The cage crashed down with a mechanical groan. Steel teeth snapped into place around us, and the world shrank to mesh and lights and the clamor of a thousand people stomping in time. It sealed like the lid of a coffin locking down. My heart jolted — equal parts terror and something electric that made my muscles tingle. This was it.
The announcer's voice cut through the din like a knife, velvet and venom. "LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!" he howled. "THE MOMENT YOU'VE BEEN WAITING FOR! IN THIS CORNER — THE UNHOLY TIDE OF BRUTE FORCE, THE HUNGRY HURRICANE OF HELL — BATTLE BEAST!" The chant started instantly. "BEAST! BEAST! BEAST!"
He turned his mic like a preacher casting out sinners. "AND IN THE OTHER — SLIM, FAST, THE WEBBED WARRIOR FROM THE SHADOWS — GIVE IT UP FOR… THE ARACHNID!" The crowd split into a thousand voices, half cheer, half bloodlust.
Battle Beast was already a silhouette of muscle under the lights, the way his shoulders rolled like he owned gravity. Up close, he was worse than the pictures — a walking wall with a mouth full of bad intentions. Scarred skin, a head like a cannonball. He didn't just glare at me; he stared with the hunger of a predator that smelled weakness. His laugh was a broken thing, and it made people lean forward, hungry for it.
The bell sounded, and the crowd rose like an ocean.
He moved like a battering ram. No preliminaries. No show. He exploded forward, and the first blow I saw was a fist that would have leveled a sedan if he'd put all his weight into it. I ducked because my body knew to duck before my brain could make sense of it — the spider-sense, a low, thrumming hum at the edge of my awareness. The air where my head had been compressed like someone had snapped a whip. The cage rattled with the impact.
I kept my distance, never letting him close enough to pin me down. That was always the plan: provoke, dodge, taunt, and last. Force him to swing and burn through his stamina with wild attacks, while I conserve mine and wait for any opening. He wanted blood and bodies; I needed time and a check that actually cleared.
"You're a lot smaller than the pictures, kid," he bellowed, his voice a thunderclap. "Gonna be a quick snack!"
I circled, bouncing on the balls of my feet. "Hey, big guy," I called, letting my voice carry. "Are you sure you don't need directions? The exit's that way." I grinned under the mask as best I could. The grin felt like armor.
The crowd ate it up. Someone in the front row screamed, "Grab his dick and twist it! The good old dick twist!" A smattering of savage laughter followed. That guy was mental. The shout made a wave of ugly noise wash over the cage — men laughing, women hollering, a guy nearby chanting for carnage. The hunger in their voices made the hair on my arms stand on end.
Battle Beast answered my bait with a rush, a spray of sweaty motion. He threw a haymaker, and I rolled under the arc, my hand scraping the mat. The smell of old blood and beer filled my nostrils. He swung again, harder, and the mesh rattled like a drum. I felt my heart thud in my throat, and heard it in the pop of my ears. Every muscle wanted to do something reckless — jump, grab, end it with one perfect move. My head told me to do the opposite.
"Too slow, spider-boy!" he roared, and for a flash his fist clipped my shoulder. Pain bloomed, hot and sharp, but it didn't stop me. I hit back with a quick kick to his knee, not aiming to hurt so much as to disturb the rhythm. He stumbled, cursed, and the crowd groaned and cheered as if they were watching choreography.
The announcer narrated like a carnival barker, turning every scrape into a saga. "OHHH, THE ARACHNID STRIKES! A CLEVER MOVE! BUT THE BEAST ANSWERS! SEE HOW HE RETURNS PUNISHMENT!" His voice threaded into the crowd's roar, making everything feel staged and more dangerous at once. The sound surged through me, turning my blood into a drum.
I sprinted along the cage, launching from the mesh just enough to throw off his aim. He lunged and missed, his massive hand crashing into steel. Sparks — not literal, just the theater lighting striking the sweat — flickered. I surged with adrenaline: quicker reflexes, sharper focus, the sort of tunnel vision that compressed the entire arena to a single point. My legs vibrated like coiled springs.
Minutes bled into seconds, and every second became a pattern: taunt, dodge, jab, retreat. I kept calling him names—silly, stupid, distracting—because getting into his head made him angrier and sloppier, forcing him to waste energy when he should have been saving it. Each time he breathed more heavily, I knew the plan was working: pacing over power, outlasting instead of overpowering. The crowd wanted blood, but they didn't know how to win this fight.
At one point, when he reared back for a crushing uppercut, I leapt, webbed to the cage, and somersaulted over his shoulder. We landed back-to-back for one heartbeat; his breath was like a furnace on my neck. The announcer squealed, "LOOK AT THAT! THE ARACHNID WITH A DAREDEVIL FLIP! A SYMPHONY OF MADNESS!" The crowd howled. I felt my veins hum, the old comic-book scenes I'd memorized coming alive in a way that made my chest ache.
I wasn't trying to win by knockout. My aim was to maintain endurance and spectacle, keeping him unpredictable and wasting his momentum. Every time he overreached, I snapped a web to trip him and used a quick grapple to yank his balance. I left shallow cuts and bruises on purpose — enough to convince spectators, not enough to end him. The Beast roared, teeth bared, and the crowd surged forward in sound like a physical thing.
Sweat stung my eyes. My mask stuck to my face. I tasted metal. Adrenaline. Something like victory made my hands tremble. Nine minutes had ticked down on the clock. The digital numbers glowed like a countdown to judgment. One more to go. One more.
The cage felt smaller, the lights brighter. My blood was a drumroll in my ears. I readied myself, fingers itching for the perfect balance of restraint and showmanship. The Beast charged like a collapsing building, and somewhere beyond the mesh, Cindy's face hovered in my mind — worried, fierce, waiting in the dark.
This was the moment. Keep it together. Last, the bell.
The cage smashed down from the ceiling with a metallic slam, chains clanging like thunder as it locked around the ring. The crowd erupted, pounding their feet, smashing the railings, their chant surging like a war drum:
Neon lights pulsed blood-red as the announcer strutted into the cage, arms wide, mic in hand, voice booming like a god of chaos.
"Ladies and gentlemen, the hour has COME! The blood will FLOW! The screams will RING! The one, the only, the undefeated titan of carnage—BATTLE! BEAST!"
The crowd exploded, beer spraying into the air like champagne at a funeral.
The Battle Beast stood in the far corner, arms crossed over his chest, a mountain of scarred flesh and muscle. His glare cut across the cage like a blade. He leaned forward, lips curling into a cruel smirk.
"Kid," he rumbled, voice low but echoing, "you don't belong here. You're too small. Too soft. I'll tear you apart in two minutes, maybe less."
The announcer whipped toward my side of the cage, his voice dripping with theatrics.
"And facing the Beast tonight, a newcomer, a mystery, a spider crawling into the lion's den… Give it up for… THE ARACHNID!"
The crowd's chant twisted, with some cheering and most laughing, their voices cracking with derision.
"ARACH-NID! ARACH-NID!"
"FEED THE BEAST!"
And one lunatic in the back howled: "GRAB HIS DICK AND TWIST IT! THE GOOD OLD DICK TWIST!"
I blinked. That guy was mental.
The bell clanged.
Battle Beast stormed forward. A human freight train, all fury and muscle. His fist hammered down like a sledgehammer, the shockwave shaking the cage when it missed me by inches.
I grinned under my mask, heart hammering, blood rushing hot and fast. My body was alive, every nerve on fire, my reflexes sharper than a whip.
"Hey, Beast!" I shouted, flipping backward into a handstand before springing upright. "Do they sell tickets for your gym routine, or is this a one-time comedy special?"
The crowd roared with laughter. The beast snarled, teeth bared, swinging again.
I ducked, weaved, and sidestepped, every motion fluid, instinctual. My body bent in impossible arcs, twisting midair as I vaulted off the cage, landing lightly just out of reach. I was dancing around him—literally dancing—each dodge more infuriating than the last.
"You hit like my Aunt May!" I called, cartwheeled under another swing. "And trust me—her frying pan's scarier!"
The crowd loved it. Half were laughing, half were screaming for my blood, the frenzy reaching a fever pitch.
Battle Beast's patience snapped. He roared, his face purple with rage, and unleashed his signature move. He caught me mid-spin, hauling me up over his head in a brutal gorilla press.
The announcer screamed into the mic: "AND HERE IT IS! THE END! THE DEATH DROP!"
He hurled me down with bone-crushing force—except I twisted, rolling with the impact, absorbing it. Pain shot through me, but I bounced to my feet, grinning.
"Nice throw!" I shouted. "Ever think about trying out for the Olympics? Oh, wait—you'd get disqualified for sucking!"
The crowd howled. The beast's face went red.
I bobbed. I weaved. His fists cut the air, each one close enough to feel the wind, but none landed. My feet danced, my body bent backward to avoid a hook that would've caved in my skull. Then—finally—I struck.
A clean left jab.A right cross that snapped his head back.
The crowd gasped. The beast staggered, blood spraying from his lip.
I pressed in, relentless, adrenaline pumping like wildfire through my veins. My fists hammered twice more—sharp, clean, precise.
CRACK!
Battle Beast collapsed to his knees, then hit the mat with a ground-shaking thud. The cage rattled. The crowd went silent for one stunned heartbeat.
Then pandemonium.
"The Arachnid!" the announcer bellowed, losing his mind. "THE BEAST HAS FALLEN!"
The audience screamed, half in awe, half in fury, stamping, howling for blood.
I stood there, chest heaving, sweat pouring down my back, my hands trembling with the rush. I had done it. I had beaten him.
Later, backstage, I stood at the payout table, mask off, hair plastered to my forehead. The promoter shoved a crumpled bill across the counter—just one.
"Hundred bucks," he muttered.
My fists clenched. "It was supposed to be half a million."
The man sneered. "Kid, you lasted. You didn't win. That's the deal. Take it or—"
A shadow fell over the table.
Battle Beast. Bandaged, limping, but very much alive. He leaned down until his bulk dwarfed the promoter, his voice a guttural growl.
"Give. Him. The money."
The promoter stammered, sweat breaking out instantly. "I-I—of course! No problem!" He scrambled, hands shaking, shoving the full envelope across the table.
The beast turned, meeting my eyes. His lips twitched into the faintest smirk. "Respect, kid. Don't waste it."
I swallowed hard, tucking the envelope into my jacket. "Thanks."
🕷🕷🕷🕷🕷🕷🕷🕷🕷🕷🕷🕷
The morning after felt unreal. The adrenaline from the fight had finally worn off, and for once, I let myself sleep in, dead to the world until the sun was already high. By the time I'd dragged myself out of bed, showered, and deposited the check at the bank, it still didn't feel real. My name on the account, a shiny new card pressed into my hand… It was the first tangible proof that last night hadn't been some fever dream.
Now here I was, walking out of Queens Center Mall with Cindy at my side, arms loaded with shopping bags. The sheer weight of everything we'd bought dragged on my shoulders, but instead of draining me, it felt good—like progress.
Cindy was buzzing, practically bouncing on her heels. She rattled off our haul like she was running inventory for SHIELD.
"Okay, so we've got you new clothes that actually fit you—finally—bomber jacket, tactical shirt and pants, boots, gloves, ski mask, round goggles… check, check, check. Red and black dyes, fabrics, sewing kits, paints, brushes, stencils, tools, computer parts…" She trailed off, staring at the bags dangling from my hands. "Peter, do you realize how much money you just blew through?"
I tilted my head, pretending to think. "Enough to bankrupt Tony Stark's coffee budget for the week?"
She groaned, smacking her forehead. "You're impossible."
"Yeah, but I'm impossible with style," I shot back, lifting the bomber jacket from one of the bags to admire it. "Tell me this doesn't scream first-gen Spider-Man prototype suit."
Cindy snorted but couldn't hide her smile. "It screams wannabe ninja cosplayer who's about to trip over his own boots."
"Harsh. But accurate."
She shook her head, though I caught the sparkle in her eyes. Truth was, she was just as excited as I was. She'd been sketching ideas nonstop—streamlined designs with web motifs, masks that weren't just functional but iconic. Every time she put pencil to paper, the future felt more solid, less like a daydream.
As we loaded the last of the gear into Uncle Ben's beat-up sedan, Cindy leaned against the trunk, folding her arms. Her tone shifted from playful to thoughtful.
"Peter… last night. That fight."
I paused, sliding the last bag in. "Yeah?"
She stared at me for a moment, eyes narrowing. "You were… unbelievable. I mean, I knew you had reflexes after the spider bite, but the way you moved in there? Dodging like you'd been training your whole life, taunting that monster like you weren't two seconds away from getting flattened—" She shook her head, laughing in disbelief. "It was insane. I still can't believe it."
I shrugged, trying not to let the grin stretch too wide across my face. "Guess I was just… in the zone."
"You were something, all right."
For a moment, the air between us hung heavy with unspoken things—fear, excitement, the weight of what we were becoming. Cindy broke the silence first, pushing off the trunk.
"Which means if we're serious about this—about suits, training, gear—then we need something else."
I arched an eyebrow. "What's that?"
She gave me a look like it should've been obvious.
"A hideout."
The word hit me like a spark. A place that was ours. A base. A spider's web in the city where we could build everything without looking over our shoulders.
I nodded slowly, feeling the grin return. "Yeah. A hideout. Every hero's gotta have one."
Cindy smirked, tugging her jacket tighter as the autumn wind cut through the parking lot. "Then I guess we will start looking."