The Amazing Spider-Man
Livin' on the Edge 8/???
Mini-Arc: Beware the Sandman 4/5
Chapter Fourteen: Behind the Mask.
The marble floor beneath Peter's red boots felt colder than the winter air outside.
Kingpin's office was a cathedral to power — high ceilings, fat leather chairs, art that probably cost more than Peter's entire neighborhood — and in the center of it all, a man who made the room feel smaller simply by existing.
Spider-Man walked the long shadow of that man like a fool pacing his own funeral.
He paced back and forward through the office, because he had to do something. He paced because doing nothing felt like agreeing. He paced because the ticking of the ornate clock on Fisk's mantel carved time into him.
He had to make a decision soon, Fisk's patience would run out and Peter wouldn't want to be here when that happened. Tick. Tock. Tick.
"Let's be efficient," Fisk said at last, voice smooth as silk and twice as cold. "I'm sure you have questions, ask them and I'll answer them truthfully."
He watched Spider-Man from behind his desk the way one might study a specimen under a microscope. Sandman loomed at his shoulder like a bodyguard sculpted from a storm — grains shifting, ready to reassemble into fists and teeth at a thought.
Spider-Man threw words like gravel into the gears of the moment. "Okay, fine. How much are we talking? A figure. Money. Bills. I—" he stumbled, but the message got out.
Fisk's smile didn't change. "Enough that you will never have to worry about money again." A simple promise. A terrifying one.
Peter kept the questions coming — not because he expected the answers to help, but because stalling was all he had left. He hesitantly said the most important question to him "Would I have to… You know, kill people? Because I don't do that. That line? Not crossing it."
Fisk leaned forward, hands folded. "You will not kill. Not yet, at least. New hires are always resistant about killing — and I understand, it's a difficult line to cross. But when you work for me, you will make my enemies suffer. You will make them regret. You will make them fear." He paused, his voice softening into something worse. "That is my business. You will be an instrument I pay for. Nothing more." The words landed like blows. Make them regret living.
Peter's stomach clenched. Even if the money could feed Aunt May for years, even if it was more than he could win in the bugle, even if could erase the constant worry that haunted him, it wasn't a solution — it was surrender. Fisk could ease the pain, sure, but the thought of letting his hands be used that way, of becoming someone who made the world worse for a paycheck, made his skin crawl.
As he circled the desk, his eyes caught a neat stack of folders. He drifted closer because when the world's closing in, you start looking for answers anywhere you can find them.
The top folder bore a government seal. FBI. The words felt like cold wire around his chest.
Mutant Activity Watchlist — Midtown High.
Photos. Notes. Tracking data. Mentions of "unusual energetic signatures" near the school — they were tracking mutants near or maybe inside his school.
A line was underlined twice:
POTENTIAL SUBJECT: SPIDER-MAN — MUTANT SIGNATURE UNCONFIRMED.
SUSPECT IS A STUDENT.
They thought he was a mutant. Peter felt the air go thin. The logical part of his brain started clicking through the consequences, if the feds were watching, if Fisk had access to their data, if someone with money was feeding them leads… then the noose was already around his neck.
People weren't just closing in on Spider-Man. They were closing in on Peter Parker. He tried to steady himself.
He thought of his friends, his family, he saw Uncle Ben's face — that tired smile, the patient hands that taught him how to fix a sink, to cook, to be honest. What would he say?
The money would solve things. It would fix the leak in the roof. Buy groceries. Pay for textbooks. No more late-night shifts at the Bugle. No more selling photos to Jonah just so he could tear him down. No more worrying — at least not about the obvious things.
He hated that the offer even looked seductive for a second. But he couldn't. His mind was made up.
"Have you made a decision, Mr. Spider-Man?" Fisk asked. The word decision fell like a guillotine.
Peter's hand went to his mask by reflex — to steady himself, to hide the tremor in his jaw. His eyes darted across the room, mapping every way out: the windows, the doors, the guards, the six men in heavy coats whose rifles caught the chandelier light like stars. Every exit was a noose.
And then — A voice. Bright. Breezy. Impossibly close inside his head. "I'm here, I'm here. Sorry I'm late. My friends were right — traffic in this city is an absolute nightmare."
Peter froze. That voice again. Light, apologetic, laced with the kind of irritation that made it sound normal — human — even though it came from nowhere.
His shoulders sagged. The relief was so sharp it made him dizzy. He almost laughed. In his mind Peter said to her "Seriously? Where were you, mysterious angel voice — stuck in Midtown gridlock? Jokes aside, he thought, I need help. Like, now."
"I told you, please don't call me Angel," the voice said — calm, but a little breathless. "I've already caught up on what's happening. Reading your mind helped… and yes, I'm on my way up. I can't do everything from down here, but I can do a few tricks, the professor taught me a bunch. I just did small thing. It'll really make them freak out if they try to unmask you. Scrambles their focus, I can do more — but I need a minute. Stall. Play along. Don't panic."
Peter pressed his back against the edge of a low table and exhaled something halfway between a laugh and a sob. Okay. A plan. A voice. A person who could — what? Read minds? Move things?
Whatever she could do, it was more comfort than the cold marble and the giant in the white suit offered.
He looked Fisk dead in the eye, trying to settle the tremor in his voice.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Fisk. No — Kingpin. Your offer is… Really tempting. But I can't. No price buys me. I—"
He let the words hang there like a dare. Fisk's hand moved with casual cruelty. "That's a shame," he said. "Then we'll see you out properly."
His fingers tapped a compartment on the desk. Two guards stepped forward, closing in like a steel trap. Sandman's face creased into something like amusement.
"You'll regret that pride," he rumbled — and obeyed. Hands of sand erupted, clamping around Spider-Man's torso and mask. Peter's spider-sense screamed, but the signal was just noise — too many threats, too close. The sand pressed in, gripping tight. He felt the fabric tug free, the air hit his face—
—and then the world stopped.
Gasps. Silence. Not because they saw Peter Parker. Because they saw nothing.
Where his face should have been they just found a blank face — smooth, pale, pearlescent, like a mannequin carved from fog. No eyes, no mouth, no nose. Just an empty, unplaceable shape.
A guard's gun dipped. Even Sandman flinched, grains sloughing from his arms.
Fisk froze mid-breath, halfway from pulling a gun from his desk compartment. For one impossible heartbeat, the man who made New York tremble hesitated. He'd expected to find a boy. Instead, he found absence — a void that looked back at him.
"What… is that?" a guard whispered.
Across the office, someone's phone buzzed, but they didn't notice, they were transfixed on him, it was almost like a magic trick.
Peter, still dizzy, turned toward a polished steel pillar to try and get a look at his reflection — and saw himself. Normal. Mask off, face intact. He whispered under his breath, "So what are they seeing — J. Jonah Jameson or something worse?"
The voice in his head laughed softly, like someone leaning in through a cracked door.
"Funny joke, but no. I masked your face. They see whatever I want — right now, it's just… nothing. The human brain doesn't like 'nothing,' so it panics. Oh, and you should probably find their camera feeds and delete those. Want me to add a few more hallucinations? Keep their heads spinning?". He could feel like she was having fun even though he couldn't look at her.
Peter felt the edges of his panic dull.
He could breathe. He could breathe because someone had given him a buffer — a momentary fog to hide in.
A tiny, mischievous smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Bring it on, he thought, that old reckless part of him waking.
If they were going to make him compromise his morals for money, they were going to have to deal with him first.
First, he thought quickly, "make it so the walking sandcastle isn't holding me anymore, please".
Almost immediately, Sandman groaned. His massive hands went slack as he clutched his head, dropping Peter, who rolled to his feet, snatched up his mask, and tugged it back on in one motion.
"What's wrong, guys? You look like you've seen a ghost," Peter said aloud, forcing his voice to sound brash, steady, almost cocky. "Do your worst. I'm not buying what you're selling."
Fisk's expression tightened.
He turned slightly, holding his gun up. The guards shifted, the uncertainty in their stance cracking their confidence. Sandman's form rippled and slowly reformed, sand trembling into fists.
The office seemed to hum — not with the power of money and fear anymore, but with the electric thrum of something unseen and unpredictable.
Peter straightened. He felt ridiculous — a wiry kid standing in a cathedral of power — but under it, he felt something steadier.
Resolve.
Money couldn't buy that. No cane, no vault, no file of secrets could counterfeit it. "This is going to be fun," he said, louder this time.
And deep in his chest, a small burst of defiance sealed itself like a promise.
Somewhere in the building — getting nearer to where Peter was fighting the Kingpin and his thugs — the voice that had saved him was still working. He could almost picture her, red hair lit by the skyline, a half-smile, a mind threading itself carefully through the noise.
He waited. The clock ticked forward. The next few minutes would decide everything.
To Be Continued...