"Devil! This guy's a devil—kill him!"
A bearded terrorist snapped out of his daze and shouted orders at his men. Dozens of gun barrels turned toward Jack Kadere, and a barrage of gunfire erupted.
But it was pointless.
The bullets pinged harmlessly off Jack's reinforced suit, sparking briefly before falling to the sand. Not a dent, not a scratch.
Jack sighed. "Why do they always try bullets first?"
With a flick of his wrist, a rush of air whipped around him, gathering sand and debris into a swirling vortex. The storm sharpened, spinning faster and faster until the sand sliced like razors through the air.
Within seconds, the gunmen dropped one after another, their throats cut by the very desert they stood in.
"See? Why waste time punching people when you can just weaponize air pressure and atmospheric particulates?"Jack muttered. "Crocodile would be proud."
He adjusted his jacket and walked toward the cave entrance.
"Yinsen! You alright in there?"
From the shadows inside the cave, a massive metal figure clanked forward—Mark I, the prototype armor Tony Stark built in captivity. The suit's bulky silhouette lumbered past Yinsen, still glowing slightly from the makeshift arc reactor in its chest.
"What the hell was that?" Tony's voice echoed from inside the armor. "Explosives? Earthquake? I was two screws away from welding my leg into the frame."
He paused at the cave mouth—and then froze at the sight outside.
Corpses littered the ground. Blood soaked the sand. Wind still howled gently across the dunes.
"Yinsen… you didn't do this, did you?"
Tony stepped forward in the clunky armor and finally caught sight of the man standing amidst the destruction.
Black battle suit. Cape fluttering in the wind. Eyes glowing faintly beneath a dark cowl.
"…You've gotta be kidding me."
"Black Spider?" Tony asked, incredulous. "You're real?"
Jack tilted his head. "I'd prefer you didn't call me that. Honestly, it's kind of reductive."
Tony blinked. "Well, pardon me for assuming you were an urban legend in New York. Didn't think superheroes came with frequent flyer miles to Afghanistan."
"I was already looking for you, Stark. This just saved me the trouble."
Tony let out a dry laugh. "You're seriously gonna leave it at that?"
"Pretty much."
Jack began to rise into the air, wind gathering beneath his boots. "There's food and water stashed nearby. Just wait for the military pickup."
"Wait—what? You're not even gonna give me a lift?"
Jack smirked. "Call it a motivational push. You made that suit to walk your way out, didn't you?"
With that, he shot skyward and vanished into the clouds, leaving Stark to shake his head.
"Okay," Tony muttered, "this just went from traumatic to comic book crazy."
...
Back in New York City — Ghost Spider Fan Club Headquarters
Calling it a "club" was generous. The Ghost Spider Fan Club had recently expanded into something far more functional.
A gym. A training facility. Possibly even a secret base. Officially, it was a closed community club. Unofficially, it was the proving ground for the next generation of young heroes.
Jessica Jones threw a kick at the training dummy, sweat glistening on her brow.
"Left leg! Now right cross! Eyes forward, Jess—keep your focus!" came Jack's voice from the edge of the mat.
Leaning back in a lounge chair, Jack watched the training session with the calm smugness of a teacher who did just enough.
Jessica was wearing a black tank top and fitted combat leggings, her toned limbs moving with increasing grace and power.
"Looking good," Jack said. "But you're still a little unbalanced. Straighten those kicks. Remember the technique."
Jessica huffed. "I'm working on it, okay? You're the one lounging like a king over there!"
Jack held up his hands. "Hey, I'm guiding. Besides, you've got talent—you just need polish. I'm training you to be a real hero, not just someone who punches things hard."
Jessica struck a dramatic pose. "I already punch things really well, thank you."
She paused, then added, "By the way, are these moves even legit? You sure you're not making up martial arts on the fly?"
Jack leaned forward, feigning offense. "Excuse me? This is an ancient Eastern technique passed down by monks and martial masters."
He gave a small, sly smile.
Honestly, it's mostly scraped from a corrupted Animus Combat Memory Implant buried deep in Abstergo's archives. I filtered out the suicidal parkour moves and reworked it for people who actually want to keep their limbs intact. Superhuman-friendly, borderline cursed—very practical.
"Uh-huh." Jessica side-eyed him. "Guess I'll have Gwen try them out. If she approves, maybe I'll believe they're not just yoga with punching."
She took a sip from her sports drink and asked, "So, Jack, are you ready to meet Ghost Spider or not? You've been dodging the moment."
Jack's eyes flicked to the TV, where the news ticker scrolled: "Tony Stark Returns Home After Hostage Ordeal in Afghanistan".
He stood up casually. "Actually, I am ready. And more importantly, I need to sell off all my Stark Industries stock."
PFFFT! Jessica nearly choked on her sports drink. "Wait—what?! You're selling now? Stark just got back from Afghanistan! His stock's about to blow up!"
Jack crossed his arms, flashing that smirk. "Tch. Rookie move."
He flailed his arms like he was about to drop the hottest pitch ever. "Here's the play: buy low, sell high, rinse and repeat like you're Jordan Belfort on a money bender! Flip that stock five times before breakfast, and ride the wave straight to yacht life."
Jessica blinked, half-amused, half-worried. "Dude, you're like some kind of litchi-stock sorcerer or Wall Street wolf or something."
She shook her head. "Don't blow it all, okay? If you go broke, I'm back to hauling grain sacks to fund your superhero wardrobe obsession."
Jack gave her a look that said please. "Please. Roll with me, and you get the full VIP treatment. We're talking champagne, not sweatshops."
He threw in a grin. "Besides, the only sack you'd be carrying is a Gucci tote stuffed with cash."
Jessica giggled and stuck out her tongue. "Alright, Mr. Wolf of Wall Street."
Jack spun on his heel, already rehearsing his TED Talk on market domination. "That's right. I am the Stock God."
....
Elsewhere – Oscorp Tower, Genetic Research Division
Chaos.
Dr. Curt Connors stood in the middle of his lab, fuming as several company movers boxed up his research.
"No! You can't do this!" he snapped, blocking their path. "These are sensitive materials! Biological samples! You have no idea what you're disrupting!"
The executive in charge, a lean man in a tailored suit, didn't flinch. "Dr. Connors, your funding contract is expired. The board has decided—your project no longer aligns with Oscorp's current goals."
Connors' one hand clenched into a fist. "I'm close. I'm so close. I can stabilize the regeneration formula. I just need—"
"We've heard that line before," the exec interrupted coldly. "And with the Osborn family in crisis and shareholders breathing down our necks, we can't afford pipe dreams."
He waved at the movers. "Clear it all. He can take what's his, the rest is property of Oscorp."
As they packed up vials and digital drives, Connors could only stare, helpless.
Almost there, he repeated in his mind. Just a little more time...