The penthouse perched on the fiftieth floor of one of Manhattan's most prestigious buildings, like an eagle's nest. Floor-to-ceiling panoramic windows revealed a breathtaking view of New York's nocturnal glow. Far below, tiny human figures scurried—pathetic ants unaware of the nightmare unfolding in the skies above. Cars moved like toys, their headlights tracing luminous threads through the street labyrinth, while emergency helicopters still circled our recent battleground, their spotlights futilely sweeping empty rooftops.
The air in the penthouse was laced with the scent of expensive perfume, fine leather furniture, and a faint metallic tang—my blood, now serving a far darker purpose than coursing through veins. Moonlight streamed through the glass, casting intricate shadows on the marble floor, a beautiful tableau.
In the center of the expansive room, amid mahogany furniture and artwork worth more than a small city's budget, hung Peter Parker. His young body was ensnared in a dense web of congealed blood—my blood, which I'd mastered over centuries to shape and control as a living substance. Crimson tendrils, thick as fingers, coiled around his arms, legs, and torso, suspending him meters above the floor. Each strand pulsed in sync with my heartbeat, an extension of my arteries. The web swayed slightly, reacting to the faintest air currents, like a true spider's web in the breeze.
What delicious irony—Spider-Man, caught in a web.
The blood bonds didn't just hold him—they bit into his skin, leaving thin red marks where they touched. I felt every twitch, every muscle flex, every racing heartbeat through this scarlet connection. His suit was torn from our fight, exposing pale skin bruised and scraped, though already healing. Remarkable regeneration.
I circled his motionless form, barefoot, gliding silently over the cold marble. Softly, almost a whisper, I hummed an ancient dirge—a funeral song of a people vanished when this civilization was but a seed. The melody was mournful, speaking of forgotten gods and lost souls, of blood spilled for faith, of children's cries drowned by clashing swords. Its words were in a tongue unspoken for ten centuries, known only to me—the last witness of that era, the orchestrator of that slaughter.
The song told of me standing on a hill strewn with bodies, blood flowing like red streams between stones, drinking from priests' skulls who'd blessed the carnage. The voices of thousands slain still echoed in my memory, their curses and pleas woven into the melody.
My hands glided over the young hero's body, studying each muscle, each tendon with anatomical precision. Curiosity consumed me. Beneath my fingertips, I felt the unusual structure of his tissues—muscle fibers denser than normal, bones lighter yet stronger. I traced his chest, sensing a powerful heartbeat. Even unconscious, his heart raced at a rate that would kill a mortal. His metabolism was five times faster, body temperature two degrees higher. A marvelous adaptation—nature or science had crafted a masterpiece.
His blood smelled unique—not just the honey-sweet salt of humans, but complex, layered. Notes of ozone, like after a storm, and a faint forest-grass scent. Spider's blood. I closed my eyes, savoring the bouquet.
Where was the source of this power? How was this mutation distributed? Did it permeate every cell or specific systems? Could it be extracted? Transferred? So many questions, such delightful mysteries to unravel.
For five minutes, I studied him in deathly silence, broken only by the ticking of an antique clock on the mantel and the city's distant hum. I relished examining this rare specimen without haste, without needing to kill immediately. Then his eyelids twitched. Awake already? So quick.
"Hey!" Peter's voice was hoarse, throat parched, but brimming with youthful resolve that contrasted touchingly with his helplessness. "Who's there?!"
He tried to lower his head, neck muscles straining, but the blood web kept him blind to what lay behind. The tendrils tightened, leaving deeper marks on his skin. I stood behind him, by a marble table where a girl lay, savoring his confusion.
A blonde, barely twenty, with fragile beauty that bloomed briefly and faded fast. Sculpted features, a flawless figure accentuated by an expensive dress. Diamonds in white gold gleamed on her swan-like neck—a piece worth millions. Her skin was pale, almost translucent, faint blue veins visible beneath. Her breathing was shallow, barely perceptible—my gentle suggestion kept her mind in a fog while I decided her fate.
I ran a hand through her silken hair, pondering the secrets this pretty head held. Natural blonde, not dyed, rare in this era of artifice. Northern European, judging by the hair's texture. Expensive perfume mingled with fear and blood, an intoxicating cocktail.
"Interesting," I murmured aloud, letting my voice carry. "How could such a young girl afford such luxury? Inheritance from a dead millionaire daddy? Rich parents sparing no expense for their princess? Or perhaps a senator's mistress? A drug cartel's darling?"
I leaned to her neck, inhaling deeply. Her skin was soft. My hand rested on her throat, fingers gently encircling it. Beneath my fingertips, her pulse ticked like a clock—weak but steady. Life flowed through her arteries, unaware how easily one motion could end it. She was alive, just in an induced slumber, my suggestion as delicate as a feather's touch.
"Ah, you're awake, my young friend," I said, lifting a crystal goblet from a nearby table, filled with dark red liquid.
The antique crystal was exquisitely crafted. The blood within gleamed, refracting light. I approached Peter, holding the goblet, sipping slowly, savoring. The blood was warm, from the girl, young and innocent. She hadn't resisted long. Through the crystal, I saw Peter's distorted face, his eyes wide with horror. He realized his mask was gone.
"Peter Benjamin Parker," I began, raising the goblet, relishing his face through the crimson veil. "Seventeen years, four months, eleven days old. Graduate of Midtown School of Science and Technology. Honor student, 4.7 GPA, physics and chemistry Olympiad participant, city young inventors' contest winner. Orphan—parents Richard and Mary Parker died in Delta Flight 189's crash when you were six years, two months."
I took a sip, savoring the metallic tang and faint sweetness of young blood, laced with adrenaline from her fear before I induced her trance.
"Lives with Uncle Ben and Aunt May in a modest Queens home, 20 Ingram Avenue. Uncle Benjamin Franklin Parker, fifty-four, dead, killed by a robber. Aunt May Reilly Parker, fifty-one, nurse at Queens General. Humble, kind folks who raised you as their own. You moonlight as a freelance photographer for the Daily Bugle, selling Spider-Man shots for eighty bucks a pop. Delicious irony, isn't it? A hero photographing himself for the tabloids."
Peter thrashed in his scarlet bonds, muscles straining to break the blood web, but it tightened, leaving brighter red marks, some bleeding where the tendrils dug deep.
"Why are you doing this?" he rasped, turning his head as far as the bonds allowed, trying to see me. Desperation hid behind his bravado.
An interesting question from an interesting specimen. I swirled the goblet, watching blood trail down its sides. City lights reflected in the crystal, a mesmerizing play of light and shadow.
"Well," I mused, as if pondering deep philosophy, "I'm just waiting for a plane, delayed three hours now. Can you believe how hard it is to get a first-class ticket from New York to New Delhi this time of year? Flights are packed with tourists and businessmen. You just seemed… an amusing diversion."
"What?" Peter's voice cracked, unprepared for such casual cruelty. "You killed two innocent people, kidnapped me, all because you're bored waiting for a plane?"
"Not quite, dear boy," I smirked, the smile chilling him. "You're an unexpected, valuable prize. Do you know how rare truly interesting specimens are in this dull age? Most so-called 'superheroes' are just humans with tech toys or random mutations they don't understand. But you… you're a special case."
"I'm not a lab rat or your twisted toy," he growled, steel in his voice turning a boy into a man, a man into a hero.
"Of course not, dear Peter. You're far more valuable. A masterpiece of evolution or science, a living work of art to be studied."
I set the goblet on a blackwood table and circled him, movements smooth, hypnotic, like a snake before a strike.
"Tell me, Peter, how did you gain your remarkable abilities? A genetically modified spider bite at Oscorp, your memories say. But you've studied yourself, haven't you? What did you learn? Where's the source of your power? What are you?"
"Back off, freak," he snapped, fear masked by defiance.
"No matter, child. I'll learn all I need from your extraordinary blood. It'll tell your secrets better than a thousand words. Every cell, every drop will reveal your mysteries."
"You're a sick psycho."
"Perhaps," I shrugged. "To you lesser creatures, I seem so. But I am me, and you are you. Simple as it's always been. Some are predators, others prey."
Peter fell silent, his young mind racing, calculating escapes, analyzing my weaknesses. What a vibrant specimen!
"What are you going to do with me?" he asked, fear breaking through.
"Study every cell of your body. Experiment with your abilities. Perhaps see if your power can be transferred, enhanced, replicated. Imagine the possibilities—an army of spider-men under my command… or better, me with your abilities plus my centuries of experience."
"You can't just—"
"I can do anything I want, boy," I interrupted, exaggerating slightly. I just needed his blood, nothing more. I was still deciding whether to kill him. I continued.
"In this room, you're utterly in my power. Scream, threaten, beg, pray to your god—no one will hear or save you. This penthouse belonged to a very rich, very cautious girl who valued privacy above all. The soundproofing is impeccable—you could detonate a grenade, and neighbors wouldn't hear a whisper."
A faint moan, like a dying sigh, came from behind. Peter tensed, instinctively trying to turn toward the sound.
"Who's there?" he asked, alarm in his voice, revealing the trait that set true heroes apart—care for others, even in mortal peril.
I turned to the marble table where the girl stirred, waking from my hypnotic suggestion. Her eyelids fluttered like a wounded bird's wings, long lashes casting shadows on pale cheeks. Her hands twitched, fingers grasping at reality. Golden hair spilled over the white marble like molten gold on snow.
"Ah, our sleeping beauty awakens," I noted, approaching. "Right on time. I was getting bored."
Gently grasping her throat—not squeezing, just holding like a fragile thing—I helped her stand. She swayed, legs buckling from weakness and disorientation, but I kept her upright. Her sky-blue eyes, clouded from the trance, began to show primal, animal fear of a predator.
"No," Peter whispered, his voice thick with pain, as if stabbed. "Please, leave her alone. She's got nothing to do with this."
I led the trembling girl to him, positioning her to meet his gaze. Her vacant eyes stared, lips moving silently, unable to form words. My hand rested on her throat, fingers barely touching, a subtle reminder of how easily her fragile life could end.
"Well, my young hero," I said, savoring this exquisite moment of choice, my voice soft, almost tender, yet more menacing than any threat from our battles. "Time to decide. Your life or hers."
Ten hours later. Flight AI-131, New York to New Delhi.
The business-class seats of the Boeing 777, upholstered in dark chocolate leather, were angled for perfect relaxation. I reclined, gazing at the endless clouds through the window. Below, the Atlantic Ocean stretched—a grave for thousands of ships and millions of souls. The sun hung in a bright blue sky.
In my hand was a glass of red wine—Château Margaux 1947, per the label. Even the finest wine was swill compared to the elixir I'd drunk for centuries. It had the right ruby hue, the right tannin-fruit aroma, but lacked the vital spark of fresh blood. Still, it passed the time in flight.
I swirled the glass, watching wine trail down its sides, and thought of Peter Parker. A noble hero to his core, sacrificing himself for a stranger without hesitation. When faced with the choice, he didn't barter or seek a third path. Seconds to think, to choose, to doubt. He just looked into my eyes and said, "Take me. Let her go." Touchingly noble. Delightfully predictable.
Such heroes I loved most. I sang their praises in my mental chronicles, dedicating chapters to them. Their eyes held the spark that distinguished true nobility from pretense. They'd die for principles, strangers, abstract notions of justice and good.
How many such heroes had I killed? Executed by my hands? Beheaded, savoring their final, shocked gazes? Countless. Men, women, boys, girls, elders—all burning with that sacrificial spark.
But this young Spider, I left alive. Not from mercy—an emotion I never knew. No, I spared him for an experiment far more intriguing than mere death.
Beside Peter, still bound in my blood web but posed more comfortably, was the newly turned. Felicia Hardy—her name from her purse—was no longer just a rich heiress. Three drops of my blood, mixed with champagne, had forever altered her nature.
The transformation was as planned—painful, slow, consciousness intact. She felt every cell reshape, her human DNA yielding to something ancient and hungry. Her screams were music, her pleas for death proof of success. An enlightening experiment in transformation without death.
Peter tried to stop me. Too late.
Now she was a vampire—young, inexperienced, driven by hunger. Unlike myths, my progeny didn't crumble in sunlight or fear garlic or holy water. Their weakness was crueler—without regular human blood, they'd die in three to four days, their bodies consuming themselves.
Before leaving the penthouse, I explained the rules to Peter. Felicia needed blood daily—half a liter to thrive, a glass to survive. I left them medical blood bags, enough for a week if rationed. But what then?
Would the young hero kill the innocent girl I'd made a monster? Feed her his own blood, weakening himself to save her? Hunt criminals, becoming a vengeful angel? Or break under the impossible choice?
How exquisite, how beautiful. Those hate-filled eyes.
His choice. What would it be?
Gazing out the plane's window, I saw those eyes in the ocean below. A hero facing an impossible choice. Would he change?
How fascinating.
I touched my chest, feeling something shift beneath my ribs. Spider-Man's blood—nearly half his body's volume—was working wonders. My muscles surged with new strength, reflexes sharpened, a vague sensation at consciousness's edge, bones lighter yet stronger.
The source of his power remained a mystery. In a millennium, I'd never encountered such blood—ozone, fresh grass, animalistic. Was it cellular mutation, DNA restructuring, or something deeper? Medical knowledge couldn't explain it.
I didn't understand the mechanism behind the spider venom's transformation. But it didn't stop me from savoring his blood—thick, rich, nourishing, making me stronger. Each drop was more precious than rare wines, each sip a step toward a new existence.
Already, I felt stronger—not just physically, though my muscles swelled, but on a deeper level. My very being was adapting to this new blood.
Meanwhile, in an abandoned Brooklyn warehouse…
Felicia Hardy stirred, consciousness returning amid a deafening cacophony. Every sound—shuffles, breaths, distant clocks—hammered her skull. Dim light seared her eyes, tears streaming down her cheeks.
"Turn it down…" she whispered, covering her ears. "What's that noise? Stop the music… please…"
No music played. It was her heartbeat, amplified a hundredfold, blood roaring through her veins, breathing like a hurricane. Every scent—dust, damp, metal—assaulted her with unbearable intensity.
"I'm home," she thought, dazed, trying to focus. "After Norman's party… God, how much did I drink? Mom'll kill me…"
Her thoughts jumbled, reality blurred. She imagined lying in her lavish bedroom, a maid bringing aspirin and orange juice, this just a brutal hangover.
Strong hands caught her as she stumbled. A familiar, warm, protective touch.
"Dad?" she mumbled, pressing into the chest of her childhood protector. "Dad, I feel awful… my head's splitting… everything's so loud…"
The hands guided her, then icy water crashed over her. The shock made her scream, instinctively clinging to her rescuer like a lifeline.
Only then did she see his face.
Not her father. He was long dead. A young man, almost a boy—handsome, with sharp features and worried brown eyes. A high schooler, though she was a sophomore at Columbia. He looked younger.
"Who… who are you?" she gasped, still clinging. Then it hit—wet, in just a shirt, embracing a stranger. "What the…"
Embarrassment turned to realization, realization to rage.
"What's happening?!" she shouted, shoving him away. "Where am I? Who are you? What did you do to me?!"
Her voice trembled with anger and fear. How was she here, in this grim place, with this stranger? Where was her home, her life? Why were sounds so loud, scents so sharp, her heart pounding?
"Felicia," the boy said softly, "you have to listen. I know it sounds crazy, but…"
"How do you know my name?!" She backed against the wall. "I'll call the police! My mom will find you and…"
Her gaze fell on his neck. Pale skin, blue veins beneath. Something primal stirred—a hungry, predatory urge.
His pulse. She saw his carotid throb, heard blood rush, smelled its sweet, enticing aroma.
The desire was overwhelming. She swallowed, licking dry lips.
"You know…" she whispered, eyes locked on his neck, "you smell… delicious."
Peter sighed, closing his eyes.
"Damn," he muttered. "It's started."