The Amazing Spider-Man
Livin' on the Edge 7/???
Mini-Arc: Beware the Sandman 3/5
Chapter Thirteen: The King's Offer
The world was dark — or at least Peter's vision was. He stirred, head pounding, lungs fighting for every breath. He wasn't falling. He wasn't moving. He was… contained.
He opened his eyes to sand packed so tight against his arms, legs, and chest that it felt like stone. Only a small hollow in front of his face provided air — a deliberate pocket left for him to breathe.
Nice of the big walking beach to keep me alive, Peter thought. Guess he wants me awake when I meet his boss.
He tested his strength, jerking against the grain. He tried to punch the sand; it shifted, then tightened again, like a muscle flexing in response. No way out. His spider-sense thrummed faint and fuzzy — overloaded. Smothering.
Peter sighed. "Okay. What that young Jedi master said a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away is true, sand gets everywhere. Irritating, relentless, awful. But enough movie quotes, Parker. Time for getting out of here, step one— don't panic. Step two — uhhh, figure out whether you've officially lost it."
That's when he heard a voice. "…um, hello? Does this work?" It was faint, but Peter could tell — female. Familiar, even, though he couldn't place why.
Peter blinked. "Great. Now I'm hearing voices. Spider-sense plus concussion equals hallucinations. Awesome. I've finally lost my marbles and it only took two minutes tops."
"No," the voice replied quickly — timid, but steady. "You're not mad. I'm… a friend. And I'm going to help you out of this."
Peter's brow furrowed beneath his mask. "A friend, huh? So what's the deal? Did God send me an angel, or did you just happen to stroll by my little sand coffin and feel bad?"
He felt it — not words, not exactly, but the shape of a laugh. Genuine. Warm. Even surprised at itself.
Peter grinned faintly in the dark. "Okay, at least my jokes still land. That's a relief. So… mystery angel voice, what's the plan?"
"Please don't call me that. I… have a friend who goes by Angel. It'll just get confusing. Call me… uh…" She hesitated, fumbling. "Forget it. I don't have a codename yet. I'll explain later. Right now, just listen: my reach to you is weak, but I've read his mind — the Sandman's. I know where he's taking you. Just… stall them. Make time until I get there."
And then, just like that, the presence vanished. Peter blinked. "…Well. There goes my guardian angel." He exhaled, shoulders tight against the crushing sand. Great. I've got mystery angel-lady in my head, and a giant sand monster for an Uber. Could this night get any worse?
Peter sat in the suffocating cocoon, waiting. And waiting. And waiting some more. Finally, he felt the motion slow. Voices filtered through the grain pressing against his ears.
"Brought you a gift," Sandman's gravelly tone rumbled. "Hopefully you keep your part of the bargain."
Peter strained, but the reply was muffled, indistinct. Whoever Sandman was talking to, they weren't someone Peter wanted to meet.
The cocoon lurched. For the first time since being hauled across half the city, it came to a full stop. Then—thud. He was dropped hard onto solid flooring.
The sand peeled away like a curtain, spilling him out in a heap. Peter groaned, brushing grit from his mask as his eyes adjusted to the scene.
Cold marble gleamed beneath him. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the night skyline. Chandeliers glistened above like captured stars. Art, sculpture, wealth everywhere. But the true centerpiece wasn't the room.
It was the man. He stood behind a desk like it was a throne, a mountain of muscle in a suit so perfectly cut it looked painted on. His head was shaved smooth, his expression unreadable. A polished black cane rested lightly in one hand.
Peter froze. That silhouette—it was impossible to mistake. "…Don't I know you from somewhere?"
The man turned, lips curving into the faintest smile. His voice was smooth, cultured, yet heavy with restrained thunder.
"Where are my manners? Good evening, Spider-Man. My name is Wilson Fisk. You may know me better as… the Kingpin."
Peter's eyes widened behind the mask. "Wait—you?! But you were at the gala. The Chameleon—"
"Yes," Fisk interrupted, stepping out from behind the desk with slow, deliberate gravity. "And he would never have harmed me. He was there at my command. Bait to lure you into my web." His smile hardened. "An unexpected variable arrived in your Silk accomplice. But that is of no matter. You are here now… and now, we can discuss business."
Behind Peter, Sandman loomed like a watchful sentinel, grains whispering across his body with every ripple. Around the perimeter, a dozen guards leveled rifles, boxing Spider-Man into a tightening circle.
Peter's spider-sense blared like a siren. Every fiber of him screamed move, but he forced himself still. He remembered the voice — the strange "angel" who'd whispered in his head. Stall. Make time. She said she was coming.
He had to hope she wasn't bluffing.
"So," Peter said, forcing levity into his tone, "I'm guessing this isn't a social call."
"On the contrary," Fisk said smoothly, closing the distance with slow, deliberate steps. Up close, his sheer bulk was suffocating. His shadow swallowed Peter whole.
"The world has changed," Fisk continued. "You cannot run a modern enterprise without countermeasures for super-powered interference. For years, I've cultivated individuals to fill that gap. Dmitri, the Chameleon. The Wrecking Crew. Mr. Marko here." He gestured; Sandman gave a low grunt. "And now, Spider-Man… I want you."
Peter blinked. "…I don't do internships."
Fisk's smile didn't falter. "You already do what I require. You hunt the dregs of this city. You remove the weeds the police cannot touch. I would have you continue — but with guidance. My guidance."
He circled Peter like a predator, his voice low and deliberate. "Stay out of my territories. Do not touch my men. When a competitor steps out of line, or a masked freak disrupts my operations, you will… persuade him to reconsider. In return, you will be paid. Handsomely. You will never work a normal job again."
The room was silent. Every guard waited, fingers tight on their triggers.
Peter's throat felt dry. His instincts screamed fight, but that would get him perforated. He forced a quip out anyway: "Uh-huh. So let me get this straight. You want me to be your… what? Hired bug? Exterminator-for-hire?"
Fisk stopped in front of him, towering, immaculate white suit glowing under the chandelier. His cane tapped once on the marble like a judge's gavel.
"No, Spider-Man," Fisk said, voice like stone. "I want you to be my knight."
Peter's heart thudded. His mind raced. Stall. Just stall. And in the back of his head, he prayed the voice — the angel — wasn't bluffing.
To Be Continued…