue beside a shattered cryo-chamber. Security footage played on a loop across cracked monitors: a woman in a lab coat, sharp features frozen mid-laugh. Dr. Kafka. The name made sense now. Her journal pages were waterlogged, but the sketches… God. Hybrid DNA. Chimeras. Not a bioweapon. A transplant. She’d found a way to splice abilities. That kid last week who scaled the Baxter Building like a gecko—the construction worker who survived a twelve-story fall by… melting. They weren’t attacks. They were trials. And the “virus”? A delivery system. The mutations weren’t failures. They were upgrades. Midnight peeled back the sky as he swung toward the financial district. Kafka’s last entry burned in his mind: *Phase Three initiates at moon zenith. Subjects will transcend.* The clock on the MetLife Building read 11:47 PM. Thirteen minutes till the city’s heartbeat stopped for good.
